Own the Eights Gets Married - Krista Sandor Page 0,56
phone,” Georgie said, pointing to the forgotten device in the teen’s hand and praying they were done dropping the word epic.
“Right!” He glanced at the phone, then frowned. “It’s my grandma. She says she needs me.”
“Is she okay?” Talya asked.
The teen shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You better go,” Georgie said, patting his shoulder. “And if you or your grandma need anything, reach out to—”
“I know, I know,” Simon said, cutting her off. “Reach out to you or Mr. Marks.”
Georgie nodded as the kids grabbed their backpacks and headed toward the exit.
She suddenly felt quite alone.
She glanced at the bright wall, decorated with children’s drawings.
The wall that separated her shop from Jordan’s CrossFit gym.
He was, most likely, on the other side.
Physically, only a few feet away—but emotionally, miles apart.
She stared at the barrier between them, her vision becoming blurry from strain or possibly the threat of tears until a wet familiar little nose nuzzled into her hand.
She scratched between Mr. Tuesday’s ears. “Do you feel like a meandering walk, sweet boy?”
The pup’s ears perked up as he ran around her in an excited loop.
A walk would do them both good. They’d been spending sixteen hours a day at the bookshop. If her restless limbs needed to move, Mr. Tuesday’s must as well.
She headed to the front of the store, where Becca met her with Mr. Tuesday’s leash.
“I heard the commotion. You must have said the W-word.”
Georgie took the leash and fastened it to Mr. Tuesday’s collar. “We’ve been pretty cooped up and could use the exercise.”
“You could always go next door and ask to see a trainer. I’m sure there’s one there who would welcome your visit,” Becca said with a sympathetic expression.
Georgie shook her head. “Just the park today. I won’t be long.”
Becca nodded as she walked them to the door. “Take your time. Mrs. Gilbert’s knitting group is at their Michael Bolton Fan Club meeting tonight. So, we won’t be slammed, running back and forth, supplying them with pastries and coffee. Man, those women can knock back a doughnut hole or ten.”
Georgie chuckled and shook her head, grateful for her friend’s humor, then stepped outside.
Layered in shades of blue and gray, the dusk sky was the perfect backdrop for the Tennyson neighborhood shops, now beginning to flick on their outdoor lighting. The upbeat, eclectic vibe usually lifted her spirits.
Usually.
She set off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of Jordan’s gym. It was the most direct route to get to the park. But it wasn’t the only reason she’d gone that way. An intrusive, foreboding thought she’d managed to ignore for the past two weeks, thanks to filling her days with work, work, and more work, reared its ugly head.
What if Jordan didn’t want to be with her?
What if he regretted proposing?
If she saw him, she’d know. She’d see it in his eyes.
This limbo they’d been living the last two weeks had provided a buffer, but the clock was running out. In a matter of time, she’d either be married or single.
She continued down the sidewalk but slowed her pace when a woman in a flowing white dress and bracelets stacked up her arms, whipped off a pair of Gucci tinted glasses.
“Pumpkin, what a surprise!”
Georgie froze, and even Mr. Tuesday seemed at a loss, cocking his doggy head to the side.
“It’s me, pumpkin,” purred the yoga-fabulous hippie, standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Mom?” Georgie asked with the same confused head cock as Mr. Tuesday.
Lorraine Vandedinkle was a Chanel woman. Her daily attire included tailored suits, expensive silks, and bras that cost as much as a down payment on a time-share. And diamonds. The woman usually dripped in the sparkling gems, that is, until now.
“What are you wearing?” Georgie asked, as the being that had taken over her mother’s body leaned in for a set of air-kisses.
“What the psychic energist suggested,” the woman replied.
“Where’s your assistant, Nicolette?” Georgie asked, glancing around for a competent adult to explain the complete one-eighty change in her mother.
“Nicolette and I parted ways. She’s a Sagittarius,” her mother whispered back as if it were a criminal offense to be born between November twenty-second and December twenty-first.
Georgie took in the giant crystal hanging off a chain around her mother’s neck and the pound of turquoise rings, clicking along with the bracelets.
“What the hell is a psychic energist?”
“Language, pumpkin!” her mother said, then stilled and raised her palms. “Did the universe, or did Buddha tell you to use coarse language?”
“Um…Buddha,” she answered, silently apologizing to