Own the Eights Gets Married

by Krista Sandor

  “I do,” he answered, conviction lacing the words.

  Simon chuckled. “You’re going to be saying that again soon, Mr. Marks.”

  Jordan frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I do,” the teen tossed back with a twinkle in his eyes.

  Jordan nodded, praying the uncertainty churning in his belly wasn’t apparent on his face.

  How he hoped Simon was right.

  He glanced around, looking for Georgie, and instead found a crew of people in CityBeat T-shirts heading their way. Barry emerged from the pack and jogged up to them.

  “Everything looks great! Hector and Bobby wanted us to make sure and get plenty of footage.”

  Jordan shook his head. Christ, the irony! Last time he’d run a race, he’d been in a world of shit with Georgie, and CityBeat had been there to record and livestream their reconciliation.

  That had turned out for the best. He’d spilled his guts in front of the world, proclaimed his love, denounced his asshattery, and got the girl!

  A wave of hope washed over him, tamping down his nerves until the cold, hard punch of reality knocked away any temporary relief.

  This was different. This time, everything—their careers and their relationship—was on the line.

  “Mr. Marks, it’s almost go-time,” Simon said, then gestured to a large digital clock as the crowd called out the countdown.

  Five.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  The race horn cut through the air, and the pack took off.

  “Let’s go!” he said, as he and Simon wove through the pack of runners.

  The pound and grind of hundreds of sneakers eating the pavement rumbled around them. Simon held his own, meeting him stride for stride as they pushed to the front of the pack.

  “Are you ready to hit our personal best speed?” he asked the boy.

  “Let’s do it,” Simon huffed between tight breaths.

  They kicked up their pace, passing clusters of participants. His arms sliced through the air, driving him forward as the kid maintained top speed next to him.

  1K down.

  2K down.

  3K.

  4K.

  As they passed the signs, marking their progress, Jordan watched from the corner of his eye as Simon lifted his chin, growing more confident with every stride until they approached the jocks.

  “You’ve got this, Simon,” he said under his breath as one of the kids glanced at them.

  “Hey, check out Bacon Bits!” the guy blurted out like a true meathead.

  Bacon Bits? Jesus! Jordan thought back to his stupid nickname, Straws. It looks like the jock squad hadn’t gotten more creative since his days brushing off taunts. He glanced over at Simon, ready to give the kid a pep talk but found him smiling.

  Without missing a beat, Simon dialed up his pace. “Looks like you’re getting passed by Bacon Bits, asshat,” Simon called as they sailed by the group of speechless athletes.

  Jordan bit back a grin.

  “Sorry about the language, Mr. Marks,” the kid panted.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” he answered, tossing Simon a wink when the hum of what sounded like a weed whacker on steroids rang out from behind.

  Was some asshat riding a motorbike in the race?

  He glanced over his shoulder to find—not an asshat—but Georgie!

  With her hair streaming around her shoulders and determination written all over her face, she snaked her way through the herd of runners, nearly taking out one of the jock brigade, while vrooming the peewee engine of a cotton candy electric pink scooter.

  “Jordan, it’s not over!” she called, waving, then almost wiping out before gaining control of the tiny motorized skateboard.

  “What are you doing, Georgie?” he asked as she zoomed up alongside of them.

  “I needed to tell you something, so I decided to run the race with you guys,” she answered over the buzz of the sputtering engine.

  “But you’re on a scooter, Miss Jensen,” Simon bit out.

  “I know! Isn’t it great? I borrowed it from a little girl. No meandering run pace for me today! Now, I can keep up,” she answered, vrooming the grip and nearly eating it again.

  Holy hell! He couldn’t believe nobody had stopped her. Then again, Georgie Jensen on a mission was nothing to mess with.

  “What do you mean, it’s not over?” he asked.

  “I mean—” she began, but Simon cut in.

  “Miss Jensen is right! It’s not over. It’s time to take it up into high gear,” the teen panted.

  The finish line came into sight, and he glanced over at the kid. “Are you ready to take first place?”

  “We’re in the lead?” Simon breathed, glancing around wide-eyed.

  Jordan dialed back his pace. “We are. Run past the tape. It’s all you.”

  “No, Mr. Marks, let’s finish together,” Simon replied, red-cheeked and smiling ear to ear.

  “You got it,” he answered, so damn proud of this kid.

  He glanced over at Georgie and found her blinking back tears.

  Was she talking about the race or their relationship?

  Of course, she wanted to be here for Simon. But the skip in his heart couldn’t help hoping she was there for him, too.

  He glanced at the still smiling Simon.

  “Let’s do this!” he called, adrenaline pumping through his veins as they cranked it up to a full-out sprint and broke the race tape.

  “We did it!” Simon cried, gasping for breath as they slowed down.

  Jordan shook his head. “One more hurdle, kid,” he replied, catching his breath and gesturing toward the tables staffed by teachers.

  “The sonnet,” Simon breathed.

  Georgie cut the scooter’s motor and removed the pink unicorn helmet. “You’re ready. You can do it, Simon.”

  “Do you think so?” he asked, his cheeks going from pink to white.

  “I know you can,” she replied, squeezing his hand.

  “Simon!” came Talya’s voice as she ran toward them with a sour-faced girl running behind.

  “Can I get my scooter back, lady?” the girl, who couldn’t be much more than ten, asked with a pinched expression.

  “Sorry, Miss Jensen! This girl recognized me from volunteering in the bookshop and asked if I’d help her get her scooter back.”

  “Thanks for letting me use it,” Georgie said, handing over the helmet.

  “You didn’t ask. You grabbed my helmet off the sidewalk, strapped it on your head, and then told me you’d give me a whole tube of cookie dough if I let you ride my scooter,” the kid shot back, not amused.

  “It was important for me to catch up with these guys, but I didn’t give you much choice, did I?” Georgie replied with a nervous chuckle.

  The girl grabbed her scooter. “I know you’re the bookshop lady, and you better believe I’ll be coming for your cookie dough.”

  “Don’t you worry. It’ll be there for you,” Georgie answered.

  The girl made one of those I’ll-be-watching-you gestures then kick-started the little scooter like a member of the fifth-grade version of Hells Angels and sped off down the street.

  Jordan stared in awe at his scooter-swiping fiancée—well, hopefully still his fiancée. But before he could say anything, Talya clapped her hands excitedly.

  “It’s sonnet time! Are you ready?” she asked Simon.

  The kid nodded. “I’ve never been more ready in my life.”

  “You’re going to be so epic,” she cooed.

  “It’s totally epic that you’re here,” Simon replied.

  Jordan cleared his throat, cutting through the epic amount of teen hormones. “It would be really epic if you won the race and aced the sonnet. You should get to it.”

  “Right!” Simon answered, snapping back.

  Talya and Simon jogged over to the table staffed with retired teachers, and Jordan exhaled a shaky breath a
s Simon’s voice carried over to them.

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.

  “He sounds good,” Georgie said with a nod toward the teen.

  Jordan watched as she wiped a tear from her cheek. Was she just emotional to see Simon win and complete the recitation, or was it more?

  And what the hell was he supposed to say?

  I’m sorry?

  Please, don’t say it’s over?

  I’ve been carrying around your dryer lint for weeks?

  No, none of it was right. None of that got to the heart of what he wanted to convey.

  Simon’s voice grew louder.

  Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds,

  Or bends with the remover to remove…

  Simon’s recitation of Shakespeare’s sonnet on the definition of love was the answer.

  He took Georgie’s hands into his, listening as the teen continued.

  Oh, no! It is an ever-fixed mark.

  Mark! It was a sign. This was what he needed to say to the woman he loved. He stared into Georgie’s eyes as Simon continued.

  That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

  it is the star to every wandering bark,

  whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

  Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

  within his bending sickle’s compass come…

  “What are you doing?” Georgie whispered, her gaze bouncing between him and Simon.

  “Can I join in, Simon?” he called to the teen.

  Simon glanced over his shoulder. “Sure thing, Mr. Marks!”

  Georgie frowned. “What’s going on, Jordan?”

  He swallowed hard, then joined the teen. “Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved,” he whispered softly, finishing the sonnet along with Simon.

  “Jordan, I’m so—” she began, but he stopped her.

  “Wait! Give me a chance to explain. Shakespeare is right about love. Real love is constant. It doesn’t stop when things get tough. And we love each other, Georgie. We’ve known it from the beginning. We’re supposed to be together. Our love is meant to last.” He reached into his pocket and held out the lint. “I’ve kept this with me the whole time. Smell it. It’s not the lint I just pulled off your hoodie. It’s the lemon verbena-scented lint I took before I left.”

  “You’ve been carrying around the dryer lint?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, because it reminded me of you.”

  She stared at the bluish-gray fibers. “This reminded you of me?”

  Dammit! This was not going the way he wanted!

  “Yes, but it also reminded me I was a fool to freak out about it at wilderness boot camp. I reverted to asshattery, and you were right about me becoming the King of Crap. I turned into my worst self. I see that now. I see it so clearly, and it’s not what you deserve.”

  Georgie pressed her fingertips to his lips, silencing his rant.

  “What I deserve is an asshat who loves me enough to carry around my dryer lint and quote Shakespeare to me in front of the world.”

  “You do?” he breathed.

  “What I was going to say was that I’m so sorry,” she said gently.

  He couldn’t pull his gaze from her shining blue-green eyes. “Why should you be sorry?”

  “I should have trusted that we could get through anything. I should have believed in our investment in each other. I shouldn’t have decided to quit the boot camp without talking it over with you. I was mad, and I forgot how strong I was—how strong we are when we work together,” she replied, holding his gaze—her beautiful eyes imploring him to believe her.

  He shook his head. “But I argued with you over the color rose and told a group of people you were a sex maniac. I let an alpaca spew all over you. And don’t forget, I lost my shit over a dryer sheet. I think you had the right to be upset,” he replied, then wanted to duct tape his mouth closed.

  She patted his cheek. “You are not making a great case for yourself, Mr. Marks.”

  She was right. This was it. This was his moment to set the record straight.

  He steadied himself. “I love you, Georgiana. And if you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life proving to you that I will never be reckless with your heart. Please, say it’s not over.”

  She nodded, mulling over his words.

  “There are six things we need to discuss first,” she answered carefully.

  A spark of hope ignited in his chest. “We can talk about whatever you want.”

  She held his gaze as a tear slid down her cheek. “Number one, alpacas can be real asshats when they want to.”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “Agreed. Total asshats.”

  “Number two. You promise to always sleep with your goose down pillow and will seek appropriate medical care if you ever start snoring again.”

  He nodded. “Goose down pillows for life. And I’ll keep an ear, nose, and throat doc on speed dial.”

  “Three,” she stated, her tone resolute. “The words shit shovel will never be spoken between us again.”

  A shiver spider-crawled down his spine at the thought of that godforsaken implement of horrors.

  “Agreed. From this moment forward, we are firmly on team toilet,” he answered, somewhat aware of the muffled laughter around them. But it didn’t matter. Georgie was here—with conditions—and he was ready to agree to all of her terms.

  “Four,” she continued. “Lemon verbena will become the official scent of the More Than Just a Number blog.”

  He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “It was my favorite even before I knew what it was.”

  Georgie released a shaky breath. “Five, and this one is tough for me, but I’m a strong woman, and I can accept the truth, no matter how hard it may be.”

  Nothing moved. It was as if the universe itself were bracing for Georgie’s stipulation. But, good God! What could she be talking about?

  She lifted her chin. “Number five, the color rose is kind of pink—even though it is its own color and holds its own on the color spectrum.”

  He gasped. “Really? It is pink? It looks pink to someone not versed in nuanced color shades. Then again, it could be me. Should we have my vision tested? It could be that,” he rambled, then shut his damn mouth, again, wishing for some duct tape, when she turned on the stink eye.

  “Kind of pink,” she said, lowering her voice.

  Point taken.

  He nodded, getting the message loud and clear.

  “Okay, I agree. Rose is kind of pink but still a solid color all on its own. And six,” he pressed—so ready to put these two weeks of hell behind him and move forward with the love of his life.

  “Six is about time,” she said as another tear trailed down her cheek.

  “What about it?” he whispered.

  “Time is precious. It’s the most valuable thing we have, and I want to spend as much of it as humanly possible with you. We’re not over. We’ll never be over. The Emperor and Empress of Asshattery have a long reign ahead of them,” she finished, gazing up at him.

  A rush of gratitude coupled with an unwavering love for this beautiful, intelligent, driven woman washed over him.

  He sank onto one knee, blinking back tears. “I did this all wrong the first time. I thought proposing on TV would be romantic. I had no idea everything would turn into a circus. All I want in this world is to walk through it with you. Georgiana Jensen, we don’t need the cameras and the fame and the notoriety. Between you and me, right here, right now, I am asking you to marry me.” He glanced at his watch. “In four hours and forty-seven minutes.”

  A heartfelt chorus of sighs erupted around them.

  He held Georgie’s gaze. “Are there a bunch of people watching us?”

  She looked from side to side. “Yep.”


  “Are they recording us with their phones?” he continued.

  She nodded. “Along with a couple of news crews and Barry.”

  “Hey, guys! This is some great stuff,” the CityBeat producer chimed through a sob.

  “So, what do you say? Are you ready to join the Empire of Asshattery to rule the blogosphere together?” he asked, unbothered by the spectators because only one person mattered now.

  The one person who always mattered.

  Georgie parted her lips, but before she could answer, a horn rang out, playing the first four notes of “Here Comes the Bride.”

  They looked up to see a giant RV with Acme Pet Grooming Mobile painted along the side.

  The tinted driver’s side window cracked an inch.

  “Jensen and Marks, get in,” came a woman’s commanding voice with a thick German accent.

  13

  Georgie

  “We have the assets. Let’s move,” the wedding frau said to the driver of the enormous vehicle.

  “Mrs. Lieblingsschatz, what is all this?” Georgie asked, climbing the few steps into the mobile pet grooming RV.

  Dressed in her signature black, the frau gestured to a sofa. Georgie and Jordan sat on plush cushions in what looked nothing like the interior of a mobile pet grooming vehicle.

  “This is crazy,” Jordan said under his breath, glancing around at the marble flooring and sleek cabinetry in what could only be described as the most luxurious recreational vehicle on the planet.

  “Is that a fireplace and wine chiller?” Georgie asked, hardly able to believe her eyes.

  The frau huffed. “Of course, there’s a wine chiller! You can’t drink champagne at room temperature.”

  “What is all this?” Jordan questioned, tapping a computer screen built into the wall only to have his hand smacked away by a miffed German wedding planner.

  “This is the last resort,” the frau answered.

  The woman pressed an icon on the screen, and an actual table rose from the floor while the mobile mansion’s engine purred as the RV merged into traffic.

  The frau settled herself into a posh club chair across from them. “Do you know what my marriage success rate is?”

  Georgie shared a look with Jordan. “Pretty high,” she guessed.

  “It’s one hundred percent,” the frau replied, crossing her arms.