Page 100 of Own the Eights Gets Married
“Can I join in, Simon?” he called to the teen.
Simon glanced over his shoulder. “Sure thing, Mr. Marks!”
Georgie frowned. “What’s going on, Jordan?”
He swallowed hard, then joined the teen. “Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved,” he whispered softly, finishing the sonnet along with Simon.
“Jordan, I’m so—” she began, but he stopped her.
“Wait! Give me a chance to explain. Shakespeare is right about love. Real love is constant. It doesn’t stop when things get tough. And we love each other, Georgie. We’ve known it from the beginning. We’re supposed to be together. Our love is meant to last.” He reached into his pocket and held out the lint. “I’ve kept this with me the whole time. Smell it. It’s not the lint I just pulled off your hoodie. It’s the lemon verbena-scented lint I took before I left.”
“You’ve been carrying around the dryer lint?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes, because it reminded me of you.”
She stared at the bluish-gray fibers. “This reminded you of me?”
Dammit! This was not going the way he wanted!
“Yes, but it also reminded me I was a fool to freak out about it at wilderness boot camp. I reverted to asshattery, and you were right about me becoming the King of Crap. I turned into my worst self. I see that now. I see it so clearly, and it’s not what you deserve.”
Georgie pressed her fingertips to his lips, silencing his rant.
“What I deserve is an asshat who loves me enough to carry around my dryer lint and quote Shakespeare to me in front of the world.”
“You do?” he breathed.
“What I was going to say was that I’m so sorry,” she said gently.
He couldn’t pull his gaze from her shining blue-green eyes. “Why should you be sorry?”
“I should have trusted that we could get through anything. I should have believed in our investment in each other. I shouldn’t have decided to quit the boot camp without talking it over with you. I was mad, and I forgot how strong I was—how strong we are when we work together,” she replied, holding his gaze—her beautiful eyes imploring him to believe her.
He shook his head. “But I argued with you over the color rose and told a group of people you were a sex maniac. I let an alpaca spew all over you. And don’t forget, I lost my shit over a dryer sheet. I think you had the right to be upset,” he replied, then wanted to duct tape his mouth closed.
She patted his cheek. “You are not making a great case for yourself, Mr. Marks.”
She was right. This was it. This was his moment to set the record straight.
He steadied himself. “I love you, Georgiana. And if you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life proving to you that I will never be reckless with your heart. Please, say it’s not over.”
She nodded, mulling over his words.
“There are six things we need to discuss first,” she answered carefully.
A spark of hope ignited in his chest. “We can talk about whatever you want.”
She held his gaze as a tear slid down her cheek. “Number one, alpacas can be real asshats when they want to.”
He cupped her face in his hands. “Agreed. Total asshats.”
“Number two. You promise to always sleep with your goose down pillow and will seek appropriate medical care if you ever start snoring again.”
He nodded. “Goose down pillows for life. And I’ll keep an ear, nose, and throat doc on speed dial.”
“Three,” she stated, her tone resolute. “The wordsshit shovelwill never be spoken between us again.”
A shiver spider-crawled down his spine at the thought of that godforsaken implement of horrors.
