Own the Eights Gets Married

by Krista Sandor

  Own the Eights Gets Married

  Own the Eights: Book Two

  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 978-1-7343629-1-6

  Visit www.kristasandor.com

  Contents

  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

  The Inside Scoop

  Also by Krista Sandor

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Georgie

  “Georgie Jensen, can you share with our viewers how it all began?”

  Georgie smiled at the glossy-haired Wake-Up Denver Morning Show TV host then glanced at the cameras pointed in their direction. One would think after a whirlwind three months in the spotlight, she’d be used to the glaring lights and the bevy of how-did-you-get-here questions. She turned up the wattage on her grin, relying on her childhood days as a contestant on the beauty pageant circuit to get her through another interview when a gentle squeeze to her hand brought her back. Warmth traveled from her fingertips all the way to her chest as relief edged out anxiety and calmed her frayed nerves.

  She dialed back her deranged prom queen expression, then tightened her grip on the hand holding hers.

  “I think Jordan would agree that it all started with a dog.”

  “A dog? I thought you two met when you were paired up to compete in the CityBeat Battle of the Blogs contest back in June?” the shiny blonde replied, sharing a look with her equally shiny male counterpart.

  “No, Georgie’s right! It all started with a runaway mutt named Mr. Tuesday,” came the deliciously sexy voice of her boyfriend and co-creator of their joint blog, More Than Just a Number, Jordan, no longer a perfect ten, Marks.

  Jordan ran his thumb over her knuckles, and a tingle that wasn’t made for morning TV traveled down her spine and landed squarely in her lady parts.

  “The day we learned we were chosen to compete for a spot as a paid contributor on the CityBeat lifestyle blog site, I’d gone for a run, and Georgie was out chasing down her dog,” Jordan added.

  She chuckled. “I’d forgotten to attach the leash to Mr. Tuesday’s collar, and he took off toward the park.”

  Jordan laced their fingers together, reigniting that zing of a tingle.

  “Georgie was yelling at the top of her lungs and demanded I help her catch her dog.”

  She scoffed. “I didn’t demand you help me.”

  “You did,” he answered with a cocky smirk that damn near melted her panties.

  Georgie held her boyfriend’s gaze as the characters from her three favorite books, her imaginary literary trifecta, Lizzy Bennet, Jane Eyre, and Hermione Granger, swooned in her head.

  Once upon a time, her CrossFit guru boyfriend blogged about striving to be a perfect ten in his Marks Perfect Ten Mindset blog.

  But not anymore.

  Jordan Marks had significantly veered away from the perfection-or-bust mantra he’d preached in his debunked philosophy.

  Now, that didn’t mean he’d abandoned his fitness regime and his goal of helping others follow a healthy lifestyle. Thanks to the prize money they’d won, he’d opened a gym right next door to her bookshop. Between him training clients and her spouting the genius of Jane Austen or reading aloud to children in the shop’s newly added kids’ section, they collaborated on their joint More Than Just a Number blog. Here, they offered a measured approach to relationships, fitness, and a myriad of other lifestyle topics. And to say the blog was a success would be the understatement of the century.

  Every day, the offers rolled in.

  Advertisers. Book deals. Speaking tours. Interviews. Product endorsements.

  During the CityBeat Battle of the Blogs, she and Jordan had been splashed all over the internet’s top blogging site. Millions of people across the globe had tuned in to watch them not only compete but go from being enemies to lovers in real-time.

  She still maintained her Own the Eights blog. However, after joining forces with Jordan on their new endeavor, her blog had morphed into more of a book club only site where she chatted online with literary enthusiasts and led a monthly book discussion. To her surprise, in only a matter of months, she’d garnered nearly as many followers as Oprah’s behemoth of a book club.

  It was no joke. Their lives had completely changed the moment they’d learned the blog battle they thought they’d been competing in had been a giant ruse to catch two cheating fraudulent sibling bloggers, known on the CityBeat site as the Dannies.

  In the end, she and Jordan were brought on as paid contributors and were crowned the winners, and not just for the contest but in the game of love as well.

  A romance fit to be made into a movie? Yep, they’d even received offers for that.

  A naughty spark glinted in her boyfriend’s eyes. “The day we met, I helped Georgie corral her pup and then we parted ways, but not before she called me an—”

  Georgie pressed her hand to Jordan’s lips, silencing him but not dampening the playful twinkle in his gaze.

  “It’s safe to say it wasn’t love at first sight,” she finished, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment.

  She’d called him an asshat, which, at that point, he was. He’d grumbled about helping her, insulted her beloved Birkenstock sandals, and was a giant, well, asshat, when he spouted that dog leashes worked better when actually attached to dog collars.

  But it wasn’t just that. She remembered every second of their first encounter.

  All bare-chested and glistening with sweat and looking like a photoshopped fitness god, Jordan Marks had been the epitome of everything she’d preached about avoiding.

  A little over two years ago, after a date from hell when a handsome creep named Brice Casey told her he could only date a perfect ten and that she was an eight at best, she’d become a woman on a mission.

  A mission to help others avoid the pitfalls of looks and status and focus on the attributes that really mattered. Substance. Character. Kindness. Intelligence. She’d deemed these the qualities of a solid, reliable eight. And thus, the Own the Eights blog was born.

  The shiny male morning show host tapped his chin. “So, Georgie, when you learned you would have to team up with Jordan to compete in the CityBeat Battle of the Blogs contest, I’m assuming you weren’t excited.”

  Jordan chuckled. “She was the opposite of excited. That’s when Georgie anointed me the Emperor of—”

  Again, Georgie pressed her hand to Jordan’s mouth.

  The Emperor of Asshattery.

  That’s what she’d dubbed him.

  And, again, it was a spot-on description in the beginning.

&
nbsp; Georgie schooled her features, determined to get them back on track. “I was absolutely floored and completely mortified that I was going to have to team up with the asshat I’d met in the park a few hours earlier.”

  Jordan chuckled and shook his head.

  She gasped and pressed her hand to her chest. “Did I just say asshat?”

  “Yep, and now you’ve said it twice on a live morning show,” Jordan answered, biting back a grin.

  “That’s the Wake-Up Denver Morning Show,” the female host chirped as if on cue.

  Georgie stared at the frozen perma-grins plastered across the hosts’ faces as her trifecta cringed.

  Would she ever be camera-ready? Would this life of fame and notoriety ever feel normal?

  “Moving on,” the male host replied, rustling a pile of papers. “It says here that you two are quite involved in the community and have an event coming up.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. There was no chance of dropping another asshat bomb now.

  “We sure do,” Jordan answered, then gave her hand another gentle squeeze.

  “Yes, we’ve partnered with area rec centers to put on an event combining literacy and physical fitness. Many Denver high schools require students to memorize and recite one of Shakespeare’s sonnets or a passage from one of his plays. We asked the schools to give their students the option of signing up for our event. Here, they’ll compete in a 5K run and then recite their piece to judges, stationed at tables past the finish line,” she answered, sounding a little less moronic.

  “We’re calling it The Shakespeare Shuffle, and it’s only a couple weeks away,” Jordan finished.

  Okay, now they were back on track.

  They’d worked hard putting the event together, and, as their first major project with the More Than Just a Number blog, their reputations were resting on it being a success.

  The shiny lady host turned to the camera and flashed her pearly whites. “Running and reciting Shakespeare! It sounds like the perfect combination. Stay close, and we’ll be back after the break with more from your favorite blogger sweethearts, Jordan Marks and Georgie Jensen.”

  “And, we’re clear,” a producer called. “Two minutes and thirty seconds until we’re back live, people.”

  Georgie slumped against the sofa and stared down at Jordan’s hand still clasped around hers. “I think I’m getting better at these things,” she teased.

  Jordan lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. “You’ve certainly broadened the vocabulary of any kid listening.”

  She brightened up. “As a bookshop owner, I am all for increasing one’s vocabulary.”

  “Then you’ve succeeded,” Jordan answered with that smarty-pants grin she’d grown to love.

  She took in the studio, bustling with activity. “And, we’ll probably get emails.”

  “We always get emails,” he answered.

  “Not with asshat in the subject line,” she replied.

  “How about this? As the reigning Emperor of Asshattery, I’ll personally field those messages.”

  And just like that, it was the two of them, cocooned in their love as a tornado of activity swirled around them.

  “Have I told you how much I love you?” she asked.

  He leaned in. “You were screaming my name this morning. So, I’d say you were pretty clear you like having me around.”

  Her slight blush from the asshat mishap deepened to a full crimson flush.

  “Jordan, you can’t say that here!” she whisper-shouted.

  He stroked his thumb across her knuckles, then gestured with his chin as a production assistant zoomed past them.

  “For once, we don’t seem to be the center of attention. We should do the news more often.”

  She glanced over at the morning show hosts, surrounded by assistants and makeup people.

  Jordan was right. No one seemed concerned with them at all.

  A sly smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “I distinctly remember you using some very colorful language yourself this morning.”

  His gaze grew carnal. “I am the reason you’ve got sex hair today.”

  She twisted a loose lock of hair that had fallen free of her messy bun. “I tried to take a shower, but then this sex god joined me under the spray.”

  “Sex god, huh?” he said, his voice sending another tantalizing tingle down her spine.

  “Oh, yes! You see, I’m a dirty, dirty girl, and I couldn’t resist him. Before I knew it, I was down on my knees—”

  “Miss Jensen!” someone called.

  Her head whipped toward the sound as a young man wearing a pair of headphones and carrying a clipboard sprinted over to the couch.

  He pointed to her chest and blushed. “You’re hot.”

  “What did you say to Georgie?” Jordan asked with a hardened expression.

  The kid shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Hot! Miss Jensen is hot!”

  “Who the hell are you?” Jordan pressed.

  “I’m Cooper, sir.”

  Jordan held the man’s gaze. “Do you have a death wish or like getting your ass kicked, Cooper?”

  She was wondering the same thing. The poor guy looked barely old enough to get into a bar, let alone hit on her with her boyfriend right there.

  The color drained from the man’s face. “The mic she’s wearing. Well, the mics that both of you are wearing. They’re on. They’re hot. Anyone with a headset can hear you.”

  Georgie cringed. “Wait a second. You heard me say the thing about the shower?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, seventeen of us heard.”

  She turned to Jordan. “Oh, my God!”

  “You’ve been saying that a lot this morning,” he teased as his anger dissolved into amusement.

  Georgie cupped her hand over Jordan’s mic and pressed her other palm against her own. “What will they think?”

  Jordan shrugged. “At least everyone here knows we like each other.”

  “Yes, but.” She glanced up at Cooper, then scanned the studio, counting the number of people wearing headsets.

  Yep, it was seventeen.

  She took in the group, throwing quick glances their way.

  “I think everyone is looking at my hair.”

  The production assistant nodded. “They are. We heard you mention sex hair and wondered if we should send hair and makeup over to you. We don’t get a lot of sex hair on the morning show. We’re mostly PG around here.”

  “Look at that, messy bun girl, you’ve sexed up morning TV,” Jordan replied with that damned cocksure grin in place.

  “It’s Wake-Up Denver,” came a chorus of startling voices.

  “They can still hear me?” she asked, glancing wildly back and forth.

  “The mics are really sensitive,” Cooper offered apologetically.

  “Thirty seconds, folks. If we’re going to address the sex hair, it needs to happen now,” the producer announced.

  Holy hot mics!

  Georgie sunk into the couch cushion, praying it would swallow her whole.

  First, she dropped asshat on live TV. And now, the entire morning show crew knew she had dirty girl sex that had left her with sex hair.

  A woman carrying a makeup bag crammed with brushes and beauty supplies rushed to the set.

  Georgie touched her bun then tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I think I look all right,” she said as the woman stared at her bun and frowned.

  “Twenty seconds. Places, people.”

  The makeup lady skittered off the set as the hosts took their seats at the desk, looking even shinier than before.

  Georgie tried to compose herself. All they had left to do was a segment where she would talk about the Own the Eights book of the month. Then, Jordan would take over and dole out a few tips on exercising outdoors.

  She tucked another loose tendril of hair behind her ear as the producer started counting down.

  “In ten, folks.”

  She turned
to Jordan, who’s expression had done a one-eighty.

  His confident smirk had disappeared, and his knee bounced as if he were a naughty schoolboy, waiting to see the principal.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered.

  “Nine,” the producer called.

  Jordan nodded, then glanced off stage where Bobby Chen and Hector Garcia, the CityBeat lifestyle blog founders, now stood.

  What were they doing here?

  “Eight.”

  She and Jordan had grown close with the tech power couple over the last few months, but there was no need for them to show up for this interview.

  And then Georgie’s stomach dropped.

  Hector and Bobby were known for adding a little twist or a touch of flair to any CityBeat related event. And they loved a good story. Especially something juicy for all the CityBeat subscribers to sink their virtual teeth into.

  “Seven.”

  And it wasn’t just Hector and Bobby waiting in the wings. Barry, one of the CityBeat producers, was with them. She shielded her face and caught his eye through the bright lights. He gave her a thumbs-up with one hand while holding his phone with the other, which was, most likely, livestreaming to the main CityBeat page.

  “Six.”

  She patted Jordan’s arm. “Bobby, Hector, and Barry are here.”

  Jordan swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Five.”

  She turned to the hosts. “Are we getting punked? Is that even a thing anymore?” she asked the hosts, who, in return, greeted her with plastic camera-ready smiles.

  “Four.”

  A series of rapid clattering clicks off set caught her attention. She did a double take as her friend and bookshop employee Becca Murphy joined the CityBeat trio and had Mr. Tuesday with her.

  “Why is Becca here with our dog?” she whisper-shouted to her boyfriend, then glanced around. “And why the hell is everyone smiling at us like a bunch of creepy wax figures?”