Own the Eights: Own the Eights: Book One

by Sandor, Krista

  He glanced over at the passenger seat then inhaled. Her scent still lingered in his SUV. Probably some hippie vanilla lotion or Own the Eights earth-friendly shampoo. It was…nice. He shook his head and cranked up the air-conditioning.

  This messy bun girl could not get into his head. Not only was she his competition, but she also did not fit the definition of a Marks Perfect Ten Mindset partner, or did she?

  Hell no! Of course, she didn’t. Those damned shoes were an immediate disqualifier. Throw in the cardigan and the glasses on a chain, and she might as well be one of the before pictures his clients loved to post once they’d attained the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset body and lifestyle.

  He pressed his lips into a tight line. Dammit! She was there, too.

  And that kiss! Had Georgie not bumped the horn, who knows what would have happened.

  What had gotten into him? Granted, it had been a while since he’d slept with a woman. For all the dating and lifestyle posts he’d written, in reality, he’d done very little of it himself these past few years. Sure, he’d blogged about the best places to meet a Marks Perfect Ten Mindset soul mate, but that didn’t mean it left him any time to find his Marks Perfect Ten match.

  And Georgie was infuriating. Nobody pressed his buttons. Nobody teased him—anymore.

  That had to be it! She riled him up. That, and the stress of the competition, had momentarily blinded him from his goals.

  But she did have one hell of an ass hidden beneath that hideous skirt.

  Dammit! Knock it off, Marks!

  He squeezed the steering wheel as her voice cut through his thoughts.

  Jordan.

  It made him hard just thinking about it.

  Georgie Jensen got him hard…again.

  Georgie’s car slowed and came to a stop in front of a craftsman style bungalow, and he cut the ignition on his BMW and glanced down at his lap. “She is not for us,” he scolded, then glanced up to find Georgie standing right outside, watching him.

  Shit!

  “Everything all right in there?” she asked as he got out.

  “Yes,” he answered, not at all excited that they were parked directly beneath a lamppost, emitting what seemed like way too much light. He could use a little darkness to hide what he was sure was a decent bulge in his pants.

  “I only ask because it looked like you were talking to your—”

  “I was stretching my neck,” he replied tersely.

  “Your neck?” she repeated as if it were a foreign concept.

  It was time to get it together.

  “Yes, if you’re not familiar with anatomy, the neck is the part that connects the head to the body.”

  She parted her lips, undoubtedly ready to throw an insult his way when the door to a truck parked across the street opened, and a woman exited the vehicle.

  “Hey, Jordan!” she called as Georgie’s playful smirk vanished.

  “Did you invite a date to my house? I saw you texting right after you jump-started my car. I should have known,” she snapped, incredulity permeating her words.

  He bit back a grin. “That’s just Ginger.”

  “Oh, good, it’s just Ginger,” she whisper-shouted.

  “I know her from my gym. And just for the record, I noticed that you were on your phone while I was bringing your car back to life,” he answered.

  Now it was his turn to sport a shit-eating grin. Because thanks to all that worry about sporting a hard-on, he’d forgotten that he’d sent the text right after he’d set an alert to go off any time the Dannies posted.

  “You really put the ass in asshattery,” she hissed, crossing her arms.

  “It’s good to see you, Jordan,” came a man’s voice.

  Georgie whipped her head around and stared into the street as a burly man covered in tattoos, carrying a toolbox and a car battery, joined Ginger on the sidewalk.

  “Jordan, who are these people?” Georgie asked, moving closer to him.

  The man gestured with his chin. “Is this the two thousand VW Rabbit that needs the new battery?”

  “Yeah, it sure is, Zeke. Thanks for doing me this favor.” He glanced at Georgie and then to his friends. “Georgie Jensen, meet Ginger and Zeke Jones.”

  “Nice to meet you, Georgie. We’ll be done in no time flat,” Ginger said, shaking Georgie’s hand as Zeke gave her a friendly nod.

  “Do you mind unlocking the car and popping the hood, miss?” Zeke asked, setting up a portable light.

  Georgie’s gaze bounced between the people attending to her car. “What’s going on?”

  “Zeke and Ginger are clients of mine at the gym. They own a garage nearby. I texted them to see if they could get you a new battery.”

  “Hand me your keys, hun,” Ginger said with an easy grin.

  With a glazed look, Georgie complied, then turned to him, eyes wide. “Why did you do this, Jordan?”

  Shit! Why did he do this? The minute he got her car running, the thought of her stranded somewhere drove him to bust out his phone and text Zeke and Ginger her address, asking them to switch out her battery. But he couldn’t admit that.

  He cleared his throat. “If I’m going to be forced to work with you, you’re going to need a reliable car. I can’t have you stuck on the side of the road screwing up my chance at winning the contest.”

  Even with the patchy lamplight, he could see the warmth in her blue-green eyes dissipate.

  She clucked her tongue. “For a second, I thought there might actually be a human being inhabiting your body. Turns out, I was wrong.”

  “Yeah, the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset people are superhumans, so it makes sense you’d make that mistake,” he rallied back.

  “More like super douchebags,” she murmured when the grumble of an engine purring to life caught their attention.

  “My car started! How did you do that so quickly?” Georgie asked.

  Zeke wiped his hands on a rag. “Changing a battery isn’t very hard, but you should come in and see us if your car needs anything else. A friend of Jordan’s is a friend of ours.”

  “He’s not my…” Georgie began, but she stopped herself and softened her expression. “Thank you so much for changing the battery. What do I owe you?”

  Ginger waved her off. “Jordan took care of it with a few extra training sessions on the house, so we’re good.”

  “Thanks, guys!” he called as Ginger and Zeke got back into their vehicle.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Georgie said as the truck disappeared down the road.

  He shifted his stance. “Like I said, I can’t have you ruining my chances.”

  She groaned and stared up at the night sky. “This is a barrel of laughs, hanging out with you, but I should really get to my dog.”

  “Lead the way,” he said and followed her up the brick path to her front door.

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “It may be a little messy inside. I wasn’t expecting to bring anyone home with me. But…it’s not that I’m not able to meet an eight and bring him back to my place to connect on a deeper level,” she added, shifting her grocery bag from hand to hand.

  “Right,” he replied, not sure what the hell to say to that.

  She turned and pressed her back to the door. “And it’s not like we’d jump right into bed, this eight that I hypothetically met and invited back to my home. We’d probably play chess or checkers or talk. That’s what Owning the Eights is all about, and as the creator of the blog and a woman in charge of her body and her sexuality, that’s just what would happen,” she finished, looking just as confused by that quasi-rant as he was.

  Away from the road and the streetlights, shadows cast on her face as a wisp of hair came free of her bun and blew across her cheek. He raised his hand to brush it back but stopped himself.

  She is your competition.

  He could hear Deacon’s voice in the breeze, laying down the law, training him to be the best.

  He dropped his hand to his side. “Georgia
na, I don’t care what your place looks like. We’re here to talk strategy. I’m not Save the Whales Steve looking to connect my soul to yours or whatever bullshit language you use to describe the mating habits of an eight.”

  “There’s the asshat,” she said with what he would have sworn was a touch of disappointment as she unlocked the door.

  But before he could throw back a barb about her shoes or her mismatched clothing, the excited yelps of Mr. Tuesday, yes, he knew the dog’s name, pulled Georgie’s attention away from him.

  “How is my bestest boy?” she cooed as they entered the house.

  “Bestest isn’t a real word,” he corrected. He knew damned well that she’d pegged him as a superficial jerk, and it was easier to play the part. He needed the distance. When he’d let his guard down, he’d either kissed her, called in a favor to have her car serviced, or held her hand like some goofy tween at the movies.

  Georgie slipped a leash off a hook by the door and attached it to the dog’s collar. “I’ll just be a minute. Make yourself comfortable…but, not too comfortable.” She glanced around as if the moment she’d left, she expected him to go all stealth super-spy, copying her laptop’s hard drive and planting listening devices in her lamps.

  He gave her his best Emperor of Asshattery face. “What do you think I’m going to do? Bust out your yoga mat or take a meandering walk and raid your refrigerator? Don’t worry, I won’t disrupt your home’s feng shui.”

  “Do you even know what feng shui is?” she asked, halfway out the door, her dog pulling and skittering about at her feet.

  He plastered on his signature Jordan Marks smirk. “No, but I’d bet my Beamer that you do.”

  Georgie released an irritated groan and left the house with her animated dog.

  With the place Georgie and dog-free, he inhaled. There was that smell again. Sweet vanilla. She’d probably bought a candle from some company that gave a villager a donkey with each purchase. That’s what an eight would do. But he cared about the environment, too. Being a ten did not mean screwing over the planet or anyone or anything for that matter. He took a meandering walk around her living room, and on every shelf, table, and even stacked in the corners, he found books. Lots of books. It made sense. She did own a bookstore. A hardback of Steinbeck’s East of Eden caught his eye when he saw what could only be described as a shrine with little candles and doll figurines.

  The door to the bungalow opened, and an excited Mr. Tuesday burst into the room and made a beeline toward him.

  “You found my trifecta,” she said, hanging the leash back on the hook.

  The dog came to his side, and he scratched between his ears. “I noticed your copy of East of Eden.”

  “You like Steinbeck?” she asked, heading for the kitchen as Mr. Tuesday followed right on her heels.

  “Yeah, I double-majored in English and Kinesiology,” he answered.

  “Yeah, right, and I minored in Underwater Basket Weaving,” she called over the sound of a can opener.

  She didn’t believe him. He was about to set her straight when he caught his reflection in the front window. He may not be the scrawny kid hidden away in a quiet corner of the library anymore, but that didn’t mean he’d lost his love of literature.

  “Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, and Harry Potter,” he said, turning to the books prominently featured on the shelf.

  She joined him and lovingly ran her finger down the worn spine of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. “These are my favorites.”

  He eyed the books. “Interesting combo. I can appreciate the similarities in Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice, but how does Harry Potter fit in?”

  She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I had a weird childhood. Jane from Jane Eyre, Lizzy from Pride and Prejudice, and Hermione from Harry Potter became my girl squad.”

  “Girl squad?” he repeated with a chuckle.

  “You can laugh all you like, Mr. Marks Perfect Ten Mindset. But these books got me through some tough times.”

  “Comics did that for me when I was a kid,” he said softly, then glanced at her and found her watching him closely.

  Did he just share that comics were his escape as a kid? Dammit! He looked back at the shelf, then tapped a framed picture of a man standing next to a little girl, holding what looked like a credit card. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah, that’s my dad and me the day I got my very own library card. My dad was a mechanic, and he really loved books. He was kind of a Renaissance man, a Jack of all trades.”

  “And your mom?”

  Georgie looked away. “She splits her time between Denver and her homes in Aspen and St. Croix.”

  He took a step back and whistled. “I would not have pegged you as someone who came from money.”

  “I didn’t. My parents divorced when I was young, and my mom married into it,” she answered, her gaze trained on the photograph.

  “But still, if your mom is wealthy now—”

  “That has nothing to do with me, nor do I want a penny of her money. I live my own life, and I make my own rules, Jordan,” she answered, heat flashing in her blue-green eyes.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s fine,” she answered with that same smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Come into the kitchen. The least I can do is feed you after you had your friends fix my car.”

  What the hell was he doing? Twenty-four hours ago, Georgie Jensen didn’t even exist to him. He’d been living in the twilight zone from the moment she’d barreled into his life, yelling for him to catch her dog.

  “Can you chop a cucumber?” she asked, holding out the vegetable.

  “Yes, of course, I can. If you read the Marks Perfect Ten blog, you’d learn that cucumbers contain silica, which is essential for maintaining healthy connective tissue,” he said, choosing a knife from a block on the counter and joining her at the cutting board.

  “If you read the Own the Eights blog, you’d know that what we’re eating tonight is a cucumber, tomato, and basil salad, which contains vitamin C,” she threw back as she chopped a tomato.

  “I already knew that,” he mumbled.

  “Just dice the cucumber, emperor.”

  He sliced the vegetable. “You should really have a protein to go with this.”

  “I do,” she answered and gestured with her chin toward two salmon fillets in a glass dish.

  Shit. This was a pretty decent meal.

  “The fish is from last night. I like to make extra to eat as leftovers the next day.”

  Double shit. He suggested doing that, too.

  Georgie took his perfectly diced cucumber and added it to the basil and tomatoes with a pinch of salt and a dash of pepper. She pulled two plates from the cabinet, then proceeded to make him a plate.

  “Is this okay?” she asked, handing him a fork and napkin.

  It was more than okay. He mostly ate alone. Breakfast at home. A protein shake in his office at the gym and dinner either in front of the computer or proofing an article for a blog post.

  “Yeah, it’s great. Thanks,” he said, taking the plate.

  Her cheeks grew pink. “We can eat on the couch. My kitchen table is a little full.”

  He glanced over at the small table, teeming with books and legal pads.

  “No problem.”

  He followed her out of the kitchen and sat down next to her on the couch.

  “So, this is your life?”

  Christ! He sounded like an idiot!

  She chuckled through a bite of salmon. “I’m sure it’s not as glamorous as yours. You’re probably on the VIP list at every fancy restaurant and take out a different perfect ten woman every night.”

  If she only knew.

  “Something like that,” he said and took a bite.

  “Should we look at the schedule?” she asked, reaching down and pulling the sheet of paper out of her purse as Mr. Tuesday sauntered to him and curled up around his feet.

  Georgie gasped. �
��Look at that! You can’t be completely void of a soul if Mr. Tuesday likes you.”

  “Only partially void,” he said and took another bite of the salmon. The whole meal was fucking delicious, but hell if he was about to cop to loving her leftovers.

  She sat cross-legged and set her plate on the coffee table. “Everything is a little cryptic on this, except for the last event. It looks like the competition ends at the Denver Trot, and it’s going to be live-streamed onto the CityBeat site.” She frowned. “Is that a dance, like a foxtrot?”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. He finished the fucking delicious food and set his empty plate next to hers. “It’s a 10K race.”

  She grimaced. “Like running?”

  “Yeah, that’s generally what’s expected in a race.”

  “How many miles is a 10K?”

  “Just six point two.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Of running? Over six miles of straight running without any scary clowns or grizzly bears chasing you?”

  “Let me see that,” he said, holding out his hand. She passed him the schedule, and he scanned it quickly. “It says here we’ll accumulate our final likes as we complete the race.”

  Georgie leaned back and rested her head on the couch cushion. “The Dannies will probably perform CPR and save a man’s life on the race route. And I’m warning you now, I’m not a runner. I can sprint. I can bust out of a ballroom and be halfway down the block like nobody’s business, but I’m not a runner.”

  “You are now,” he shot back.

  She sat forward. “No, I promise you, I’m not.”

  This was not good. There was no damn way he’d be meandering his way through the Denver Trot—especially if it’s going to be live-streamed for millions to see.

  “Even if I have to throw you over my shoulder, your ass is crossing that finish line, Georgiana. Marks Perfect Ten Rule number one, you always finish what you start.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Own the Eights Rule number one is to honor who you are on the inside. If that means not winning a race, then so be it.”

  “We’re not losing that race. I’ll train you every day if I have to, but this is non-negotiable.”