Georgie swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I blocked his number and had my friend’s husband, who is a client at the gym Jordan works at, deliver a message that I’d sic my dog on him if he tried to call me or come by the shop.”
“That dog?” her mother asked with a skeptical bend to her words.
Mr. Tuesday had curled up on the grass. Always one for a snooze, he yawned in his sleep.
She scratched between the napping dog’s ears. “He’s normally more ferocious. But here’s the thing, Mom, I made a promise to myself when I started the Own the Eights blog. I swore I wasn’t going to fall for another good-looking jerk again.”
Her mother chuckled. “Oh, Georgiana, I don’t think you fell for Jordan because he’s handsome.”
Her mother was right. She hadn’t.
Georgie glanced at the tree where she’d met Jordan and called him a supreme asshat after he’d caught her squirrel-chasing pooch.
“Even if Jordan did apologize. Even if he swore that I meant everything to him. I’m not sure what he could do to make me believe it,” she answered, her gaze still locked on the tree.
“Mrs. Vanderdinkle.”
Georgie startled, then glanced over her shoulder to see a man in a black suit.
“Yes, John. Oh, Georgie, this is John, our new driver.”
The man nodded politely. “Mr. Vanderdinkle called to remind you of your doubles tennis match with the Lockwoods this afternoon.”
“Thank you, John. I’ll just be a moment,” her mother answered, then turned to her. “I know you’ll do what’s right for you, pumpkin.”
Georgie rubbed her fingertips to her temples. “I wish I knew what that was.”
Lorraine Vanderdinkle stood and gathered her designer scarf from the bench. “You could start by getting back to your blog and possibly allowing Howard and I to buy you a Barnes and Noble. Those are bookstores, right?”
Her well-meaning socialite mother could really lighten a situation.
Georgie sighed. “I don’t think you can buy just one.”
“Would you like all of them?” her mother countered with a sly smirk.
Georgie chuckled, now understanding the kindness in her mother’s insane proposal. “No, but it’s really nice of you to offer.”
Her mother folded the scarf into a tiny square. “The CityBeat site says that they’ll be live-streaming the Denver Trot 10K tomorrow afternoon and that all the Battle of the Blog competitors will be there. Are you planning on power walking in it?”
“Yes, I’ll be there power walking,” she acquiesced as she normal-walked her mother over to the town car.
“So, you’ll see him there.”
Georgie shook her head. “Probably not. He’s Mr. In-It-To-Win-It. I’m sure he’ll fly by me and not even notice.”
Her mother took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You never know, pumpkin. It’s going to be live on the internet. Anything can happen.”
13
Jordan
Jordan entered Deacon CrossFit and stared at the empty receptionist’s desk. The desk where Shelly’s ass should be planted.
“Hey, Jordan! I didn’t expect to see you today. Don’t you have the Denver Trot 10K later on?”
He nodded to Sara, one of their best trainers, then glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a little over an hour until it starts, but I wanted to check on a few things. Why are you here?”
The gym was only open half-day on Saturdays for clients to make up missed sessions during the week and Sara hadn’t missed any of hers.
The trainer looked away. “Deac asked if I could close today.”
What the hell?
“Why can’t Shelly close? I made the damn schedule and gave you the day off because I know your kids have soccer on Saturdays.”
The woman shrugged. “I think Deacon has another assignment for Shelly.”
He nodded as a muscle ticked in his jaw. He was in no mood for this bullshit. Shelly was the damn reason he had to come in, and she was the last person he wanted to see.
The past eight days had been pure hell. He’d tried to apologize, but Georgie had cut him off, and he couldn’t blame her. So, he’d thrown himself into training and took on new clients by the dozen. And he’d stayed the hell away from the internet and the CityBeat site. Thank Christ, he hadn’t gotten any challenge texts, but he had to show up for the race.
A central principle of the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset, always finish what you start—and crush it.
Still, he did owe Georgie an apology. He wasn’t that big of a douchebag not to know that he’d hurt her. But even though Deacon’s words at the gala were harsh, the man was right. He’d gotten off track. He’d lost focus. And there was no way he was going back to a life of failure. The life of Jordy “Straws” Marks.
His head understood that it had to be this way. Unfortunately, his heart felt like it had been run through a meat grinder.
“Go ahead and take off, Sara. I can close up.”
“Thanks, Jordan. If I hurry, I can catch the end of the game,” the woman said, with a grateful expression as she picked up her gym bag and hurried out the door.
Jordan scanned the empty gym then headed back to his office. Jesus! It was a real dick move to call in Sara. What was Deacon thinking? He turned the handle and opened the door and saw precisely what Deacon was not only thinking but doing.
Namely, Shelly.
“Christ, Deac!” he exclaimed, turning away from Shelly, bent over his desk, with Deacon nailing her from behind.
He slammed the door, anger prickling through his body, and waited for the office fuck fest to end.
It didn’t take long. Barely a minute had passed before Shelly opened the door, fully dressed—thank God—and exited his office with a cotton-candy-brained giggle.
“Oops! Sorry, Jordan,” she said, blond ponytail bobbing from side to side as she grabbed her purse and left through the front door.
His anger had gone from a low simmer to a full boil when Deacon called him into the office. He entered to find the man sitting on the edge of the same desk where he was screwing their receptionist.
“Twenty-two years old, and she likes to fuck in public places. Restrooms, elevators. She’s waiting for me in the bathroom at that little bistro down the street so I can screw her brains out in one of the stalls. Do you know how much Viagra I have to take to keep up with her?” Deacon said, chuckling to himself as if he hadn’t just broken a shit ton of employment laws.
Jordan schooled his features, swallowing his revulsion. “Yeah, Deac, we need to discuss Shelly. An error came up in the payroll. Somehow, her salary tripled.”
His mentor crossed his arms. “It’s not an error.”
“She makes more than our best trainers,” Jordan threw back.
A greedy little smirk pulled at the corners of Deacon’s lips. “Well, none of those trainers can give a blow job like they were born to do it.”
Jordan took a step back. “You gave Shelly a raise because she’s good at giving head?”
Deacon narrowed his gaze. “She’s twenty-two, Jordan. She’s good at giving everything.”
Jordan looked away as disgust washed over him. What the hell had happened to the man he’d looked up to? The man he’d idolized for a decade.
He lowered his voice. “We need to talk about her salary. You can’t make a change like that and not tell me. I’m in charge of the books.”
“And it’s my goddamn gym, Jordan. Deacon CrossFit. When you get your ass in gear and start your own business, you can screw all the twenty-two-year-old receptionists you want. By the way, have you won that contest yet?”
The muscles in his chest tightened as contempt for his longtime mentor set in. But before he could answer, Deacon’s phone pinged.
Jordan crossed his arms. “Is it Shelly? Is she ready to screw you in the toilet?”
Deacon’s cocksure expression gave way to panic. “Shit! No, it’s Maureen. She’s got the girls with her. I forgot I h
ad them today.” The man set down his phone. “I need you to do me a favor, Jordan. Go up front and tell them I’m not here. Tell them…Shit! Tell them I’m on a long run with a client.”
“You haven’t trained anyone in years,” Jordan threw back.
“Just get rid of them, and I’ll add a little extra onto your salary, too,” Deac pleaded, his words as slimy as a fucking snake.
“This is bullshit,” he said, leaving the office just as Deacon’s daughters bounded through the front door, followed by their mother.
“Jordan,” the twin girls exclaimed.
They’d gotten so big. He’d started working with Deacon when they were just babies, back when his mentor worked hard at building his business and also at being a father and a husband.
When did everything change?
He smiled down at the girls. “Tell me if I get it right. You’re Mia, and you’re Mya,” he said, purposefully mixing up their names, a little game they’d been playing for years.
The identical twins giggled.
“No! I’m Mya, and she’s Mia,” Mya said, wrapping her little arms around his waist.
“I’m sure I’ll get it right someday,” he said, happy to see the girls.
“Can we climb on the big tire?” Mia asked, bouncing from foot to foot.
Jordan glanced over his shoulder at the four-hundred-pound CrossFit tractor tire they used when training clients. “Sure! Just don’t pick it up and throw it out the window.”
The girls laughed and set off to play as he greeted Maureen with a kiss to the cheek.
“How are you?” he asked.
The woman, who had been like a second mother to him, cocked her head to the side. “I should be asking you the same thing, Mr. CityBeat Battle of the Blogs.”
Heat rose to his cheeks. “You’re following that?”
“Everyone I know is following the contest. You and the Own the Eights blogger are the hottest thing on the internet.”
Georgie. Just the mention of her tightened the vice clamped around his heart.
“Yeah, that…” he answered, sure his cheeks had bloomed a bright shade of scarlet.
Maureen eyed him carefully. “You two are great together. But nobody can figure out why she’s so angry with you.”
He sighed. “It’s me. I led her on and then had to end it with her because I forgot my priorities.”
The woman frowned. “What are your priorities, Jordan?”
He was ready with his canned answer. “I’d like to start my own gym and run my own show.”
“You want to be like Deacon?” she asked, concern etched on her face.
Jordan glanced at the girls, jumping in and out of the super-sized tire, then met Maureen’s gaze. She’d supported her husband every step of the way. She’d done his books in the beginning. She’d cleaned the locker rooms and dusted the weights. She worked the front desk, even while nursing the girls. And what had Deacon done? Thrown it all away to screw twenty-two-year-olds in an elevator.
He couldn’t lie to this woman. And that’s when it hit him. His mentor was a goddamn fool. He’d had it all—a kind, loving wife and two bright, healthy girls. And he couldn’t see it. He hadn’t factored them into his definition of success. Sure, Deac was wealthy and connected, but what was all that without love?
“No,” he said in a tight whisper. “I don’t want to be like Deacon. I really screwed up with Georgie. She’s…”
“She’s what, honey?” Maureen asked, her expression softening.
He blinked back tears. Jesus! He hadn’t cried since he’d lost his mother.
He steadied himself. “She’s everything. She’s everything I never knew I needed and everything I don’t want to live without.”
How could he sell her out? This woman who’d shown him such compassion. This former Miss Cherry Pie who was always on his mind. This complex, beautiful, courageous, Birkenstock wearing, bun-sporting beauty he’d been sure was his polar opposite, an eight in his sea of tens, who’d completely changed his life.
Maureen glanced around the gym, taking in her ex-husband’s only measure of success. “You don’t get many second chances in this life, but you owe it to yourself to try. You’ll see her today, right?”
That’s right! The 10K! Thanks to Deacon’s office sexcapades debacle, he’d almost forgotten.
He checked his watch. “Yeah, I will. But I need to get to her before the race. I have to talk to her.”
“Is daddy here?” Mya chirped, breaking into their conversation.
“Yeah, Daddy had to cancel our visit last week, but he said he’d take us to the zoo today!” Mia added.
Jordan grabbed a sheet of Deacon CrossFit stationery and an envelope from the front desk and wrote the words he should have said to Deacon months ago.
I quit. Effective immediately.
He signed the brief note, folded the paper, then slid it into the envelope. He was done being Deacon Perry’s righthand man, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to lie to his children so he could go screw some college student in a bathroom.
He called the girls over. “I need to go do something important. Could you give this to your dad for me?”
Mia took the envelope. “He’s here! Daddy’s really here?”
“Yep, he’s back in the office,” Jordan answered.
Deacon was not going to be a deadbeat dad on his watch.
The girls skipped through the gym toward the back office, and he turned to Maureen.
“I can’t continue to work for Deacon.”
“I know,” she answered.
“And I hate to run out like this, but I’ve got to try and get Georgie back.”
Maureen squeezed his hand. “From the first time you set foot in the gym, all those years ago, I knew you were one of the good guys.”
“Thanks, Maureen. That means a lot coming from you.”
Her eyes shining, she gestured to the door. “Go win back your girl.”
At a speed that would have rivaled that of The Flash, he tore out of the gym and sprinted down the street. Heading straight for Georgie’s bookshop, an idea for a blog post sparked. He had to make his feelings known. He had to get his apology out there for all to see and let the world know that he loved—yes, loved—Georgiana Jensen.
When he’d wanted to be like Deacon, it wasn’t the millionaire screwing twenty-somethings he admired. It was the entrepreneur who loved his wife and daughters. His mentor may have veered off the path, but he didn’t have to sacrifice love for success. Building a life with Georgie would be all the success he’d ever need.
His pulse racing, he burst into the bookshop and caught a glimpse of a woman with a messy bun holding up a book. “Georgie! I don’t care if you sic Mr. Tuesday on me, I need to talk to you. I love you. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The woman lowered the book.
The woman was not Georgie.
“Are you having a seizure?” Becca, Georgie’s part-time employee, asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
He did feel out of his mind but in a really good way.
Mr. Tuesday came out from behind the counter, and Jordan knelt down to greet the pup.
“Sic ’em, boy,” Becca commanded.
The dog cocked his head to the side.
“Well, it was worth a shot. What do you want, Marks? We’re fresh out of the new release of How to Be a Douchebag. But, you seem to already have gotten that down.”
“Is Georgie here?” he asked, completely deserving of all the shit Georgie’s friend could dish out.
Becca narrowed her gaze. “No, she left for the race. Why are you here?”
He threw up his hands. “Did you not hear the whole I love Georgie and don’t want to live without her declaration?”
“Oh, I heard it. I also heard you threw her under the bus,” Becca answered with an epic eye roll.
He took a step forward. “I screwed up. I know, and I’m going to fix it,” he said, then glanced at the lap
top on the counter. “Is that yours?”
“The laptop?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
He moved in closer. “Can I borrow it? I need to make a blog post.”
Like a row of dominoes colliding in a long line of rapid motion, his thoughts came together, each imaginary click sparking a line of text. A manifesto. A love letter. An epiphany.
If people thought his goat revelation was touchy-feely, they hadn’t seen anything yet.
“Why the hell should I let you use my laptop?” Becca asked.
“Because I love Georgie. I do. The Marks Perfect Ten Mindset is total bullshit and I need to let the world know,” he answered, praying she’d see he wasn’t kidding.
She drummed her fingers on the counter. “Do you know that you’re all neck and neck? You, Georgie, and the Dannies are all within a few points of each other. Think about it. The money, the notoriety. If you played your cards right, it could be yours.”
He had no idea the contest was so close. But he also knew that Becca was testing him, seeing if he’d jump at the opportunity to win. He wasn’t about to fall for her trap. Nothing could change how he felt about Georgie, and he knew what he had to do.
He blew out a tight breath. “Then I really need to get this down. Can I please use your laptop? It’ll take me forever to write this hunting and pecking on my phone.”
Becca watched him for what seemed like a freaking eternity, then opened the laptop and turned it toward him. “This better be damn good.”
“Thank you,” he said, navigating to the CityBeat page.
He logged into his account and started typing.
Sixty-nine isn’t just a sex position.
“Hold up, mister!” Becca called from over his shoulder, snooping in on his post.
“It’s not what you think. Sixty-nine percent of my followers also follow Georgie. She’ll know what it means.”
“Are you also planning on doing the 10K today?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes, I have to get to her.”
Becca looked at her watch. “You better type, Marks. You’re going to be cutting it close.”
Own the Eights: Own the Eights: Book One Page 18