Page 51 of Own the Eights Gets Married
Georgie
Georgie rubbed her eyes and attempted to bend her neck, listening as the vertebrae popped. The muscles in her back screamed for her memory foam mattress while her literary trifecta gasped in horror.
Lizzy and Jane were all for the great outdoors, but the Regency-era variety, where lovely servants, carrying wicker baskets and fresh linens, laid out a picnic of dainty watercress sandwiches and hard cheeses. And Hermione? That girl shrugged. How could she relate? She had a magical tiny tent that turned into a palace.
Georgie rolled her head from side to side then groaned. Damn magic. She could use some right now.
Despite Syd wishing them sweet dreams, last night had been an unmitigated nightmare. Neither she nor Jordan knew the first thing about putting up a tent. No tent knowledge, along with having to assemble the damn thing by lantern light, turned out to be an even bigger disaster. After hours spent poking tent poles every which way and a litany of swearing, they’d finally got it to stand.
Then, there were the sleeping bags that rivaled the scent of Jordan’s father’s ancient mothball encrusted tux.
She often cited the benefits of spending time in nature on their More Than Just a Number blog.
It was time to rethink that.
Jordan shifted in his sleep, and his mouth fell open as a rip-roaring snore tore through the tent.
Yep, her fiancé was a tent snorer.
The Marks snoring sound system activated when the man was without his goose down pillow. Last night, she’d tossed and turned, poking and prodding him, but he was out like a light and sawing logs like a lumberjack on steroids.
She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. How many nights had she slept wrapped in his arms, peacefully dreaming? How many mornings had she woken with his muscled body pressed to hers and his hard length, ready to take her over the edge of ecstasy?
Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined this is how they’d spend their first night as an engaged couple.
The only saving grace? At least, she hadn’t needed to use the shit shovel…yet.
“Georgie? Is this a dream?” her fiancé, Mr. Tent Snorer, asked on a groggy exhale.
She blinked her burning, sleep-deprived eyes. “No, this is real, Jordan.”
He shifted in the sleeping bag and gathered her into his arms. They’d opted to lay one flat to have some sort of cushioning and share the other.
“How’d you sleep?” he asked, his voice thick from actual sleep.
“Not great. You snore,” she replied.
“I do?” he asked with a gruff, gravelly morning voice she usually loved. But this morning, all she wanted to do was stuff a pair of socks into his mouth.
“Yeah, pretty much all night long,” she replied, lamenting her decision to pack light and not add an extra pair to her bag.
His sleepy gaze grew concerned. “Do I do that at home?”
“No.” She sighed, feeling like an asshat. It wasn’t his fault he was a tent snorer.
“I’m sorry, babe,” he said against her neck, dropping kisses.
“Jordan, I don’t think boot camp is for me,” she murmured, melting into his touch.
He continued kissing a trail to her earlobe. “We could call the concierge desk and ask for housekeeping to bring up some earplugs.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, along with a working toilet and a minibar.”
He ran his hand down the side of her body then tugged at her fleece. “What are you wearing?”
“A T-shirt, a sweatshirt, and a fleece. I bundled up in the middle of the night,” she answered.
He released the layers of fabric. “Are you warm enough now?”
