Own the Eights: Own the Eights: Book One Read online

  Own the Eights

  Own the Eights: Book One

  Krista Sandor

  Candy Castle Books

  Copyright © 2020 by Krista Sandor

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Krista Sandor

  Candy Castle Books

  Cover Design by Marisa-rose Wesley of Cover Me, Darling

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-7330615-9-9

  Visit www.kristasandor.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Also by Krista Sandor

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Georgie: Two Years Ago

  “Are you waiting for someone?”

  Georgiana Jensen glanced up at the bartender. “Yes, I am,” she answered, then looked toward the entrance of the cozy bistro, only to find a young couple waving to a group of people at a table near the front of the restaurant.

  In the up-and-coming Tennyson neighborhood, not far from the bookstore she’d recently opened thanks to a small business loan and emptying her savings, the bistro felt like the perfect little rendezvous spot, buzzing with conversation and the possibility of new things.

  Georgie could just feel it. Her life was about to change.

  “I’m Irene,” the bartender said, brushing her bangs from her eyes.

  “Georgiana, well, Georgie is what most everyone calls me.”

  The woman nodded. “I feel like I’ve seen you around.”

  “I just moved to the area. I own the little bookstore a few blocks down.”

  Irene slapped the bar. “That’s it! Jensen’s Books, right?”

  A warmth filled her chest. “Yep, that’s my shop.”

  The bartender gestured to the cocktail napkin on the counter’s polished surface. “Are you doing okay tonight, Georgie?”

  Once a perfect, crisp square, Georgie had decimated the poor thing, working out her nervous energy, tearing and twisting the white paper into a little pile of sad confetti.

  She felt her cheeks heat. “I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

  “Blind date?” the bartender asked, brushing the white fragments into her hand.

  Georgie shook her head. “No, we met at a housewarming party last night.”

  Irene smiled. “That’s got to be a good sign to meet at a party and then make plans to see each other the next day.”

  Georgie couldn’t hold back her grin. It wasn’t just a good sign. It was perfect.

  Her mind drifted to last night. She’d arrived late to the party. It was honestly a miracle she’d gone at all. She wasn’t the party type, never had been. At twenty-five years old, she had more in common with the Golden Girls, minus Blanche, than a party girl. But when she’d bumped into an old college acquaintance earlier in the day, and the woman had insisted she come to the gathering, Georgie found herself saying yes instead of her typical no.

  And that’s where she’d met Brice Casey.

  Perfection wrapped into one man.

  They’d talked all night.

  Scratch that.

  She hadn’t talked much.

  Extremely loquacious and undeniably handsome, Brice filled the space between them with his sparkling smile and shining green eyes. He spoke of his job—he was already a VP at his father’s company at the age of twenty-nine—and he drank Manhattans, which seemed sophisticated compared to the bottle of eight-dollar Chardonnay she’d picked up on her way to the gathering.

  It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know the first thing about wine and spirits. Her Friday nights were spent baking muffins with her nose buried deep in a book as the warm, comforting scents of chocolate and cinnamon filled her modest bungalow. The fictional characters Lizzy Bennet, Jane Eyre, and Hermione Granger kept her company while the rest of the twenty-somethings scoured the clubs in search of finding the one.

  But something had made her take a chance and agree to attend this party.

  She and Brice had spoken, well, he’d spoken, for nearly two hours before the low hum of an incoming text stopped him mid-sentence, and he told her he had to leave. It did seem strange that he’d have a family emergency at quarter to one in the morning, but when he’d asked for her number and suggested they meet for drinks tonight, all her worries melted away.

  In the age of dating apps and low expectations, it seemed almost primitive that she’d met someone at an actual gathering of quasi-adults. There were a group of gentlemen doing keg stands in the small backyard, but Brice didn’t seem like those overgrown man-boys. No, Brice was going places. He’d actually told her that, several times. He’d also mentioned he was quite a catch, which he certainly seemed to be.

  Georgie released a slow breath. He must have seen something in her. This perfect man must have seen the woman behind the glasses and the messy bun. And while she hadn’t shared much about herself—she’d used the only opening in the conversation which occurred when Brice stopped talking to pop a mini quiche into his mouth, to excuse herself to use the restroom after having to pee for nearly an hour. But Brice was waiting for her with a fresh drink in his hand when she emerged, empty-bladdered.

  Come to think of it, he’d had quite a few fresh drinks while they were chatting.

  No matter.

  Tonight, she was drinking club soda. There wasn’t going to be any eight-dollar Chardonnay clouding her mind. No, if this was going to be the biggest night of her life, she wanted to remember every detail with crystal clear clarity.

  “That might be him,” the bartender said with a slight nod toward the door.

  Georgie’s pulse ratcheted up a notch. “Is it a guy?”

  “Yeah, and he’s scanning the place.”

  “Does he have perfect hair and a broad chest?”

  Irene nodded. “I’ll give you that. The hair is pretty great.”

  Georgie swallowed past the lump in her throat.

  You can do this. You’ve had hundreds, even thousands of pairs of eyes watching you. Brice Casey is one guy. You’ve got this.

  She turned on the barstool and plastered on her best beauty queen smile. She’d use every little tool in her arsenal tonight—even the ones she’d promised herself she’d never resurrect.

  Brice’s gaze passed over her once, then twice, then a third time before it landed on a group of giggling women in a booth, knocking back tequila shooters.

  “Brice! Over here!” she called and raised her hand like she was the biggest nerd in class.

  Well, she was the biggest nerd, but no bother. He’d picked her, right? This handsome man, with what he’d described as a bevy of prospects, liked her.

  He took a few steps forward and narrowed his gaze. “Virginia?”

  She looked from side to side and caught Irene’s eye. The woman grimaced then moved down
the bar to serve a hipster holding up an empty beer stein.

  “Georgiana,” she said, patting her chest as if she were introducing herself to a long-hidden away Amazonian tribe who’d never come into contact with others.

  “Georgia?” Brice said on another try.

  Holy Mary!

  “Close,” she answered, turning up the wattage on her smile. “Georgie is what most people call me. Only my mother calls me Georgiana, but we don’t have to get into her on our first date,” she added with a high-pitched laugh that sounded like a horse whinnying on helium.

  Get it together, girl!

  Brice looked her up and down. “I must have had on some serious beer goggles last night. You are not what I remember.”

  Hermione, Lizzy, and Jane, her fictional soul sisters, shook their imaginary heads and Georgie’s jaw dropped.

  She steadied herself and had a quick tête-à-tête with the fictional trifecta.

  He didn’t just say that I’d been more attractive after a few drinks, did he?

  The literary trio answered by clucking their tongues.

  She had to have misheard him.

  She tried to amp her grin up, but she’d hit deranged beauty queen, and there was no going past that.

  “You were drinking Manhattans, not beer. Remember, you told me the story about how you and your fraternity brothers drove all the way from Denver to New York to have an authentic experience ordering the drink in the real Manhattan?”

  Brice nodded, and his expression grew nostalgic. “Those, Virginia, those were good days.”

  “It’s Georgiana. Georgie,” she corrected, her smile deflating like a balloon.

  This was not the perfect date she’d envisioned.

  “I would have sworn it was Virginia,” he answered, scratching his chin.

  “No, my name’s Georgie. It always has been.”

  “You’re sure it’s not Georgia?”

  She stared into his beautiful eyes. Should she just let him call her Georgia? It was close to Georgie.

  Hermione groaned somewhere in her subconscious.

  Georgie mustered every ounce of self-worth she had. “Yes, I’m completely positive that my name is Georgiana. Well, Georgie.”

  “Really, huh? Georgie? It does sound a lot like Georgia,” he added with a slight smirk as if he’d just cured world hunger on the fly.

  She needed to change tack. “Did you want to get something to eat or maybe a drink first?”

  Brice’s gaze slid toward the table of laughing women and then back to her. “I’m going to level with you, Georgia.”

  “Georgie,” she corrected, feeling the walls closing in on her.

  He patted her shoulder with the tenderness of a salamander. “Listen, Georgia, I’m going to go. This isn’t going to work for me.”

  Georgie glanced at his hand and then to his stunning face. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  He shook his head and sighed dramatically, feigning compassion. “It’s me. It’s not you.”

  Her heart stopped beating. Okay, it didn’t stop. She was still standing, but it surely hiccupped at Brice’s words.

  “Oh, I see. I just thought because you asked to meet me tonight that we…” she trailed off, but it didn’t matter because Brice wasn’t even listening to her. His gaze was locked on the tequila shooter contingent…again.

  “Brice?” she said.

  His head snapped back, and he waved his hands. “No, I got that wrong.”

  Georgie held her breath. “You did?”

  “Yeah, I did…because it is you. You see, I’m going places, Virginia, and people expect a certain caliber of woman on my arm.”

  Caliber of woman?

  Georgie’s literary trifecta bristled.

  “Excuse me?” she bit out, the words barely a whisper.

  He took a step back and looked her up and down. “The truth is, Georgia, you’re an eight at best.”

  A flurry of judges’ scorecards and the dull ache of wearing five-inch heels for twelve hours straight washed over her.

  “An eight?” she echoed.

  “Yeah, like on a scale from—”

  She put up her hand. “Oh, I understand what you’re telling me.”

  Brice’s perfect features came together in a condescending grin. “Good, I’m glad. And you should own it, Virginia.”

  “The eight?” she shot back.

  “Sure, I mean, it won’t get you a guy like me, but there’s gotta be someone out there good with an eight.”

  The room started to spin. The lights were suddenly too bright, highlighting her every fault, her tiniest of blemishes. She could smell the Aqua Net, feel the Vaseline smeared across her teeth.

  You need to get the fuck out of there.

  Georgie blinked. Prim and proper Jane Eyre just dropped an f-bomb.

  “So, we’re good? No hard feelings, Georgia?”

  Brice Casey had a beautiful face with a strong jawline and a sweet little dimple that winked every time he cracked a smile. He smelled good, and he dressed like a GQ cover model.

  And she couldn’t be more disappointed with herself if she’d tried.

  She, more than anyone, should know better than to judge someone on their appearance. She knew the trappings of perfection all too well.

  But here’s what really stung. Brice Casey may be a first-class asshat, but she was the one who fell for his good looks, hook, line, and sinker.

  Deep in her mind, Lizzy, Jane, and Hermione were shaking their fictional heads.

  Georgie lifted her chin. “Yeah, we’re good, Brice.”

  “Ah, you’re a peach. Hey, like a Georgia peach,” he said, his eyes lighting up at his cleverness before he turned and left the bistro.

  She watched the door slam then looked over her shoulder to see Irene.

  “No dice on the date?” the woman asked with a sympathetic expression.

  “He said I was just an eight and not the caliber of girl he usually dated.”

  Irene sucked in a tight breath. “Ouch! Are you okay?”

  Georgie straightened her shoulders. “You know what? I’m fine. It just took the perfect jerk to help me see it.”

  “Girl power,” the bartender said, extending her closed hand for a fist bump.

  Georgie reciprocated. “Girl power.”

  “And you should own that eight, lady,” Irene said with a chuckle, slapping a dish towel over her shoulder.

  Georgie stilled. “That’s what he said.”

  “What? That guy?” Irene asked.

  “Yeah, he said I should own it.”

  The bartender shrugged. “Own the Eights? It is kind of catchy.”

  An idea sparked in Georgie’s mind, and her three fictional mavens shrieked with excitement.

  “It is,” Georgie answered, her thoughts racing. She glanced down at the half-empty glass, determination coursing through her veins. “What do I owe you for the club soda?”

  Irene waved her off. “On the house. An eights special.”

  Georgie grabbed her purse off the back of the stool, passed the tequila gigglers, and left the bistro. The gentle hum of the restaurant trailed behind her until all she heard were the quick snippets of conversation as she weaved her way home through couples and groups out for a night on Tennyson Street.

  Block by block, she made her way down the main drag, then headed up a tree-covered side street toward a row of sleepy bungalows. With each step, a plan, no a religion, well, not a religion in the whole holiness scheme of things, but a way of thinking percolated in her mind. A philosophy to live by that would help women ignore blinding attractiveness and weed through the GQ jerks so they could focus on what really mattered.

  Substance.

  Character.

  Kindness.

  Intelligence.

  And she was not about to keep this relationship epiphany to herself.

  “Oh, I’ll show you how to own the eights,” she said, all determination and gumption, unlocking her front door as the click
ity-clack of paws prancing on hardwood thundered toward her.

  Black and white with one ear cocked up while the other drooped down, Mr. Tuesday, her sweet mutt-du jour, met her at the door with a wet nose and a warm kiss. She scratched behind his ears, then eyed her laptop on the living room table.

  She picked up the device and settled in on the couch with Mr. Tuesday curled up next to her.

  “Maybe we should make some coffee. I have a feeling this is going to be a late night.”

  Mr. Tuesday let out a doggie sigh and closed his eyes. He wasn’t going to be any help. He still ate her shoes and never met a squirrel he wouldn’t chase. But she loved her shelter pup all the same.

  She glanced around the room. “I need to get something.”

  She set the laptop aside, went to her closet, and pulled out a worn shoebox. Opening the lid, she removed a wallet-sized snapshot and went back to the couch.

  “This will be my reminder, Mr. Tuesday,” she said, giving the picture one more look before sliding it into the back of her wallet.

  Opening her laptop, she pulled up the page for CityBeat, the internet’s mecca for lifestyle blogging. “All right, let’s do this. Enter name of blog,” she read aloud.

  Her fingertips tingled.

  “Oh, I’ve got a name for a blog. A name and a revolutionary way of thinking that will help the women of the world navigate the treacherous trail of handsome douchebags and find real, lasting love,” she said to the sweet pup, now snoring peacefully.

  She steepled her hands, cracked her knuckles, then typed three words.

  Own the Eights.

  Tagline: Why date a ten when you should marry the eight.

  She stared at the screen. “That’ll get people’s attention.”

  And with the power and determination of a woman done with the guise of perfection who was not named Virginia or Georgia, Georgiana Jensen hit enter.