She rested her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Jordan.”
He glanced at the building, not wanting her to see the shame in his eyes. “I usually drive up and make sure he doesn’t drink himself into a stupor. But with everything going on, I blanked it out this year. This is my uncle’s bar. He’s the one who called.”
“What can I do to help?” she asked with so much kindness infused into the words that alone nearly broke him.
He steadied himself. “Nothing. In fact, just wait here. I’ll go in and get him.”
She unbuckled her seatbelt. “No way. I’m going in with you.”
“I can do it alone, Georgiana.”
She gave him that sweet smile. “Well, tonight, you don’t have to,” she answered, then glanced from the paper cup to the building. “And…I could really use the restroom.”
He chuckled. “All right, but I’ve got to warn you, my dad’s a little rough around the edges even on a good day.”
She pursed her lips. “Jordan Marks, you met Lorraine Vanderdinkle today. If there’s anyone on the planet who can understand what it’s like to have a difficult parent, it’s me.”
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to forget about his father, press his lips to hers and shut out everything. His hometown. His emerging doubts about Deacon. The contest. If he were a magician, he’d make it all disappear. But he wasn’t. He was just a man who had to bring his long-grieving father home, and the part of him, that awkward kid who’d lived through years of bullying, was glad she was here with him.
“Okay, once we get inside, the restrooms are down the hall on the right. Look for the jukebox, and you can’t miss them. I’ll head to the bar and work on getting my dad to leave.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said with that same sweet smile.
Here goes everything.
His pulse kicked up as they entered the bar. Georgie left his side and headed down the hall while he scanned the barstools. It wasn’t hard to find his dad. Only a few men still lingered over their lagers, and it was easy to spot his father’s large frame hunched over a beer with a few empty shot glasses stacked in a neat row.
He glanced down to the other side of the bar to where his uncle leaned against the polished counter, chatting quietly with a couple of men, and caught the man’s eye. His uncle gave a furtive look toward his father, then shook his head.
This wasn’t good.
All the bar patrons seemed to have migrated as far as they could to get away from his father. His old man looked like the stereotypical lone wolf, dark, foreboding, and isolated. The door to the restroom slammed shut, and knowing he only had a few moments before Georgie returned, he started toward his father when the man lifted his head, sensing his presence.
“I should have known Robbie would reach out to you,” he bellowed without even turning around. “It’s too damn bad that it takes a call from your uncle to remember the woman who gave birth to you.”
A muscle ticked in Jordan’s jaw, and red-hot anger surged through his veins. There wasn’t a damn day that passed that he didn’t think of her. Her twinkling laugh. Her wide smile. Cuddling in his bed, listening as she read his favorite books aloud. His father had taken the sudden passing of his wife hard. Damn hard. They’d had two weeks with her between her terminal diagnosis and her death. But what the man hadn’t considered, in his unspeakable grief, was that his son was hurting, too.
“Pop, it’s time to call it a night,” he said, working to keep the emotion out of his voice.
“It’s time when I say it’s time, Jordy.”
Jordy.
When his mother used to call him that, it rang with love. With his father, anger oozed from each syllable.
“Come on. Uncle Rob needs to close up soon,” he tried again.
His father waved a hand toward the end of the bar. “I don’t see your Uncle Rob asking any of those sons of bitches to go.”
This mean drunk wasn’t his dad. Sure, the man had become distant and hardened over the last eighteen years. But he only drank like this on the one day that was too painful to face without Jack Daniels by his side.
“Please, Pop,” he coaxed.
“Time to go, huh?” his father replied, and Jordan breathed a sigh of relief. Could it be this easy?
He got his answer when his father sprang up, sending the barstool skidding across the floor, and stood nose to nose with him.
A damn Marks family standoff.
“I’m the one who decides when I’m good and ready to leave,” his father hissed.
He held the man’s gaze, unflinching when the unmistakable synthesizer intro of “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You” by freaking Michael Bolton cut through the confrontation.
He looked over his shoulder to find Georgie, smiling and coming toward them.
His father gave her the once-over and frowned. “Did you bring a hooker along to pick me up?”
Georgie laughed and shook her head. “Sir, I’m not a hooker. I recently ingested seven Jell-O shots then entered a wet T-shirt contest as a result of poor judgment and deep-seated issues with my mother. I actually own a bookshop. My degree is in library sciences.”
His father’s hardened expression softened. “If bookshop owners look like you, I might start reading.”
She extended her hand. “I’m Georgie Jensen, Jordan’s friend. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Marks.”
“Dennis,” his father sputtered. “My name is Dennis, but some people call me Denny. That’s what my wife used to call me.”
She gave his father that sweet, wash-away-the-pain, Georgie smile. “Then, Denny, it is.”
His father grew pensive. “I do need to ask you something, Georgie.”
“Anything!” she chirped.
His old man narrowed his gaze. “You really found this song on the jukebox?”
She nodded, her grin dialing up a notch. “Yeah, isn’t it great?”
His father turned to the men congregating at the end of the bar. “You’ve got Michael Bolton on the jukebox?”
“He’s a national treasure,” a small man on a barstool said, raising his glass.
His uncle shrugged. “He kind of is.”
“To Michael Bolton! May we all relish in his lyrical wisdom,” Georgie added, pretending to raise a glass.
Jordan glanced around, and to his astonishment, everyone began clinking beer steins. His dad even pretend-clinked with Georgie.
“Denny, can we take you home? And once there, could I possibly borrow a T-shirt? This isn’t my usual Saturday night attire.”
“Jordy’s got drawers full of T-shirts up in his room. I’m sure we can set you up with something, right, son?”
Son.
Disgrace and disappointment used to permeate that word when it fell from his father’s lips. Tonight, it sounded like it used to when his mom was still with them.
He nodded because he couldn’t speak. Not unless he wanted to unleash a barrage of squeaks and sobs, and that sure as hell wasn’t an acceptable Marks Perfect Ten response.
Georgie turned to go when his father rested his hand on her shoulder. “Would you mind if we stayed until the song ended? That Michael Bolton really has a voice,” his dad said, grinning at Georgie.
She matched his smile. “Only if you sing it with me, Denny.”
Jordan caught Georgie’s eye, and she threw him a quick wink. Emotion welled in his chest as his burly, hard-edged father parted his lips and belted out the ballad’s refrain.
* * *
Jordan climbed the stairs to his childhood bedroom, tracing his fingertips along the familiar grooves in the railing, and knocked on the door.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah, I’m decent,” Georgie answered.
He entered his room to find her wearing his worn Superman T-shirt and perusing his bookshelf.
She looked over her shoulder. “Is your dad asleep?”
He entered the room and took in the faded comic book posters on the walls and the plastic glow
-in-the-dark stars his mother had helped him stick to his ceiling on his tenth birthday.
“Yeah, he likes to conk out in front of the TV. He’s slept in his recliner since my mom died. I got him settled, turned on the Home Shopping Network, and he was out like a light.”
She glanced down at the Superman shirt. “I hope you don’t mind.”
He shook his head. “I’m glad you found one that works—and you can never go wrong with Superman.”
Her gaze flicked to his top dresser drawer, and his heart dropped into his stomach. “You saw them.”
“I didn’t mean to. I was just looking for some shirts.”
He went to the dresser, pulled out the drawer, littered with straws and photographs of a skinny, awkward, Jordy Marks. His pulse slowed, and strangely, relief washed over him.
“I wasn’t always a Marks Perfect Ten kind of guy. At eighteen, I was six four and barely one hundred sixty pounds wet,” he said, touching the corner of his high school graduation photo.
She stood next to him, her shoulder brushing against his arm. “Why do you have so many straws?”
“That’s what the kids used to call me.”
She frowned. “Straws?”
“Yeah, it started in middle school. All the douchebag jocks would steal them from the cafeteria. They’d stuff them in my locker and throw them at me in the lunchroom.” He picked up two straws and proceeded to make them walk. “They teased me and said I walked like this. The morons weren’t clever enough to come up with anything better.”
Concern shined in her eyes. “That couldn’t have been easy to endure, but why’d you keep them?”
He stared at the frayed white paper wrapper. “I don’t know. Maybe because I needed them to be just straws, and not me.”
She took the straw from his hand and peeled back the paper, then smiled up at him. “See, you’re right. It’s just a straw.”
He cupped her cheek in his hand, gazed down at her, and couldn’t remember what life was like before this blog contest started. Everything centered around this woman, this embracer of the eights.
A little frown pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Can I show you something?”
“Sure,” he answered.
She pulled a slim wallet from her pocket then sat down on the end of his bed. “You have to promise not to laugh.”
He joined her. “I promise.”
She nodded to herself, then slipped a photo out from behind her driver’s license and handed it to him.
He gasped. “Holy hairspray! That’s you?”
She plucked the picture from his hand and pressed it to her chest. “You said you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing. It’s just…”
Georgie glanced at the image of a young girl with enough makeup spackled on her face to outdo the most dolled up newscaster by a mile.
He leaned in. “What’s the sash say?”
“Little Miss Cherry Pie. It was for some pageant at a cherry festival in Michigan.”
He tried to hold it together, but when he caught her gaze, they broke out laughing.
“You really did that “Cherry Pie” song justice tonight.” He snorted, trying to hold back a full belly laugh.
“I never realized how really dirty little miss cherry pie sounds,” she said through a bout of giggles.
“Georgie, that’s awful, but at the same time, so freaking awesome.”
“Shut up,” she said with mock incredulity, then punched him in the arm.
Jesus! It stung. She was stronger than she looked.
Laughing, he fell back onto the bed, and she joined him. They stared up at the ceiling as the giggles subsided and a peaceful quiet set in as they stared up at the plastic replica of the big dipper.
“Jordan?”
“Yeah?” he answered, savoring the calming sound of her voice.
She rolled onto her side and propped up onto her elbow. “What would you do with the prize money if you won?”
He watched her closely. “I want to start my own gym.”
Her brows knit together. “You’re not happy at Deacon CrossFit?”
Was he happy?
“Deacon has been really good to me, almost like a second father. I met him when I was just starting college, and he took me under his wing. He not only helped me transform my body but my mind. I’ll always owe him. I’ll always be grateful to him.”
She cocked her head to the side. “I feel a but coming on.”
He chuckled. “But, I want to open a gym, my own business, that encompasses more than just pumping iron. I’d like to develop a nutrition program and keep putting out guided workouts people can do at home.”
She smiled down at him, and he gasped as an idea sparked.
“What is it?” she asked.
“And I want to help kids who are bullied about their bodies. I could offer classes to children, teens, and young adults to not only help them get in shape but to also help them build self-esteem and confidence.”
“Wow,” she replied with a sweet smile as the dim lamp in the corner of the room cast her face in a warm glow, highlighting those captivating blue-green eyes.
“What about you? What would you do with the money if you won,” he asked.
“You mean when I win,” she corrected with a teasing smirk.
He rolled his eyes, and she laughed, but after a moment, her expression grew thoughtful.
“I’d sink most of the winnings into the bookshop. I’ve fallen…” She paused, and her throat constricted as she swallowed. “I mean, I’d like to expand the shop and add a children’s area.”
He reached up and wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger. “You can run storytimes for little kids and demystify Jane Austen and Shakespeare for the teenagers and I can teach them how to exercise and follow a healthy diet.”
A dreamy expression lit her features. “It would be great if we both could win.”
He stared up at the plastic stars and nodded. The strange thing was, he felt as if he already had.
A slice of comfortable silence stretched between them. She felt it, too. She had to. Whatever it was between them, it was real.
He turned to her. “Did you make an Own the Eights soul mate list?”
Her little smirk was back. “You’ve been poking around my blog.”
“Maybe just a little, but I’m curious. You’ve helped thousands of people meet their eight. I figured it had to be more than just finding a guy in a Save the Whales T-shirt.”
A sweet blush graced her cheeks. “Don’t remind me. I haven’t looked at a cucumber the same ever since that day.”
“So, yes or no, Miss Georgiana Jensen Own the Eights guru, do you have a list?”
“You mean my completely un-superficial list of meaningful, soul-connecting qualities I’d like in a mate.”
He traced his finger down her arm. “Yeah, that list.”
She released a dramatic sigh. “I’m sorry to say that item number one is to find someone who’s terrified of baby farm animals, so that disqualifies you right off the bat.”
He shook his head. “I’m only not afraid of baby goats, thanks to you, so I think I get a pass on that one.”
She raised her legs and stared up at the ruby-red heels. “Fine. You get a pass, but my soul mate can’t expect me to wear these very often.” She slipped off the sexy shoes, then gasped. “Oh no! My Birkenstocks and my cardigan!”
Shit! In the commotion of making sure she didn’t break her leg or get mauled by a herd of drunk Brice Caseys, they’d left the items at the bar.
“We could call McGuires and see if they’re still there,” he offered.
She sighed. “No, I made a shoe trade with that girl, and if I’m being honest, that cardigan had seen better days. I think I just wore it to upset my mother.”
He picked up one of the heels. “I’m not going to lie. You looked hot as hell strutting down that catwalk, but you’re so much more than just a beautiful woman. You’re smart and kind, and
I really need to thank you for what you did for my dad,” he finished, setting the heel aside.
“I think Michael Bolton was the real hero tonight,” she teased.
“Georgie…” he began, but she cut him off.
“You beared witness to Lorraine Vanderdinkle and saved me from breaking my leg while participating in a wet T-shirt contest. I told you earlier, Jordan, we’re even.”
And then he remembered, and he reached for his phone. “Actually, you’re way ahead.”
She pursed her lips. “What do you mean?”
“Barry posted some footage and linked it to your blog page.”
Georgie covered her face with her hands. “Is it awful?” she asked through her fingers.
The truth was, he didn’t know.
“I didn’t watch it yet. I just checked the score. We’re only sixty likes behind the Dannies.”
She dropped her hands. “Let’s rip the bandage off. Do it. Push play.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I need to see it, so I can start on damage control.”
He took her hand into his. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together. We’re a team.”
She tightened her grip. “Okay, I’m ready.”
He pressed play, expecting to see Georgie, but instead saw himself glaring at that loser, Brice Casey.
“If it takes a wet T-shirt contest for you to see Georgiana’s beauty, then you never deserved her!”
And there it was, preserved for all to see, the moment where he took the beer and dumped it on Brice Casey’s head. From there, the video switched to Georgie, strutting down the catwalk like she owned it until that bottle derailed her, and he was there to catch her.
He scrolled through her page. “The comments are really positive. Everyone seems cool with you entering the wet T-shirt contest and owning your femininity. They also seem to like getting a peek at your wild side,” he answered as he continued to scroll through her page, then stopped, unable to hold back a grin. “And they like us together. There’s a whole thread on what people think our kids would look like. Isn’t that crazy,” he added, now, wondering himself.
Georgie turned to him with a stunned expression. “Brice Casey was the catalyst for me starting the Own the Eights blog. I thought he really liked me for me, but he didn’t. He said people expected a certain caliber of woman as his girlfriend. He wanted a ten and told me I was an eight at best.”
Own the Eights: Own the Eights: Book One Page 14