“More?” Lorraine Vanderdinkle repeated, drawing her hand delicately to her nose.
“Yes, ma’am! These are the very mothballs my grandfather used more than fifty years ago.”
Hector demurely pressed his fingertips to his nose and turned to her mother. “You could call it a vintage piece of living history.”
More like smelly history, but she was grateful Hector was trying to put a positive spin on the situation.
“Let’s have Nicolette take it off your hands so you can enjoy the celebration, Dennis!” her mother said with a practiced grin.
Georgie looked around. “Who’s Nicolette?”
“That would be me,” a petite woman with her dark hair in a severe bun answered in a thick French accent.
“And you are?” Georgie asked.
“She’s my personal assistant,” her mother replied with a wave of her hand.
Georgie frowned. “Why would you need a personal assistant? You don’t have a job.”
“Georgiana!” her mother scoffed. “Are you going to stand there and tell me that being a mother isn’t a job?”
“But I’m not a little kid. I’m twenty-seven years old.”
“And don’t I know it! Twenty-seven times more work!” her mother replied with an exaggerated sigh.
Georgie glanced at Jordan, who gave her a slight shake of the head. He was just as perplexed as she was with this Nicolette. Or perhaps it was the stench of the half-a-century-old mothballs.
“Nicolette, I need you to put this someplace special for Mr. Marks,” Lorraine purred.
Denny gazed at the suit. “Shucks, I was thinking of putting it on and wearing it for the party—for old times’ sake.”
Botox be damned! With Jordan’s father’s declaration, her mother’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline.
“No, no, no! We can’t have that and risk this heirloom getting stained or torn.”
“I guess you have a point,” the man conceded as the petite Nicolette whisked the garment out of his arms and sailed out of the ballroom like a member of a seasoned hazmat response team.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I should attend to the guests and check on the champagne fountain,” Lorraine said as her gaze traveled to the CityBeat producer livestreaming to the internet.
Her mother smiled into the camera. “Bobby, Hector, and, dear Barry, will you sweet men accompany me? So much to do! And I think your subscribers would love a behind the scenes sneak peek at Georgiana and Jordan’s party. As you all must know, it’s a mother’s duty to ensure the success of her baby’s special day,” the woman finished with yet another dramatic sigh.
Oh no!
A duty-bound Lorraine Vanderdinkle was never a good thing, but she sure as hell could use a brief respite from her mom and the CityBeat spotlight.
“And, Georgiana?” her mother said, gesturing to a lavish spread of pastries and petit fours.
“Yes, Mom?”
“That tray is off-limits—no sweets for you, pumpkin. The wedding diet starts now,” she added over her shoulder as she flitted into the crowd with Hector, Bobby, and Barry close behind.
Georgie groaned, then stared longingly at a row of delectable eclairs before bristling at the sight of a pineapple display.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Pineapple,” she said, the word alone nearly making her gag. “I’ve never liked it.”
“I didn’t know that,” he answered.
She turned away from the yellow pile of tropical fruit. “Yeah, you don’t even want to know about the pineapple incident of 1999.”
“Why?” Jordan queried with a perplexed expression.
“Let’s just say my mom made me eat a fruit cup containing the awful stuff before one of my pageants, and thanks to some impressive projectile vomiting, I’m no longer welcome at the Little Miss Pineapple Pageant in Honolulu.”
“Forget about the pineapple,” Jordan said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “We’ve got three tubes of vegan cookie dough at home.”
“This is why I love you,” she answered, staring into the eyes of her future husband.
“Oh no! You guys aren’t going to kiss, are you?”
Georgie chuckled, then hugged her favorite freckle-faced fifteen-year-old. “Simon! I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“I came with Mrs. Perry and the girls. My granny said it was okay for me to miss a couple of hours of school to celebrate with my favorite bookshop owner and trainer.”
“Did you get in your workout this morning?” Jordan asked, crossing his arms.
The boy lifted his chin. “I sure did, Mr. Marks. And I did ten extra push-ups.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Jordan answered, giving the kid a high five.
“Dad, this is Simon Bacon. He’s one of my most dedicated students,” Jordan said, introducing the kid to his father.
“How are you doing on the Shakespeare Shuffle prep?” Georgie asked the teen.
Simon had been the first student to sign up for the competition.
“Thanks to Mr. Marks, I’ve shaved thirty seconds off my mile, so I’m not too worried about the race part.”
“And the sonnet recitation? Are you sticking with the one Jordan and I suggested?” she pressed.
“Oh yeah! It’s sonnet one-sixteen every day after school, isn’t it, Simon?” Jordan said, clapping the kid’s shoulder.
The teen nodded. “Mr. Marks has me reciting it, over and over—no matter what exercise he’s got me doing.”
“I’m so happy you went with our suggestion. Sonnet one-sixteen is one of my favorites. It’s all about what love is and what it isn’t,” she answered.
“And don’t forget, Simon,” Jordan added, slipping into trainer mode. “Your mind and body need to work together. Bulking up and getting fit is good, but so is knowing the difference between Jane Austen and Jane Eyre.”
“They’re not the same?” the boy deadpanned.
Georgie pressed her hand to her heart, feigning shock.
Simon laughed. “I’m kidding. I know Jane Austen was a real person and an acclaimed author, while Jane Eyre is a fictional character created by Charlotte Brontë.”
Georgie reached up and ruffled the teen’s hair. “I should hope so!” she said as her fictional trifecta nodded approvingly at the boy’s knowledge.
They’d met Simon after his grandmother had dragged the shy teen into Jordan’s gym for the after-school fitness and nutrition program he ran during the week for high school kids. A skinny boy with his grades in the gutter, thanks to being bullied for his slight frame, Jordan took an immediate shine to the teen. And soon, the closed-up kid had morphed into a kind and confident, literature-loving student.
“Congratulations, Jordan and Georgie!” came a warm greeting from another friendly face.
“Maureen, it’s great to see you,” Georgie said, embracing the woman who had been like a second mother to Jordan and now, a godsend to them both.
The ex-wife of Jordan’s former CrossFit mentor turned philandering douche canoe, Deacon Perry, Jordan had known Maureen for more than a decade. And she wasn’t only a kind woman. She was also a gifted bookkeeper. With Jordan opening his own CrossFit gym, her bookstore revenue quadrupling, and the rapid expansion of the Own the Eights and More Than Just a Number brands, they’d hired Maureen to keep their finances in order.
“We saw you on TV!” Maureen’s twin eleven-year-old daughters Mia and Mya chimed in unison.
“What did you think?” Jordan asked.
Mia’s expression grew pensive. “It made me want a waffle.”
“Me too!” her sister agreed.
The girls turned to Simon, who had started babysitting them when Maureen was busy with the books, then pointed over to a grand waffle station near the white chocolate fountain.
“Simon, let’s go get a mountain of waffles!” Mia cried, pulling on the boy’s hand.
“Is that okay with you, Mrs. Perry?” he asked with a chuckle.
> “It sure is, but don’t eat too much. You don’t want to get a stomachache,” their mother cautioned.
The kids left, and Maureen turned to Dennis, who’d grown quiet. She extended her hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Maureen Perry.” She glanced between Jordan and his father. “And from the very strong resemblance, I’m going to guess that you’re Jordan’s dad.”
The burly man’s cheeks grew pink. “That’s right. I’m Dennis, no, Denny Marks. It’s nice to meet you, Maureen. Jordan’s spoken of you, but he never mentioned how pretty you were.”
Georgie glanced at her fiancé, who had turned to stone, seemingly in shock at the scene playing out before them.
“Aren’t you sweet,” Maureen answered, her cheeks growing pink as well. “Isn’t it crazy that all the years that I’ve known Jordan, we’ve never met. But I’m sure we’ll see each other more now since I’m helping Georgie and Jordan with their books.”
“Jordan tells me you’re quite the accountant.” Denny shifted his weight from foot to foot nervously.
Was this Jordan’s dad attempting to flirt?
“I recently took over ownership of an auto repair shop in the Tennyson neighborhood. I’d love to ask you a few accounting questions if you’ve got the time?” Denny asked with a bashful grin.
Maureen beamed. “I’d be happy to help.”
Jordan’s father plucked two glasses of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray with the Rico Suave-ness of James Bond. “How about now?” he asked as his bashful expression made way for a confident swagger.
“I’d like that very much,” she answered, taking the offered glass as Denny gestured toward a table.
“What the hell happened there?” Jordan asked, looking positively flabbergasted.
“Hold on. They’re still in my line of sight,” Georgie replied, watching as Jordan’s father said something, and Maureen laughed, then leaned in and patted the man’s hand.
“Was my dad flirting?” he questioned.
She stroked Jordan’s arm. “It sure seemed like it.”
“I don’t know what to think about that,” he said, looking like a kid who walked in on his parents doing the dirty deed.
“I think your dad has got a little Casanova mixed in with the car mechanic. It’s sweet and a little surprising,” she replied.
Jordan pressed his fingertips to his eyelids. “I just witnessed my dad making a move on Maureen.”
“I’d venture to say, he’s full-on making a move,” Georgie added as Denny retrieved a pair of eclairs for the two of them. “Does it bother you?”
Jordan shook his head, and his bewildered grimace transformed into a more contemplative expression. “No, my mom’s been gone for almost twenty years. I know how much he loved her, but I never thought of my dad as…”
“A smooth operator? A player? A real Don Juan?” she teased.
He pinned her with his gaze. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
“A little bit. You know me. The why date a ten when you should marry an eight, Georgie Jensen, loves a good romance. And, thanks to a healthy appreciation for eighties love ballads, I can say with one hundred percent accuracy that your dad is a solid eight.”
“I thought we agreed that relationships hinged on more than just a number,” he countered.
“True. And it’s probably only a little bit of harmless flirting. But they are two single adults. And who knows? Your dad’s a great guy. Maureen is a lovely woman. They could totally hit it off and have a booty call or two.”
“Jesus, Georgie!” Jordan said on a weary sigh as he glanced around the opulent room. “Is this wedding thing getting crazier by the second? When I got up this morning, I didn’t anticipate a possible middle-aged booty call, a Belgian Waffle Princess, an engagement ring that doesn’t fit, and now, CityBeat capturing our every move. Should I have whisked you away to elope instead?”
Georgie shook her head. “No way! If you think Botox wedding Barbie Lorraine Vanderdinkle is bad now, imagine what she’d be like if we told her we’d run off to Vegas to get hitched.”
But she couldn’t deny, especially after the last hour they’d endured, that running off to marry Jordan did sound heavenly.
Her mother meant well. She knew this. But she also knew Lorraine Vanderdinkle could go overboard. A little voice in her head reminded her of the years being shuttled from beauty pageant to beauty pageant, and her mom’s desire for her to be the best—a perfect ten.
A foreboding prickle traveled down her spine and flip-flopped in her belly. “What if the wedding isn’t perfect? What will people think? What impact could it have on the blog or our brand? What if we stopped being CityBeat’s sweethearts?”
She’d wanted to make it big. She’d dreamed about becoming a CityBeat contributor and sharing her vision and advice with others. But had she and Jordan been wearing rose-colored glasses when they’d envisioned their future as quasi-celebrities?
“Georgie, it will be perfect because it’s us,” Jordan answered, but she could see the worry in his gaze.
The wedding crazy train had left the station, and he was just as unsure as she was as to what could lie ahead.
“Hold on,” Jordan said.
Nonchalantly, he sauntered over to the pastry table, bypassed the god-awful pineapple, piled a plate with gourmet doughnuts, then returned like a triumphant explorer.
“Here, eat one of these. We don’t do diets in More Than Just a Number. We’ll stay true to ourselves. We’re mindful and deliberate. No matter what, we’re us.”
She nodded. “Us, okay,” she answered, taking the chocolate sprinkled treat when her mother materialized like the undercover pastry police.
“Pumpkin, no! Think of the wedding photos!” the woman said, knocking the sweet treat from her hand, then froze as the doughnut fell to the polished parquet floor with a sugary thud.
“Is that who I think it is?” Hector said, swooping in alongside Lorraine.
“I’d put out feelers, but the woman is like a ghost,” her mother answered, staring at the entrance to the ballroom.
Hector pressed his hand to his chest. “I’d called a few people, too. She’s an enigma. I’ve heard she has people scrape all her photos from the internet.”
Lorraine shook her head. “I think it’s her! She’s a bona fide legend! She doesn’t even advertise, and word on the street is she’s booked out seven years.”
“Lorraine Vanderdinkle, it appears the bling is here, at your party,” Hector said like the Queen of England had wandered into the room.
The bling? Did her mother hire a rapper to perform? It didn’t seem her speed.
Georgie waved her hands in front of Hector and her mother’s faces. “Hey, what are you two talking about?”
“Me, Cornelia Lieblingsschatz,” answered a husky voice with a thick German accent.
With a shock of white hair cut in an asymmetrical bob and dressed in all black with skin-tight leather pants and stiletto boots, Cornelia Lieblingsschatz was a cross between a dominatrix and a hot grandma.
“And you are?” Jordan asked.
“The wedding frau,” her mother exclaimed in a frantic whisper, then curtsied—actually curtsied.
“We’d heard the rumors. We know of your power,” Hector added with a deep bow.
“Is this a joke?” Jordan asked under his breath.
Georgie chewed her lip. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knew she’d heard of this woman. But she couldn’t put her finger on how she knew of her.
“I am no joke,” the frau answered, then held out her hand.
A young woman materialized out of the crowd and reverently placed a leather-bound notebook on the woman’s waiting palm. She opened the thick book and stared at the hidden contents.
Georgie glanced at her mother and Hector, clutching each other like two tweens at a Justin Bieber concert while Bobby chuckled.
“You are Georgiana Jensen, and you are Jordan Marks,” the woman said without looking up.
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Georgie shared a look with Jordan. “Yes, we are.”
“Why is your engagement ring on the wrong finger?” the woman questioned sharply.
Georgie held up her hand. “It’s a little too big. We’re going to have it resized.”
“Leave that to me,” she answered as the young woman materialized again and slipped the ring off her finger like a pickpocket wedding nymph.
“Wait!” Georgie began when the wedding frau cleared her throat.
“You are a size five and a half, Miss Jensen. That ring is six and a quarter,” she said, gaze still trained on her notebook.
“How would you know that without measuring the ring or even looking at Georgie’s hand?” Jordan asked.
“Like your friend Hector Garcia said. I am Cornelia Lie-blings-schatz, known to many as the wedding frau,” she replied, blinging up the bling in her last name. “When it comes to nuptials in Denver, I know everything.”
“Everything?” Jordan echoed.
“Everything,” the woman replied as Howard appeared and nodded to the woman.
Georgie glanced between the two, but her stepfather quickly melted into the crowd.
“That’s quite a claim, ma’am! Do you have any data to back that up?” Jordan replied.
Georgie shook her head. There was no time to worry about Howard.
The corners of the frau’s mouth curled. “Miss Jensen would prefer a simple, romantic wedding outdoors at the Botanic Gardens. But not a summer wedding! No, you love Colorado in the fall. You picture lights twinkling in the trees as you promise to love and honor each other.”
Georgie’s literary trifecta gasped.
“How do you know that?” she asked.
She’d never told anyone about her wedding day fantasy—not even Jordan.
He turned to her, mouth hanging open. “Is she right?”
“Yeah,” Georgie answered, feeling like she was in a dream.
The wedding frau pinned Jordan with her crystal blue gaze. “And you, Mr. Marks, you never expected to find the kind of love you have found with Georgiana. You would follow her to the ends of the earth.”
“Jesus!” Jordan gasped.
“No, not Jesus, only Mrs. Lieblingsschatz,” the woman replied with the ghost of a self-assured grin.
Own the Eights Gets Married Page 4
