Page 113 of Own the Eights Gets Married
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jordan said.
“Me too. Camille seemed great,” she added.
Brice sighed. “She is great, but now she’s with Johnny Squat Johnson.”
“Who is Johnny Squat Johnson?” she asked, unable to stop herself.
Brice’s shoulders slumped. “A better fit for her. His dad owns a company that provides porta-potties for outdoor events. It makes sense that the Prince of Potties would end up with the Princess of Plumbing.”
“That’s a real bummer, Brice,” Jordan said as his cheeks turned red from his clever little pun.
Georgie elbowed her fiancé in the ribs, then covered her face with her hands, not wanting to laugh at this poor man.
She glanced around the van, littered with invoices and takeout wrappers, needing badly to change the subject if she didn’t want to break out into a giggle-fest.
“Brice, I didn’t know you worked out in the field. I thought you were the Vice President of Operations at your company.”
“I am,” he answered with a resolute nod.
“I figured you’d be in an office.”
“My dad’s the president. He gets the office. I need to learn the business and get my hands dirty. That’s what he tells me, so, here I am,” he added with a thoughtful expression.
She stared at this man who’d been the catalyst for getting her to this moment. This person she’d pegged as an absolute jerk, who may be more than a jackass mouse killer with good hair.
Emotion welled in her chest. “Brice, I need to thank you.”
“For what?” he replied.
She sighed as contentment washed over her. “For being a real douche canoe.”
“Jesus, Georgie!” Jordan gasped.
“No, I’m serious, and I mean it in the best way. You might not be able to remember my name, but without you and that awful first date we had years ago, I don’t know if I’d be marrying the man of my dreams today.”
“Georgie’s right! We both owe you,” Jordan said earnestly.
“I should thank you guys, too. I’ve learned a lot from your More Than Just a Number blog. And you’re right! I was a douche canoe. I think I got a lot of chicks over the years because I have great hair.”
“Man to man, you do have good hair,” Jordan said, holding out his fist to get a bump from Brice.
“And, Virginia,” Brice said.
“Yes,” she answered, because why the hell shouldn’t she answer to it.
“You were never an eight,” he answered solemnly.
She patted his shoulder. “Thanks, Brice. That’s kind of you to admit.”
“I read one of your posts on the importance of honesty, and I have to tell you something,” he continued.
“Please, go ahead,” she said, starting to like this More-Than-Just-a-Number-reading Brice Casey.
“You’re more like a seven-point-five. But I rounded up,” he replied with the expression of a blissfully clueless golden retriever.
Jordan’s head dropped to her shoulder as he shuddered with another round of barely restrained laughter.
“I appreciate your honesty, Brice,” she said, shaking her head as the van pulled up to the Denver Botanic Gardens.
