Page 42 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
“Are you sure that’s it? I thought she did a ton of socialite stuff?” he asked, glancing at the page.
She angled the letter so he could skim the message. And his wife was right. While Lorraine sat on many boards and supported several charities, there appeared to be very little to do.
“I think the bulk of her work is a decent amount of bluster and flowery titles,” Georgie added.
He finished reading the message and twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. “That’s good, right? One less thing to worry about?”
“I agree,” she said with a wide grin. “And we could host a Western-themed literacy charity event in our sleep!”
“Western, huh?” he said as the rancher’s daughter scenario flashed through his mind.
Georgie’s expression grew wicked. “Speaking of Western, I want you to close your eyes.”
“Why?” he asked, meeting her naughty grin with one of his own.
She glanced at her phone. “Because we have a little time before we have to meet everyone at the bookstore, and I remembered something that I think you might like.”
“You’ve got a giant mechanical bull hidden in the closet?” he teased.
She stood up and glanced over her shoulder. “Not a bull. Now, close your eyes,” she directed.
“Are you going all naughty librarian?” he continued, hearing her footsteps disappear toward the back of the bungalow.
He’d never tire of his dirty little bookseller.
Georgie in those grandma glasses, a messy bun, and nothing else was about as hot as it gets.
He closed his eyes and listened as a clunk caught his attention. It had to be either Georgie doing God knows what or Mr. Tuesday playing with one of his slobbery tennis balls.
“Are you ready?” Georgie purred.
“That was fast!” he answered, his eyes still closed.
“When you’re a beauty pageant veteran, you know how to rock a quick outfit change.”
“No more onesie,” he said, riling her up.
“It’s a chic, fashion-forward romper, if you’ve forgotten. But you’re right. The romper is off,” she answered with a hint of playful irritation.
“I hope you kept on the sexy bra you wore for Dr. Beaver and Nurse Joyce.”
Hey, he had no issues with his wife wearing sexy lingerie period—even if it were to see her gynecologist.
“I’m still wearing the bra,” she answered, moving closer as a small gust of air whooshed over his face.
“Did you pack a palm leaf from Fiji in your bag so you could fan me and feed me grapes like a Greek god?” he asked, getting into the idea of role-play.
Bad cop/good cop, rock star and groupie, sexy spies, and of course, his rancher’s daughter fantasy shot to the top of the list, thanks to their hot make-out session.
Honestly, the make-believe possibilities were endless.
“No,” she answered as another puff of air kissed his cheeks. “This is more in line with the rancher’s daughter.”
Hell to the yes!
He sucked in a tight breath as his blood supply headed south.
“You can look now,” Georgie said on a sultry rasp.
