Page 91 of Own the Eights Gets Married
How easy it used to be.
He’d think nothing of twining his fingers with hers or twisting a lock of her hair.
How many nights had they sat side by side, keyboards clicking away as they worked on the blog? She’d mumble under her breath. Lost in her writing and completely unaware, he could hear her debating with herself. How he’d loved listening to her—loved the confident curl to her lips when she’d come up with a catchy line or a memorable description.
And her smile. How he’d missed locking up his gym and walking the few feet to her bookshop. In those few seconds, his breath would catch in his throat, knowing the minute he opened the door to the shop, she’d gift him the sweet, loving, slightly naughty expression reserved only for him.
All those little instances, taken one by one, could be seen as fleeting or insignificant. But together, they were everything.
If she’d take him back, he’d never take those perfectly mundane moments for granted again.
“Jordan,” she called.
He blinked, having zoned out, to find the group packed into the elevator.
He wove his way in to stand next to her—their bodies millimeters apart. She wrapped her arms around her body as the elevator started its ascent, then stopped on the second floor. The occupants trailed out, leaving only the two of them when he looked down and saw the sliver of dryer lint on her hoodie.
Without thinking, he rested his hand on her shoulder and plucked the fibers.
“What are you doing?” she asked with a startle.
He held up the freeloading material. “Taking the dryer lint off your jacket.”
She glanced at her shoulder and smoothed the now lint-free fabric. “I grabbed my hoodie out of the dryer before I came here.”
Okay, they were talking—it was about dryer lint, of all things, but it was better than nothing.
He held the lint to his nose. “It smells different.”
She watched him warily. “The store was out of lemon verbena dryer sheets, so I got lavender-scented instead.”
He took another whiff. “Smells nice.”
“I like the lemon verbena better,” she replied.
“Me too,” he agreed.
She gave him a placating smile.
God, help him! He had to stop sounding like such a douche canoe!
The elevator dinged their arrival, and the doors opened.
“After you,” he said, way too enthusiastically.
Why did every word out of his mouth sound as if he were auditioning to become a game show host?
He needed a plan—a plan free of asshattery and douche canoery.
Wasdouche canoeryeven a word?
Dammit! Focus!
What were the objectives?
Ester and Simon.
They’d check on the pair and make sure they were okay, and then…shit!
