Own the Eights: Own the Eights: Book One

by Sandor, Krista

  1

  Georgie

  “Today’s the day you find out if you won or not, right, Georgie?”

  Georgiana set a stack of books on the counter, twisted her dark tangle of hair into a lopsided bun, then began sorting through a stack of unpaid bills.

  Busy. She had to stay busy, or her nerves would get the best of her.

  Georgie tapped the stack of bills into a neat pile. They’d get paid…eventually. And hopefully, if things went her way, she’d be caught up in no time. She set the stack back on the shelf beneath the bookshop’s register and turned to her part-time employee and her friend Irene’s little sister, Becca Murphy.

  “Yeah, the last email I received said I should find out today if they chose me.”

  Georgie glanced at her phone, which had remained silent for the better part of the day. She’d already checked her email eight thousand times. What would one more look hurt? She tapped the envelope icon and found…nothing.

  No new emails.

  Becca bent over and patted Mr. Tuesday’s head. “What do you think, Mr. Tuesday? Is Georgie going to be the next super-blogger for CityBeat? Is her blog going to be broadcast to all gazillion of the CityBeat readers?”

  Mr. Tuesday’s ears perked up, and he barked.

  “See, even your dog agrees that you’ve got this,” Becca said with a wide grin.

  Georgie played with the tie on her apron. For the sake of the shop and her livelihood, Mr. Tuesday better be right. At this point, winning the CityBeat contest was her best prospect for keeping the bookstore open.

  Nearly two years ago to the day, Georgie had started the Own the Eights blog on CityBeat’s site. The night of her encounter with Brice Casey had ignited a firestorm within her. She’d typed and typed, recounting the humiliating event and filled her first post with dating advice and the pitfalls of perfection.

  Because that’s what perfection was. A false construct. A facade.

  She’d thought Brice had been the perfect catch. But she’d been blinded by his good looks. Thanks to the guidance of her fictional trifecta, she’d decided to write a blog that would help others not make the same mistake she had and teach them how to weed out the superficial aspects of dating to ensure a deeper level of connection.

  Beauty is only skin deep, and it didn’t last forever. Forget initial attraction. Screw chemistry.

  To hell with society’s version of perfection! Kindness, respect, and integrity were the real building blocks of a relationship. Her plan boiled down to this, write out the ten qualities you’d want in your ideal mate, then cross off the two that had anything to do with physical perfection.

  Now, you had your eight substantive qualities to seek out in a significant other. A beacon of information that pointed you away from the empty flash of a perfect ass or the initial titillation of a charming grin and into the arms of the person who’d see in you what really mattered—your heart and your soul.

  Georgie hadn’t even proofread the manifesto before hitting publish. Exhausted from penning her unabomber-esque declaration, she and her trusty companion, Mr. Tuesday, had crashed right there on the sofa. It was only when Mr. Tuesday dropped his slobber-encrusted ball on her sleeping face at the ass crack of dawn that she peeled her eyes open and found herself knee-deep in the world of relationship and lifestyle blogging.

  Within twenty-four hours of the Own the Eights blog going live, she had thousands of followers and the Own the Eights hashtag had begun trending on social media. People everywhere posted their top ten list with the most superficial qualities crossed off.

  Spurred by her success, Georgie’s blog grew to include an advice post every Wednesday, articles on where to meet your true soul mate and even included recipes, volunteer opportunities, inspirational meditations, and a list of suggested books to read. Between running her bookshop and writing the blog, she’d barely had a moment to breathe.

  Unfortunately, while she loved blogging, it didn’t pay the bills…until, possibly, now.

  “So, what happens next?” Becca asked.

  Georgie closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. “The last email from CityBeat said to offer up some activities and then write about how they’re in-line with the tone of our blog. I sent them a few ideas for where to meet a quality partner and ways to stay centered while you’re waiting to find your eight.”

  “And that’s it? If you win, they’ll start paying you?”

  Georgie nodded. “The winner gets ten thousand dollars up-front and then gets brought on as a paid contributor.”

  “Wow, Georgie!” Becca exclaimed. “That’s huge!”

  But there was more. A more Georgie thought about right before she fell asleep every night since she’d entered the contest. Most of CityBeat’s paid contributors went on to write books, host talk shows, headline as speakers at events. They made a difference on a grand scale, reaching people all over the world. If she won, not only could she afford to keep the shop open, she could help people find true love just like her literary trifecta—not just in the pages of a book, but in real life.

  Becca leaned against the counter. “Earth to Georgie. When are you supposed to do all these activities?”

  Georgie snapped back from her make-it-big daydream and glanced at the calendar on the wall. “Over the next few weeks. And I meant to ask you. Do you mind working more hours if I get picked for this? The email said there may be additional blog posts I’ll need to write and events I’ll need to attend. It sounds like I’ll need to be at their beck and call during this time.”

  Becca’s eyes lit up. “Are you kidding? I’m a poor college student on summer break. Hell yes, I’ll take the hours,” she answered as the door to the bookshop opened, and a line of gray-haired women entered while a man with a cane held the door for them.

  The new arrivals smiled warmly and made themselves comfortable in the seating area at the front of the shop.

  “How are you doing, Georgie? Have you found out if you got it?” one of the women asked, breaking away from the group and coming to the counter.

  “They haven’t announced anything yet, Mrs. Gilbert,” she answered, trying to stay calm.

  The woman nodded, then addressed the group who were settling themselves into the worn chairs. “Everyone, listen!” Mrs. Gilbert called out at the top of her lungs, causing Georgie and Becca to nearly fall over. “They haven’t announced the winner yet!” She turned back to them with an apologetic grin. “My husband’s hearing aid is on the fritz again, so I’ve had to raise my voice for him to hear me.”

  The ladies nodded as they removed their needlework from their bags and Mr. Gilbert stared out the window.

  Mrs. Gilbert shook her head. “See what I mean. And he won’t let me check the battery or have it fixed. He tells me it will just start working on its own. Silly man! I’ll send him over to collect the coffee,” she said, leaving the counter to join her friends.

  Georgie grabbed some mugs and set them on a tray. The bookshop included a simple café. Well, café was really stretching it. Behind the register, she had a coffee maker, doughnuts, and some homemade muffins. She’d dreamed of owning a store where patrons could enjoy browsing for books while sipping on a hot beverage or nibbling on a sweet treat. She’d hoped to expand the shop and build a dedicated space for it, along with a children’s book section, once she had a little extra cash.

  Becca handed her a plate of muffins when Mr. Gilbert ambled up with the help of his cane.

  “Sounds like you should hear back soon,” the man said with a sly twist to his lips.

  Georgie set the items on the counter and stole a glance at the women, chatting while their needles dipped then emerged from their projects. “And I thought your hearing aid was out of commission.”

  “I’ll take this over to the ladies,” Becca said, grabbing the tray.

  Mr. Gilbert leaned in and tapped the small, beige device in his ear. “It has a habit of going out whenever we get together with Marjorie’s blue-haired brigade.”
>
  “You’re terrible,” Georgie said, but her smile told a different story.

  Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert had been a staple of her clientele. Old friends of her grandparents, the Gilberts dropped by at least a couple times a week. And while Mr. Gilbert played the role of the old grumbler, he always carried Marjorie’s purse, always held the door for her, and could often be caught gazing at her with a sentimental expression and the sweet hint of a smile.

  “You’re the dating expert, Georgie. You, better than anyone, should know the value of silence in a relationship,” he countered, then gestured to the bulletin board on the wall, littered with layers of thank you letters and wedding photos of grateful Own the Eights believers who had followed her advice and found love with an eight.

  She glanced at the board as a twinge of doubt twisted in her belly. But what about finding love herself? The truth was this; she was a dating expert who didn’t have time to date. But she pushed the thought aside. She’d worry about that once her bills were paid.

  “Okay, spill the deets, Georgie,” Becca said, setting down the empty tray.

  Georgie went back to twisting her apron tie. “From what I understand, they said that they’d notify the winner today. The CityBeat founders are running this themselves. They’re an interesting pair—a little eccentric, and everything they do always seems to have a twist.”

  “But you’ve got to be a shoo-in for it, Georgie,” Becca said, tossing a few muffin crumbs to Mr. Tuesday. “You’ve got a ton of followers, and people are stopping in all the time to tell you they found love following the Own the Eights protocol. I mean, my own sister met her husband using it!”

  Mr. Gilbert chuckled. “Protocol? It still amazes me that it takes books and blogs and apps for you youngsters to find the one. Do you know how long it took me to fall for Marjorie?”

  Georgie knew this story. When her grandparents were still alive, and they’d get together with the Gilberts, after a glass of wine or two, Gene Gilbert often told the tale.

  “Thirty seconds,” he said, not waiting for her to answer. “She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. She had the sweetest laugh, and I just knew without even a word spoken between us that she’d be the one. And sixty-two years later, she still is.”

  Georgie patted the man’s hand. “Unfortunately, Mr. Gilbert, you and Marjorie are not the norm. Most guys out there are real—”

  “Places, ladies! Places!” one of the women called out.

  “What’s going on?” Georgie asked.

  Mr. Gilbert chuckled. “I figured out why Marjorie’s needlework group changed the time of their weekly meet-up at your shop.”

  Becca exchanged a knowing glance with Mr. Gilbert. “Yeah, it’s pretty—”

  “Pretty what? Have I missed something?” Georgie asked with a frown. If some kind of funny business was going on near her business, she needed to know about it.

  “Oh, you’ve missed something, Georgie. You’ve missed it the last three weeks, taking Mr. Tuesday out for a walk in the alley behind the shop the last couple of times this happened,” Becca added with a coy grin.

  Georgie threw up her hands. “What happened? You’re starting to worry me, Becca.”

  “Any minute, ladies!” a woman called with a giddy trill.

  Mr. Gilbert glanced at his watch. “You’ll see for yourself in about fifteen seconds.”

  Georgie scanned the front of the shop. All the women except for Marjorie were staring out the front window and onto the empty road.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t see anything that…” Georgie began, then froze as the something Becca had referenced passed by the window, and her brain clicked into slow-motion mode.

  Like a framed moving portrait, a man’s broad shoulders and shirtless, ripped torso appeared. Perfectly tanned skin wrapped his biceps and forearms, which looked damned near edible. If you were into that, not that she was, at all. Georgie tried to look away. Tried to think about anything other than muscles contracting and releasing as this Adonis of a man pumped his arms, driving forward on the pavement. A black hat sat on his head, pulled low, disguising his face, but not completely. A dark, perfectly groomed five o’clock shadow accompanied a strong jawline and the slope of a nose so perfect in its profile, plastic surgeons probably used this guy as a muse.

  Her mouth grew dry. Her pulse kicked up. The air stilled as if she were trapped inside this moment, time, bending to lengthen an event only meant to last a few seconds.

  “Georgie?” someone said, but she didn’t quite have control of all her faculties yet.

  Georgie blinked, and the figure blurred, speeding past the bookshop.

  “Who was that?” she asked, staring out at the street.

  “I think he works at that Deacon CrossFit that opened a few blocks from here. There’s a bunch of them around the city. But, Georgie, you better check your phone,” Becca instructed.

  Georgie frowned, still feeling the aftershocks. “My what?”

  An amused glint sparked in Mr. Gilbert’s eyes. “Your phone. That thing all you kids can’t stop looking at.”

  She shook her head. This was exactly what she warned women about, the guise of perfection. And she wasn’t about to get carried away. Oh no! There was an excellent chance this guy was a perfect ten on the douchebag scale and not the lasting eight she preached about finding.

  “What about my phone?”

  Ping.

  Georgie gasped. “It’s beeping.”

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you,” Mr. Gilbert said.

  She snatched her phone from the counter. “This could be it!”

  “Open it! Open it!” Becca cheered.

  Georgie tapped the email icon, and her eyes went wide. “It’s from them!”

  “What does it say?” Becca asked, craning her head to try to get a look at the screen.

  Georgie opened the email and scanned the message.

  “Don’t leave us in suspense,” Mr. Gilbert prodded.

  Her heart was beating a mile a minute.

  “They want me to come in…today.” She checked her watch. “In less than two hours to meet my teammates.”

  Becca scratched her head. “Why would you have teammates?”

  Good question. But there had to be a reasonable answer.

  Georgie gasped. “Possibly an editor or a producer. I think that once you get hired on with CityBeat, there’s got to be a team you work with.”

  Becca nodded. “That makes sense. OMG, Georgie! You’ve got a team! What else does it say?”

  She glanced back at the screen. “It says I’ll get brought up to speed on the next steps in the meeting today.”

  “Next steps?” Becca mused, tapping the counter. “That’s probably just ironing out your topics and timeline stuff, don’t you think?”

  Georgie nodded. “It has to be something like that.”

  But a pang of doubt rippled through her chest. She couldn’t let herself get overly excited quite yet.

  Mr. Gilbert patted her cheek. “You know, your dad would have been proud of you. Your grandparents, too. Are you going to tell your mom?”

  That pang of doubt in her chest went from a ripple to a full swell at the mention of her mother. “Books and blogs aren’t really her thing. I don’t think she’d be very excited. I’m not quite the daughter she’d always wanted.”

  He gave her a sympathetic grin. “Just remember, Georgie, some of us have different ways of showing we care.”

  “Like faking a broken hearing aid?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “If that means I get to feign ignorance to what the blue-haired brigade is jabbering on about and gaze at my wife like a lost puppy, then yes.”

  “You truly are an eight, Mr. Gilbert,” she answered just as Becca’s voice cut across the shop.

  “Hey, ladies! Georgie got it! She won the contest!”

  Applause broke out from the seating area, and Georgie gave them her best curtsey bow, then froze.

&nb
sp; She had a lot to do!

  “I have to go! I’m expected at CityBeat in less than two hours, and I need to walk Mr. Tuesday, drop him off at home, change my clothes, then get downtown.”

  “Don’t you worry about the shop,” Becca said, pressing her hands to her hips like she was ready to kick some bookshop ass. “I’ve got it covered, and I know Irene can help out anytime you need her.”

  “And I can take Mr. Tuesday for a walk,” Mr. Gilbert offered.

  Georgie patted her old friend’s hand. “Thank you for offering, but I think a little walk would do me good. I need to get my thoughts in order and take a second to process everything.”

  At the mention of a walk, Mr. Tuesday procured his favorite slobbery ball from a basket of dog toys she kept behind the counter and began prancing at her feet.

  “Wow,” she said, shell-shocked as she removed her apron then plucked his leash from a wall hook.

  “Way to go, kiddo,” Mr. Gilbert added, before joining his wife and her needlework crew.

  Becca shooed her toward the shop’s back door. “Go! Go!”

  Georgie left the shop, leaned against the back door to get her bearings, then wiped a tear from her cheek. “Lizzy, Hermione, Jane, we did it, ladies,” she whispered to her imaginary trifecta, the three characters she loved so dearly. She’d lost count of how many times she’d reread Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, and the Harry Potter series, and these characters had become as real to her as any friend, maybe better, because she knew them inside and out.

  She released a sharp breath when a wave of nausea hit her.

  What if they asked her why she hadn’t found her eight? Her dear friend had married her eight, and she had thousands of emails from people who had found happiness using the Own the Eights method. Surely, that had to be enough.

  But there was something else.

  That email about meeting her teammates gnawed at her. The CityBeat founders were notorious for staging events and adding a surprising flair to anything they did.

  But she’d won. Eccentric or not, they’d chosen her. This was her time to shine, and it had nothing to do with looks or weight or any shallow, superficial trait. Her mind. Her intelligence and her drive. That’s what got her to this point.