Own the Eights Gets Married - Krista Sandor Page 0,24

there’s no way you could get me near a porcelain doll,” Irene whispered with a sage nod.

“And what about bridesmaids?” Becca asked with her sly grin back in place.

Georgie pinned the woman with her gaze. “Is that your not-so-subtle way of asking if you’ll be in the wedding?”

“Come on, Georgie! It’s not every day your famous friend gets married.” Becca huffed.

“I’m hardly famous, you guys,” Georgie answered.

“Fine, infamous! Do you like that better?” Irene teased.

Georgie chuckled and shook her head. “Yes, I’d love for you both to be my bridesmaids.”

The sisters squealed and hugged each other.

“I knew it!” Becca exclaimed. “Seriously, Georgie, where would you be without us?”

Becca was teasing, but her friend’s words went straight to her heart.

While she’d only known the sisters a couple of years, they’d become an integral part of her life.

Georgie reached for Becca and Irene’s hands. “I’d probably be working some job I hate to pay the bills. If it weren’t for you two, I don’t know where I’d be.”

“And don’t forget the giant douche canoe, Brice Casey. You do kind of owe him, too,” Irene reminded her.

Georgie released her friends’ hands and leaned against the counter. “Isn’t it crazy. If I hadn’t agreed to meet Brice for a date, and he hadn’t told me he couldn’t date me because I was an eight, I probably wouldn’t have even started my blog—or met you, Irene. And then you wouldn’t have introduced me to Becca.”

“The universe works in mysterious ways,” Becca said, nodding with an overdone contemplative expression.

“Any muffins in this universe?”

Becca gasped, dropping the theatrics. “Mr. Gilbert, I’m sorry! We got to talking, and I forgot about the muffins,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and placing the baked treats onto a large plate.

“Did Marjorie send you up here?” Georgie asked, eyeing the man.

“What?” he answered with a mischievous grin as he pressed a hand to his ear.

Georgie clucked her tongue playfully. “I see you’re playing the my-hearing-aid-is-on-the-fritz game again.”

She’d known Gene Gilbert and his wife Marjorie for her entire life. Friends of her deceased grandparents, she’d always thought of them as family. Gene, however, was quite a sly dog. His hearing aid batteries would often run out of juice at the exact moment when he and his wife were due to meet up in her bookshop with Marjorie’s knitting club, who, on a side note, also enjoyed ogling Jordan.

She wasn’t sure who was more excited when Jordan opened his gym next door. Her, or the horny blue-haired brigade as Gene now called the gaggle of octogenarians, currently settled in the cozy seating area near the shop’s front window.

Becca hurried off to deliver the muffins to the ladies, and Mr. Gilbert settled himself on one of the stools she’d had installed in the new coffee shop area of the bookstore.

Gene glanced around the bustling space as shoppers perused the shelves. “You’ve come a long way, kiddo.”

She followed his lead and took in the shop. Six months ago, she wasn’t even sure she would be able to keep the lights on, but now, it seemed like all her dreams had come true. But a needling pang of anxiety festered in her chest.

“Don’t do that, Georgie,” Mr. Gilbert warned.

She tried to school her features. “Do what?”

“Get all worried.”

“What makes you think I’m worried?” she asked, knowing that was probably the question every worried person threw back when they were attempting to seem unbothered.

Good God, though! After today’s wedding bonanza, she was surprised she was still standing.

“Your grandmother Jensen used to do that, too. When things were going well, she’d get nervous and drive your grandfather bonkers,” Mr. Gilbert offered.

Georgie swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I never expected so much so fast.”

The man chuckled. “All I can tell you is that life moves fast, and I have to say, watching you get engaged on morning TV was quite an experience. But I guess all the kids your age are TV stars these days with the internet. Do you know, there’s a fellow who films himself eating beans every morning?”

A peaceful warmth washed over her. A conversation with her favorite eighty-year-old was just what the doctor ordered to calm her frayed nerves.

She dusted a few muffin crumbs into her hand. “I did not know that.”

“Beans, Georgiana!” Gene exclaimed as she caught Irene’s eye, and the women stifled a laugh.

“That reminds me,” Irene said, glancing at her watch. “I need to stop at the market for beans. We’re making chili for dinner tonight.”

“Are you going