Jordan easily procured the jar and handed it to her. “I don’t want anything to ruin those heels, and we should probably exchange numbers in case you need some help with that honey. You know, later on, if the lid’s stuck and you can’t get it open.” He leaned in. “Honey can get sticky.”
“So sticky,” the woman repeated, completely under his spell, then snapped out of it, grabbed her phone, and thrust it into Jordan’s hand.
Sheesh! So much for playing hard to get!
While they entered their digits, he stole a glance over his shoulder and winked at her.
He was such the Emperor of Asshattery!
She mouthed the word boring then mimicked falling asleep.
And what did this lady even know about Jordan, besides the fact that he was good-looking and competent enough to retrieve a jar of honey? For Pete’s sake! Mr. Tuesday could do that, probably, maybe? Oh, who was she kidding? She was lucky if her sweet pup only ruined one pair of shoes a week instead of two. But it didn’t matter.
“You’ll find me in your contacts under Layla,” the redhead said, handing Jordan back his phone.
“I’ll be under Jordan,” he replied smoothly as a wave of nausea washed over her.
The redhead swished her perfect tumbled curls and headed up the aisle.
Jordan crossed his arms and leaned against the shelf. “What did I say? Bees to honey. Now, what was that, ten seconds to get her number?” He scratched his chin with a theatrical flair. “Nah, probably eight seconds. It looks like I’m the one owning the eights tonight, Georgie Jensen.”
“Jackass,” she muttered under her breath, throwing a few more items into her basket.
“Your turn, Messy Bun.”
Messy Bun! Of all the nicknames!
She pushed up onto her tiptoes in a sad attempt to be eye level with the man who just ruined honey for her. “Try to understand this. The person who’s going to like me, Jordan-totally-not-owning-the-eights, is going to be able to see past my bun. He’ll see me for the person I am on the inside. And, in fact, he’ll love this bun. He won’t be able to get enough of it.”
Jordan glanced at his watch. “That’s exactly what I’d expect someone in a cardigan to say. Now stop stalling.”
How could she have engaged in a lip-lock with this Slick Rick Perfect Ten cretin? She set off, searching the store for her Save the Whales guy.
“Cucumbers!” she whispered, remembering their brief conversation.
She hurried back to the produce section and found her guy still perusing the vegetables.
“Need any help handling that cucumber?” she asked, the words escaping her mouth a microsecond before she realized how perverted that question sounded.
Jordan coughed. “So smooth.”
She glared at him as he pretended to search for a head of lettuce.
“Excuse me?” Save the Whales asked, his gaze bouncing between herself and Jordan.
She pulled out her beauty queen smile—desperate times called for desperate measures. “I wanted to make sure you found the cucumbers.”
He held up the vegetable, and she leaned in to study it.
“You don’t want that one. You want a bigger one.”
“Holy shit!” Jordan fake coughed.
She lifted her chin and tried to ignore the six-foot-four man, now laugh-hacking all over the cilantro. “That cucumber’s too small. Now, if you choose one that’s too big, it may not taste as good and be a bit too seedy. What you want is a nice medium-sized one. You’ll also want to check it for flexibility.”
“What?” the guy asked, a little dazed.
She reached out, and Save the Whales gave her the vegetable.
She felt the cucumber carefully, slowly wrapping her hands around the cylindrical food. “See what I’m doing, and see how the cucumber is bending?”
Save the Whale’s eyes had gone wide as she massaged the vegetable, bending it side to side to show its flexibility.
“Jesus Christ on a cracker,” Jordan barked out in an exaggerated cough like a man dying of the Spanish flu.
Save the Whales glanced over at him. “Do you think that guy’s all right?”
“He’s fine.” She turned to Jordan. “Sir, you should check out the herbal teas on aisle five. They’re great for cough suppression.”
Red-faced, Jordan blinked back tears of laughter and moved down the row toward a rack of bananas.
“You really want to make sure you’ve got a firm cucumber,” she continued, because, despite the whole phallic symbolism of this convo, once the cucumber door opens, there’s no going back.
“My cucumber’s not firm?” Save the Whales asked as the hacking laughter of Jordan Marks again tore through the produce department.
“No, you need it to be a little firmer.”
Save the Whales stared at the vegetable. “Thanks for the tip.”
“And speaking of tips…” she continued.
A round of thuds erupted behind her. Jordan, in a hissy fit of laughter, had bumped into a display of onions.
She ignored him and pressed on. “You’ll want to make sure it’s firm all the way to the ends or tips.”
Save the Whales stared at the bin of cucumbers. “All this time I’ve been eating cucumbers, I never knew to check for firmness.”
“They’re also actually a fruit because they come from a flower and contain seeds, but I’ve probably gone way overboard with the cucumber lecture,” she said with an embarrassed smile.
Save the Whales chose a new, firm cucumber, added it to his basket, then shifted from foot to foot. “Do you live around here?”
Georgie’s trifecta perked up.
“Not too far from here,” she answered as cool as a cucumber and snuck a glance at Jordan.
“I’m new to the city. Could I get your number, and maybe we could hang out and make cucumber salad?”
Triumph surged through her veins. If this were a superhero movie, she’d levitate a few feet above the ground, blast Jordan with her laser beam eyes, and give the nice whale activist her number. Unfortunately, she’d never come into contact with a radioactive spider, nor did she hail from a distant superpower planet, so she’d have to settle for the latter.
But it was still a win for her Own the Eights philosophy.
She expected to hear another bout of cough-laughter, but when she glanced over her shoulder, this time, she’d found Jordan stock still, clutching a potato with a vengeance completely undeserving of the root vegetable. She threw him a sweet screw-you smile and exchanged numbers with…
“Steve,” she said, glancing at her phone’s screen where he’d entered his information.
“Georgie,” he said, staring at his. “Is that short for Georgia?”
“No, Georgiana.”
Steve smiled. “That’s a lovely name for a lovely—”
The cough was gone, but the guttural sound of Jordan clearing his throat echoed off the organic beets and stopped Steve from finishing his sentence.
She took a step back and smiled at her Save the Whales conquest. “I should finish my shopping. But I hope I’ll see you around, Steve.”
“Yeah, me too. Nice to meet you, Georgie,” Steve replied with a kind smile, apropos of one who cares deeply for the ocean, then weaved his way toward the checkout.
She blew out a relieved breath when she felt Jordan come up behind her, and she had the bizarre desire to lean back into his brick wall of a torso. Gah! Why did that have to be her first thought? She’d done it! She’d proved her method was just as good as his, but she couldn’t remember one thing about Save the Whales Steve other than his shirt.
With Jordan, she remembered everything. His clean scent. How his green eyes darkened when he gazed at her. The four freckles on his left forearm that looked like the handle of the big dipper. She tensed as her lady parts begged to climb back onto his lap and rock her body against his hard—”
“Cucumber,” Jordan said, and she gasped, shaking all thoughts of doing anything with hi
s cucumber out of her head.
This lapse in judgment was just the superficial cavewoman who dwelled in the primitive brainstem of every woman, trying to claw her way past the rational Own the Eights intelligent, conscientious side of her and procreate with this, or any other, member of the male species. But she was an eights gal and that meant that Jordan and his Perfect Ten Mindset was nothing she wanted in her life.
She picked up a cucumber and threw it into her basket. “I think a cucumber salad with dinner sounds delightful.” She snagged another. “Here, you look like you could use a cucumber, too.”
He waved off the vegetable. “I think you’ve ruined cucumbers for me.”
“Suit yourself. I’m going to go pay for my groceries,” she said, dropping the second cucumber into her basket. She turned to go but froze when he spoke.
“Why did you pick him?”
She studied his expression. “Steve?”
“Yeah, Save the Whales Hipster Steve. Why did you think he was an eight?”
Was Jordan jealous?
She held his gaze. “By partaking in certain activities, you prove your eight-ness.”
“Eight-ness?” he repeated skeptically.
“You said ten-ness. So, by default, I get eight-ness.”
He ran a hand through his perfect hair. “Was it the whale shirt?”
She weighed the question. “There are subtle eights signs that show that a person cares about bigger things than just themselves. You can find these attributes in how someone dresses, in what they buy, and how they act. His shirt tells me there’s a good chance he volunteers to help animals and probably cares deeply about the environment.”
“Why couldn’t a ten do all those things, too?” Jordan shot back.
She cocked her head to the side. “When was the last time you volunteered at an animal shelter or participated in a community cleanup?”
He shook his head and stared past her shoulder.
“Aha! See, that’s what makes Steve an eight and you, just a ten.”
“Just because I’m not wearing a Greenpeace shirt doesn’t mean I don’t care about the planet or work my ass off.”
“But you do it for yourself.”
“I help a lot of people become—”
“Superficial wankers,” she cut in.
He frowned. “No, healthier and happier. I give people a road map to their best life. I show them their greatness, their perfection.”
She took a step toward him. “Perfection is just an illusion.”
He leaned in, his lips inches from hers. “Only to those too scared or too jaded to reach for it.”
What was it about this asshat? One minute, she couldn’t care less if he fell off the face of the earth. The next, every cell in her body ached for his touch. And where was her trifecta? They couldn’t be falling for Jordan’s artificial antics.
“I’ll meet you outside,” she said in a shaky breath and headed for the self-checkout.
Mindlessly, she scanned and bagged her items. Her blood sugar had to be low. That had to be it. Her trifecta nodded, all of them a little off balance. Between the meeting at CityBeat, that kiss in Jordan’s car, and the tense scene next to the cucumbers, she must be damn near ready to pass out.
She grabbed her groceries, left the market, and pulled out the tube of vegan chocolate chip cookie dough. Without thinking, she ripped the top of the tube open with her teeth and squeezed the chocolaty goodness into her mouth.
“What the hell are you eating?”
She turned to see Jordan standing by a bench.
“Cookie dough,” she tried to say with a mouthful of gooey deliciousness.
His eyes went wide as if she’d morphed into a two-headed monster.
She swallowed. “It’s vegan! Relax!”
Mortification marred his symmetrically perfect face. “I don’t care if it’s vegan. It’s still a tube of cookie dough.”
She squeezed the cylinder and took another mouthful. “It’s delicious, and the company donates a portion of its profits to the rainforest.”
“Are you trying to say that this disgusting display of complete lack of willpower is actually a civic good deed?” he sneered.
“Yes,” she answered, then hummed her delight and swallowed the raw vegan dough.
Jordan shook his head, sat down, then took out his phone.
“What are you doing? Are you texting your honey girl already?” she asked, plopping down next to him.
“No, I’m deleting Layla. She has a name, Georgie. She’s a person.”
Georgie tried to scoff, but it was damn hard to appear incredulous with a mouthful of delicious vegan cookie dough. Still, she was not going to be lectured about respecting women from the likes of the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset guru.
She dropped the tube of dough into her recyclable bag. “Why? Layla’s not hot enough for you? Not the perfect ten woman you’ve been dreaming of finding?”
He pinned her with his gaze. “My focus is on this competition, Georgiana.”
The breath caught in her throat. He’d called her by her full name, and the four syllables had never sounded so sensual. Jane Eyre passed fans to Lizzy and Hermione, and she could have used one, too.
“What if Layla calls you?” she asked, going for nonchalance.
His eyes flicked back to the phone. “She’ll get the number to make a donation to the local public library.”
Georgie gasped. “You wrong-numbered her?”
Her pulse shot up. Her mouth grew dry. Maybe it was all the organic sugar and responsibly sourced chocolate, but she felt exactly like she had when he’d run by the bookshop earlier in the day. She steadied herself. Why should she care if he gave some chick the wrong number? He meant nothing to her.
“We should exchange contact information,” he said, followed by a resigned sigh.
“You want my number? My real number?”
“And address. Like it or not, if we want to beat the Dannies, we need to work together.”
Her trifecta shrugged. The man did have a point.
They traded phones, and she bit back a grin, entering her information.
“Why are you smiling?” he asked, eyes glued to her phone screen.
She glanced at him. “How can you tell I’m smiling? You’re not even looking at me.”
“I just can, and don’t break my phone.”
“I won’t break your phone. Here, you’ll find me under Messy Bun.”
The corner of his mouth curled up, and he handed her back her smartphone.
“What did you do?” she asked, then glanced down to see the new contact of the Emperor of Asshattery. She bit back a grin. “I’m glad you’ve come to terms with who you really are.”
“Oh, I know who I am. I’m just not sure if you’re bright enough to remember my real name, so I went with the moniker that would be the easiest for you to recall.”
And…the emperor was back.
She came to her feet. “Okay, well, goodbye.”
He shot up. “Goodbye?”
“Yeah, we did the whole grocery store challenge and now—”
“Now, we strategize. We come up with a plan,” he answered, cutting her off.
“Well, I need to get back to my car and call for a jump. Then, I need to go home and feed my dog.”
“Sergeant Wednesday?” he asked, but his smirk said he knew damn well that wasn’t her sweet pup’s name.
“Mr. Tuesday,” she corrected.
“All right, then. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“To get your car, Georgiana. I’ll drive you back and give you a jump.”
There he was with the Georgiana again.
She ignored the butterflies in her belly. “That’s okay. I can walk.”
He glanced around. “It’s dark out.”
She shook her head. “It’s dusk.”
“It’s more dark than light,” he replied, exasperation infused in his tone.
“Yeah, that’s the definit
ion of dusk,” she threw back.
He took a step toward her. “Can we not argue about this? I’m not letting you walk through the city all alone at night.”
She lifted her chin. “At dusk.”
“Jesus! At dusk! I’m not leaving you alone at dusk,” he answered in full-blown frustration mode.
She was about to recommend that he try a guided meditation to chill out when warmth radiated through her hand. She glanced down and found that somewhere in their tussle over the definition of dusk, he’d taken her hand into his.
His expression softened. “Let me drive you back to your car and give it a jump. Then we can head to your place and walk Officer Friday.”
“It’s Mr. Tuesday,” she corrected, but this time, without the sass.
He looked at their hands then let go, taking a step back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
Despite despising ninety-nine percent about this guy, she liked the way her hand felt in his. The warmth. The protective sweetness. The heat that said these hands want to grip your ass and kiss you like there’s no tomorrow.
But that could not happen. Not again.
“No more technique demonstrations. We have to act like professionals,” she said, the words tasting bitter and disingenuous.
He flexed his hands, then crossed his arms. “I agree. From here on out, it’s all about the blog competition,” he supplied, but his declaration didn’t quiet the butterflies still flapping away in her belly.
You cannot fall for this ten, Georgie.
Her trifecta was back, minus the fans, and armed with girl power.
Think of Brice Casey. Think of your dreams.
She pushed away all thoughts of Jordan’s lips, and his hands, and his expression after Save the Whales Steve asked for her number.
They may have to work together, but one thing was crystal clear, he was still her competition.
Back in the game, she ignored those pesky butterflies. “Deal. We’re all business from here on out. Let’s go.”
6
Jordan
Jordan stared at the brake lights of the car in front of him and flipped on his blinker the second after the lead car’s right turn signal illuminated.
He wasn’t just following any car. He was behind Georgie’s car and following her to her place, which just happened to be a block away from his rental.
Own the Eights: Own the Eights: Book One Page 7