Page 98 of Own the Eights Gets Married
“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.
