Page 90 of Own the Eights Gets Married
Jordan
Jordan sprinted through the sliding doors of the bustling hospital lobby and frantically gazed from side to side then stopped dead in his tracks.
With her hair twisted into a messy bun and wearing her running clothes, he stared at Georgie’s back as she spoke to a nurse at the information desk. Unable to move, he watched her start toward the elevators. But after a few steps, she stilled.
Could she feel his presence?
Did she miss him as much as he missed her?
She had his heart. Could she still trust him with hers?
Emotion clogged his throat, and he forced himself to swallow. Every cell in his body screamed for him to run to her and take her into his arms. But he didn’t move—not one damn muscle.
Turn around.
Turn around.
His mind went to the fictional characters Lizzy Bennet, Jane Eyre, and Hermione Granger—Georgie’s trifecta. The literary trio she’d held dear to her heart since she was a girl.
“Ladies, I could use your help,” he whispered.
Was it insane to call upon his fiancée’s fictional besties?
Sure.
Was he up for trying anything?
Oh, hell yes!
He held his breath as the trifecta came through and watched as, slowly, Georgie turned to face him.
He raised his hand in a moronic hey-there-hi-there idiotic wave and felt his cheeks heat.
Get it together, Marks!
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and manufactured an uneasy smile.
Of course, she’d be apprehensive!
He was the Emperor of Asshattery, who decided to throw down over the color rose. He was the Sovereign of Scat who turned a wilderness boot camp laundry sheet flub into an alpaca-sized fiasco.
She glanced around nervously, then started toward him. He met her halfway as her gaze traveled to a spot somewhere beyond his shoulder.
“Esther texted and asked me to come. She wrote that she had a pretty bad asthma attack last night, and the doctors kept her overnight,” she said with the hint of a shake to her voice.
He nodded, wanting so badly to take her hands into his, but tried to remain composed. “Yeah, she texted me, too, but she didn’t tell me why she was here. Just that she needed me to come to the hospital.”
Georgie nodded. “She’s on the fifth floor in the pulmonary unit.”
He took a step toward her. “Georgie, I—”
She raised her hands defensively. “Jordan, let’s get through this for Esther and Simon, okay?”
Jesus! She was right. What was he going to do? Spill his guts right here while a sick old lady and her frazzled grandson waited for them?
“You’re right,” he agreed, forcing his hands to remain at his sides.
He gestured with his chin toward the bank of elevators and stayed half a step behind her as they joined a cluster of medical staff waiting to go up. He couldn’t walk next to her and risk the familiar urge to take her hand into his.
