Own the Eights Gets Married - Krista Sandor Page 0,2
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,