Page 117 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
Jordan bent down and pressed a sweet kiss to her lips. “You probably do. You drink, and I’ll read over the auction items. We can’t have you running on empty while we’re on stage.”
He wasn’t wrong. The other day, she hadn’t hit her pineapple quota and had flipped out when he’d unloaded the groceries and placed the yogurt in the crisper drawer.
Who does that, right? Still, he didn’t deserve the pineapple-depleted epic tongue lashing she’d doled out.
She listened to the buzz of voices on the other side of the curtain making chitchat, then opened her purse and spied her can of salvation. She popped the top and grinned down at the liquid that used to make her hurl. The first sip never disappointed, but she didn’t have time to savor the pineapple goodness. She needed to pound those six ounces like nobody’s business.
Tipping the can, she channeled her inner frat boy and started gulping. She was nearly done when a gust of air and the whooshing slap of fabric, followed by blinding bright lights, left her frozen in place. With her head tilted back and the can pressed to her lips, she must have looked like a pregnant pineapple pinup girl.
Specks of dust and bits of lint hovered in the thick beam of light as she lowered the can and shielded her eyes. A shiver spider-crawled down her spine, accompanied by the crushing suspicion that something was off when a woman’s shriek caught her attention and proved her premonition was correct.
“I knew it! I knew it, Howard!” came the voice she’d recognize anywhere.
