“CityBeat is yours,” he whispered, then pressed the envelope icon.
One new message.
Subject: Congratulations from CityBeat.
He scanned the message. Show up today. Meet the team.
Fuck yes!
He was going to be big, bigger than big. Big enough to show everyone that he wasn’t a scrawny kid without a backbone.
He was Jordan Marks of the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset.
He started to type a reply when a shouting woman caught his attention.
“Grab him!” she called.
He looked around, but before he could make out if she were talking to him, a small blur of brown fuzz zoomed past him, followed by a larger blur of barking black and white fur.
And then, her.
Sprinting in those clunky Birkenstock sandals, a terrible choice for running, was a woman with a dark tangle of hair, twisted into a bun on the top of her head. Tendrils framed her face as she made her way closer. Her running form was complete shit, but he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t help but notice the curve of her neck and the sway of her hips. Clad in a cardigan that completely clashed with her skirt, she was mesmerizing. If he needed an example of the opposite of a Marks Perfect Ten Mindset woman, she’d be it.
He blinked.
It had to be the complete train wreck aspect of her appearance that had him enthralled.
She skidded to a stop in front of him with a dog leash clutched in her hand and gasped.
“It’s you!” she said, eyes as wide as saucers.
“Me?” he asked, giving her a pleasant enough smile.
He shouldn’t be surprised. Ripped torso and shoulders that would put a linebacker to shame, he often left women stunned. And, as his blog popularity had grown, more people around the city had started to recognize him. But there was something in her expression that surprised him. A thread of derision he wasn’t used to, or at least, hadn’t experienced in a long time.
She studied his face. “You have a dimple.”
“Yeah?” he answered, smile fading.
Who the fuck was this? She certainly wasn’t anyone he’d ever crossed paths with—or had he? He’d seen her somewhere.
“Brice Casey,” she said under her breath, venom lacing each syllable.
It was his turn to study her. “No, sorry, that’s not me.”
She shook her head as if she were shaking off a memory. “Can you help me catch my dog? I think we can cut him off. There’s a fence, so he’s got to come back this way after he’s done chasing that damn squirrel.”
Jordan glanced at his watch. Shit! He was cutting it close as it was.
He needed to get back to the gym and make sure one of the other trainers could close up, then get home and grab a quick shower before heading downtown to the CityBeat offices.
The breathless woman threw up her hands. “Hey, shirtless man! Woman in need! Can. You. Help.”
He met her gaze. Women didn’t talk to him like this.
“Yeah, I just…I have a thing to get to,” he stammered.
He didn’t fucking stammer.
She huffed out an audible breath. “So do I. A life-changing thing. But I have to catch my dog first. Can you help me for two minutes?”
He glanced at the animal, running from tree to tree. “What’s its name?”
“His name is Mr. Tuesday,” she answered.
He reared back. “What kind of name is that?”
She pressed her hands to her hips. “The name he had when I adopted him from the shelter.”
“You could have changed it,” he countered.
“Well, I didn’t!” She narrowed her gaze. “Are you always this unpleasant?”
Unpleasant?
No woman had ever called him unpleasant. And she seemed to be completely unaware that she was near eye to eye with his sculpted chest and carved abs. That alone should have had her biting her lip and gazing at him through batted eyelashes.
But not this bohemian, cardigan crusader with a pair of glasses hanging on a chain around her neck.
“I don’t even know you, lady.”
“Thank God for that,” she huffed.
He bent forward. “Hey, messy bun girl, you need my help. How about a little gratitude?”
She gasped. “Did you just call me, messy bun girl?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got one, right?”
She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and he flexed his hands.
Did he want to be the one brushing her chocolate brown locks from trailing across her face?
Jesus! Hell no, he didn’t.
What was wrong with him?
“Well, yeah, I guess I do have a messy bun,” she answered without quite as much spite.
He gestured toward the leash. “And by the way, I don’t own any pets, but I’m pretty sure those things work better when you actually attach them to your animal.”
“Such a Brice Casey,” she mumbled.
“Who the hell is this Brice guy?”
Jesus! Did he miss some hipster pop culture reference?
She shook her head, glanced at her dog, currently running circles around an old oak, and softened her expression. “It doesn’t matter. Can you just help me?”
When she wasn’t yelling or glaring at him, she was kind of…
STOP!
He gestured with his chin. “You go left. I’ll go right.”
She pressed her hand to her chest, bringing his attention to what almost looked like a really nice pair of tits hidden under that dreadful cardigan, and let out a sweet little sigh. “Okay! Thank you! I’m sorry for calling you unpleasant. I’m a little out of sorts today.”
She had lovely eyes. Not quite blue and not quite green, and they sparkled like gemstones.
He flicked his gaze to her shoes. He had to quash these thoughts. There was too damned much on the line. “Try not to twist your ankle running in those poor excuse for sandals.”
She frowned, probably about to take back her apology, when the dog caught sight of a rabbit and bolted.
“Oh no!” she cried, and he knew he had to act if he wanted to catch that dog and make it to CityBeat on time.
He wasn’t quite as fast as a dog in pursuit of a floppy-eared animal, but he was fast enough. With messy bun girl trailing behind him, calling out the dog’s stupid name, he swooped in behind the mutt and grabbed its collar, but lost his footing and skidded to the ground with the dog landing on top of him, panting wildly. The mongrel looked down at him and licked his face.
Oh, for fuck’s sake!
The last thing that dog probably licked was his balls.
This was so not a Marks Perfect Ten situation.
“He likes you,” messy bun girl cooed, coming to her knees and scratching between the dog’s ears.
“Do you mind?” he asked, gaze bouncing from the ground to the dog.
She pressed her hand to her chest again. “Sorry! Come on, Mr. Tuesday. Let’s let the man get up.”
She looked up at him, still on the ground, cradling her dog’s head in her hands. “Thank you, Mr.…”
Warmth spread through his chest as he watched her press a kiss to the top of the dog’s head, but he pushed the feeling aside. Nothing about her or her harebrained dog fit his life’s motto.
He sharpened his expression. “You can call me, Mr. Use-Your-Damn-Leash-Next-Time. You’re not the only person with things to do today.”
She scoffed as contempt replaced the kindness in her eyes. “If I weren’t a nice person, I’d call you a supreme asshat.”
He gave her his best shit-eating grin. “Well, this asshat is probably going to be late, thanks to you.”
“Such a Brice Casey,” she murmured, repeating that bizarre hipster reference again as he doubled his pace and set off toward the gym.
3
Georgie
Georgie glanced at the clock on the dashboard of her compact Volkswagen Rabbit. “You won’t be late. You won’t be lat
e. You won’t be late.”
She might be late.
Thanks to Mr. Tuesday, and no thanks to Mr. Park Jerk, aka Brice Casey-esque creep, she’d barely had time to get Mr. Tuesday home and settled. She managed to pull a comb through her hair and quickly redo her bun. There was no way she was going to let her thick locks loose without a real wash and a blowout, which she had no time for due to the squabbling and garden variety asshattery she’d endured from that guy who’d barely agreed to help her.
The nerve! Talk about zero humanity.
All Brice Casey and no Mr. Darcy, and her literary trifecta agreed. Well, they almost agreed. They tried to remind her that first impressions often didn’t tell the whole story. But Georgie was a master in sussing out the Brice Casey type. She’d written a myriad of posts on it.
But what cut her to the core was that she’d almost abandoned her Own the Eights principles when the asshat turned out to be the same guy who’d left her all googly-eyed when he’d run past her bookshop. She’d nearly slipped when she called out for help and met his piercing green eyes and really got a look at his torso that would never need photoshop. It had taken all her restraint not to run her fingers down the hard plane of his abdomen just to make sure he was real.
His body was so perfect it nearly took her breath away—for the second time that day. Until his perfection and craptastic demeanor snapped her back. Yet, he had helped her. He’d caught Mr. Tuesday. He’d been a complete jerk about it, but he’d done it.
Ah! Forget about him!
Her car sputtered and whined, the gears grinding together, something else she’d need to use her winnings to take care of, as she parked in front of the CityBeat building, grateful to find a spot. She cut the ignition, closed her eyes, and took two cleansing breaths. Meandering walks and meditation were vital components of the Own the Eights philosophy. She had no time to meander, so it was up to meditation to quickly clear her mind and open the channels of positive energy. She’d just interviewed a local yoga teacher for the blog a few weeks ago and had written about using meditation to curb initial superficial attraction. It was a huge hit, garnering thousands of likes.
She inhaled then exhaled, emptying her thoughts of perfection and surface-level attraction.
That’s all it had been today. In a moment of panic, her thoughts racing, she’d fallen under the shirtless man’s spell. Totally reasonable under the circumstances. And so what if he worked in the area. She’d stay in her neck of the woods, tucked away in her little bookshop, and he could reign supreme over his Perfectville in some hyper-masculine gym, pumping iron and roid-raging his nuts into raisins.
That’s a good one.
Georgie smiled. It was always quite a compliment when Lizzy Bennet liked something she came up with.
With one last cleansing breath, she grabbed her bag and a folder with all her blog post ideas. She’d submitted several to CityBeat already but wanted to be ready to address her team if they needed more ideas.
Team!
She was nearly bursting with excitement. Surely, they’d have to be like-minded people—total Own the Eights converts. Why would CityBeat make them her team if they weren’t?
And the possibilities to expand Own the Eights were endless. From more in-depth dating advice to healthy living to environmentally friendly practices to volunteering to help the community, there were so many avenues they could pursue, so many fruitful, soul-satisfying ways to help people connect with their eight.
She entered the CityBeat building and headed for the reception desk and caught her reflection in one of the mirrored panels. No, she hadn’t had time to change her clothes. But this was who she was, a pattern mixing, bookshop owning, advice-giving, crusader for authentic, meaningful connection, who just happened to love Birkenstocks and cardigans. She studied her reflection, pleased she hadn’t fallen prey to altering her wardrobe to impress some shallow Brice Casey-like bottom-dweller when she collided into a wall.
Not a wall.
A back.
And not any back.
His back.
Even with a shirt on, she recognized the broad shoulders and the punishingly perfect cut of his muscled forearms.
He turned and gripped her elbow, which would have been a very chivalrous gesture if he hadn’t immediately cringed when they made eye contact.
“Are you following me?” He scoffed.
She gasped. “Am I following you?”
He shook his head. “Yeah, that’s what I just asked you. Did you lose your dog again?”
“No, Mr. Use-Your-Damn-Leash. That is what you said your name was, correct? I am not following you.” She reared back and pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh, my God! Are you following me?”
His jaw dropped. “Why would I follow you?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” she shot back.
Incredulity marred his perfect features. “Yeah, I got here first. You got here second. Any kindergartner could tell you that means you’re following me.”
She held his gaze, willing her retinas to acquire laser power to blast this asshat off the planet.
“Miss Jensen?” a woman said, cutting through the tension.
Georgie blinked. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I thought so. You and Mr. Marks are expected upstairs. Mr. Garcia and Mr. Chang are waiting for you on the twelfth floor,” the woman said serenely as if there was nothing odd about two strangers verbally assaulting each other in the CityBeat lobby.
Georgie cocked her head to the side. “Hector Garcia and Bobby Chang, CityBeat’s founders, are waiting for the two of us? Me and him?” she added, pointing back and forth.
“Wow, you are speedy-quick on the uptake, lady,” this Mr. Marks said under his breath.
She flicked her gaze from the receptionist over to the creep. “You, sir, are one supreme asshat.”
“I guess you’re not nice,” he replied with a smirk.
Georgie jerked her head back. “I am nice. I volunteer at animal shelters.”
He shrugged. “I remember you saying just a few hours ago that if you weren’t a nice person, you’d call me a supreme asshat.”
“If the shoe fits,” she mumbled, taking a page from his playbook.
He glanced down at her feet. “I should probably use my supreme asshat status to let you know that seventeen BC is calling, and they’d like their sandals back.”
“These are Birkenstocks,” she bit out in a tight whisper.
They were comfortable and supported her high arches. If she controlled the universe, she’d decree them the eighth wonder of the world.
“Yep, and they still belong in the dark ages,” he replied, crossing his arms.
Unable to reply—because what kind of creep could have beef with comfortable footwear—Georgie stood stock still in a dazed stupor. Thankfully, the receptionist pulled her out of her state of utter shock when she came around from behind the desk and handed them name badges.
“Jordan Marks and Georgie Jensen, here you go. The elevators are to your left. Once you’re on the twelfth floor, take a right. You can’t miss Mr. Garcia and Mr. Chang’s office.”
Georgie turned to the woman and lowered her voice. “Are you sure he’s supposed to be here?”
“I’m literally standing next to you. I can hear everything you just said,” the asshat, Jordan, said and shook his head.
“Yes, you’re both supposed to be here,” the woman answered.
Georgie nodded then clipped her name badge to her cardigan as Jordan did the same, minus the cardigan. If she wasn’t so well versed in her Own the Eights methodology, she might have noticed that he was wearing the hell out of a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled casually, exposing his forearms.
She sighed. And what forearms they were.
Hermione, Jane, and Lizzy held up blaring air horns, shocking her out of her forearm stupor and signaling for her to hightail it to the elevator. Unfortunately, Jordan Marks, God, what a stupid name, followed her into the tight space
and pressed the button for the twelfth floor.
She caught him checking out her reflection in the mirrored elevator and met his gaze. “This is a big day for me. I’m not sure what business you have with the CityBeat founders, but I’m here for a very important reason,” she said, looking into the eyes of his stupid perfect reflection.
“Yeah, me too. Can we just agree to keep out of each other’s way? You do what you need to do, and I’ll take care of my business. Deal?” he asked her reflection.
“Fine, deal,” she said, turning to him and extending her hand.
“You want to shake on it?” he asked.
“Yeah, it needs to be a real deal,” she sneered. She rarely sneered. It was such an unpleasant expression, but this seemed like the right time to do it.
He reached out and took her hand into his, and his touch knocked the sneer clean off her face. The breath caught in her throat, and heat pulsed from his body into hers as her heart rate skyrocketed. Butterflies erupted in her belly, and her mouth grew dry just like when she’d seen him run past the bookshop.
She looked up, and he stared at her with a dumbfounded expression. There was no handshaking going on, only hand-holding, and she hadn’t held anyone’s hand in…
She could barely remember.
It had to have been before the Brice Casey incident. She’d gone to the movies with a guy she’d met online, and he’d held her hand. But he did it after he’d wolfed down ninety-nine percent of the buttery popcorn, which made for a slimy grip. Holding Jordan’s hand had to be the polar opposite of that slippery experience. His hands were warm and just the right amount of rough, probably from gripping weights or throwing boulders or whatever musclebound morons did to get a body like his.
Ripped abs.
Sculpted arms.
Even his legs were perfect.
Own the Eights: Own the Eights: Book One Page 4