Page 55 of Own the Eights Gets Married
Georgie turned to see a young woman wagging her finger at them as Jordan’s jaw dropped.
“Do you know her?” she asked her flummoxed fiancé.
“Of course,Strawsknows me. We went to the same high school,” the woman replied.
“Camille Pruitt?” Jordan sputtered.
“The one and only,” the woman replied in a voice way too chipper for spending the night in a tent.
“Why are you here?” he asked, looking as if he’d seen a ghost.
“I’d guess the same reason as you, Mr. Straws. For the bridal wilderness boot camp,” she answered, flashing her left hand adorned with a giant diamond ring.
Georgie turned to her fiancé. Straws was the cruel nickname the kids from Jordan’s past had given him because of his gangly, pre-CrossFit body. He hated it. That nickname, accompanied by the thoughtless act of kids stuffing his locker with the damn things, had haunted him for years.
“He goes by Jordan now. That’s his name,” she corrected.
“That’s right! Silly me! I should know that by now. My fiancé and I love your More Than Just a Number blog,” the woman cooed.
“You do?” Georgie asked, crossing her arms and trying not to allow the avalanche of skepticism to seep into her voice.
“Yeah, and you even know my fiancé, and Straws, I mean Jordan, does, too,” Camille said, grinning like an idiot.
“I know your fiancé?” Georgie asked, completely stumped.
Camille gestured toward a man standing in the shade of an aspen tree. “Pooh Bear, come say hello! That CityBeat couple is here!”
Stepping out of the veil of darkness and wearing a ball cap with a Casey Pest Control logo, Georgie did a double take.
No, it couldn’t be!
“This is my Pooh Bear, Brice Casey,” Camille clucked.
“Hey, Virginia!” the supreme asshat and catalyst for her Own the Eights blog said with an idiotic grin.
She stared at the man. Of all the boot camps in all of Colorado, what were the chances of meeting this jackass here? Her usually loquacious trifecta could barely believe their fictional eyes.
“Her name is Georgiana or Georgie. Not Virginia,” Jordan said, finding his voice and joining the conversation.
Brice put up his hands in mock surrender. “Dude, sorry! Lucky for me, you don’t have a beer to dump on my head.”
Then, Camille and Brice giggled. They actually giggled.
The last time she and Jordan had seen Brice Casey, it was the night she’d inhaled a boatload of Jell-O shots and entered a wet T-shirt contest at a rowdy Denver bar. Jordan had dumped a beer on Brice’s head for making a Brice Casey-level douche canoe comment about her.
“But you have to admit, your name is confusing,” Brice said, sharing a nod with Camille.
“It’s so confusing because Georgia and Virginia are states,” Camille agreed with the logic of an empty paper bag.
“I think I’ve told you this before, but you should consider changing your name,” Brice said as his expression grew serious.
“You want me to change my name because you can’t remember it?” she repeated, incredulity lacing her words as heat bloomed on her cheeks.
Jordan must have sensed she was about to lose her shit and pressed his hand to her back.
“Well, Brice, Camille, how did you guys meet?” Jordan asked.
God bless this man for shifting the conversation.
