Jordan ran his hands through his tangle of hair. “It’s wedding jitters. I thought it would help if I stayed here before the big day.”
That’s the line he’d fed his father when he’d arrived at his door. Dennis Marks had nodded and hadn’t asked him about it since he’d taken up residence in the guest room.
It had been a perfect place to lie low. His father left early in the morning and wouldn’t get home until late at night.
But it was a double-edged sword.
All those nights alone when he was lying in bed, longing for the life where he’d only have to glance over to find Georgie with her hair twisted into that damn messy bun he loved and her nose buried in a book, gave him ample time to dwell upon all his faults.
“I hate to break it to you, son, but today is the big day,” his father said.
“I know,” he answered with a heavy sigh.
Denny narrowed his gaze. “You’re not going to jilt that lovely woman at the altar, are you?”
“Jesus, Dad!” he shot back.
“Well?” the man returned, crossing his arms.
Jordan shook his head and traced an imaginary line down the table with his index finger. “It’s not like that, Dad. I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Then what in God’s name are you doing here at the ass crack of dawn jumping rope on TV?” his father exclaimed.
“I wasn’t on TV. I was making a video for the blog,” he threw back.
“Would this be a video people will play on their phones and other digital doohickeys?” the man countered.
“Maybe, if I edit the part out where I shin-whipped myself,” Jordan replied with a frustrated shake of his head.
His father sat back. “Then, I’m right.”
Were they really debating what constituted as being on TV?
“Yeah, I guess you are,” he conceded.
The man raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to know what else I’m right about?”
Jordan glanced up and met his father’s gaze.
His father’s expression softened. “You love Georgie, and you would do anything for her.”
Jordan continued tracing the invisible line. “You’re right. I would.”
“Then, why are you here, Jordy? And don’t feed me the line about not wanting to see the bride before the big day.”
Jordan stilled his hand. “I told you. I’m here because I don’t want to hurt her.”
And I’m not sure if she still wants to be my wife.
But he couldn’t say those words.
Denny leaned in and lowered his voice. “Why would you hurt her?”
Jordan closed his eyes and pictured Georgie’s expression when he’d left the house.
Gutted. Utterly and completely gutted.
After the boot camp, the sleepless nights, and going at each other nearly nonstop, all he could see in her eyes was disappointment and heartbreak.
He’d wanted to take her into his arms and go back in time. But there was no going back—no undoing what had been done.
He pulled his gaze from the table. “Because when we were at the wilderness boot camp, I was a colossal jerk to her. I turned into…”
“Into Deacon,” came a gentle voice from the far side of the kitchen.
“Maureen?” Jordan gasped. “Is there an accounting issue?” he asked, not sure why she’d be here at this early hour.
He turned to his father, whose cheeks had gone pink, then glanced back at Maureen, wrapped in his father’s over-sized robe.
“No, your books are perfect,” the woman answered.
“Good morning,” his father purred—actually purred.
“Good morning to you,” she replied with a girlish grin.
“You slept here?” Jordan asked as his mind turned to oatmeal, unable to make sense of what was right in front of him.
She nodded.
“Did you fall asleep helping Dad with his books?” he asked, grasping at straws.
Maureen shared a furtive glance with his father, then joined them at the kitchen table.
“No,” she answered with the curl of a smile.
“What about the girls? Where are Mia and Mya?” he continued.
Maureen shared another coy look with his father. “They had a sleepover with my folks.”
“So, you had a sleepover with my dad?” he concluded, not about to be named super sleuth of the year.
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” his father teased, then lifted Maureen’s hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles.
Jordan’s gaze bounced between the pair. “Am I awake?”
Maureen chuckled. “Yes, honey. Of course, you’re awake.”
“But it looks like…” he stammered.
“Like your dad got some?” his father asked with a wide grin.
“Denny!” Maureen said with a playful swat to his arm.
“When? Why? How?” Jordan uttered, still oatmeal-brained, and finding it difficult to form a coherent sentence.
His dad and Maureen gazed at each other like teenagers in love.
His father cleared his throat. “When? Last night. Why? Because Maureen is one of the kindest, smartest, most beautiful women I’ve ever met. And how?” He scratched his chin, then shared a knowing glance with Maureen. “It started in the kitchen, or was it in the car?”
Maureen mimicked his father and scratched her chin dramatically. “I’d say the car was foreplay, and the kitchen was where things started to heat up—right here on the kitchen table for round one.”
Round One!
Jordan skidded his chair back from the location of parental hanky-panky.
“I don’t want to know how many rounds!” he blurted.
“Three,” his father whispered.
Jordan’s jaw hit the floor.
“Dad! Stop! And how did you two even get together?”
“At your beautiful champagne engagement breakfast,” Maureen answered.
His father nodded. “We got to talking, and then Maureen started helping me with my bookkeeping.”
The two lovebirds stared at each other. If this were some middle-aged love story cartoon, this would be the scene where their eyes would transform into hearts.
“And one thing led to another,” Maureen added sweetly.
Christ on a Cracker!
“You’re my dad’s girlfriend?” he asked, slow as molasses on the uptake.
Maureen resurrected that theatrical chin scratch move. “Maybe I’m your dad’s booty call. It’s like the thing you kids do with the swipe right,” Maureen joked.
Jordan knew his mouth was hanging open, but he could not get it to close. Maureen was like a mother to him, and she’d just correctly dropped app hookup lingo.
“I don’t know what I’d call it, other than two of the best weeks of my life,” his father said, again with the Rico Suave kiss to Maureen’s hand.
“Are you going to keep seeing each other?” Jordan asked, regaining brain function.
His dad and Maureen went back to puppy-dog-eyes mode.
“I sure hope so,” his father said.
“Me too,” Maureen answered, then slid her gaze from his father and zeroed in on him.
“I think that’s enough talk about your dad and me. We need to have a chat with you,” Maureen said, watching him closely.
“Me?” he asked.
She nodded, then glanced at the floor. “Hold on. What is that?”
Jordan looked at the spot where he’d been filming the jump rope tutorial.
“It’s dryer lint. I’ll toss it in the trash,” his father offered.
Shit!
Jordan shot to his feet and swiped the laundry remnant. “It’s mine.”
Maureen eyed him skeptically. “That’s your dryer lint?”
He stroked the scented lint ball with his thumb. “Georgie’s and mine. I took it from our place.”
Maureen narrowed her gaze. “You won’t talk to Georgie, but you’ll keep her dr
yer lint? And don’t try to tell me I’m not right. Remember, I do the books for both of you. I know you two are avoiding each other,” Maureen chided.
His father grimaced. “What are you doing with Georgie’s dryer lint, son? Not to mention, that’s a pretty creepy thing to be carrying around.”
“It smells like her,” he said, staring at the bluish-gray lemon verbena-scented mass.
He glanced up to find Maureen and his dad with their heads cocked to the side, watching him as if he belonged in a padded room.
He waved off their concern. “It’s not meant to be creepy. It’s just…”
Just what?
The one thing he’d kept with him since he’d left?
The reminder of her scent and everything he longed for?
A memento of when he’d lost his shit—one of many times he’d lost his shit—when he’d learned she’d packed the damn dryer sheets and not the dryer lint?
“It’s lemon verbena-scented,” he offered as if that would somehow reduce the creeper factor.
However, from his father and Maureen’s continued wary appearance, it didn’t.
“What happened, honey?” Maureen asked, concern etched on her face.
He slumped into the chair. “I was a real asshat, Maureen. I made twenty people think Georgie was a sex maniac whose favorite color was rose, which I then said was pink and argued with her when she told me I was wrong.”
“You are wrong. Rose is the color rose. It’s the shade halfway between red and magenta,” Maureen replied.
Jordan shook his head in astonishment. “Do all women know that? Is that something they take you aside for and share with you when you turn a certain age?” he asked, wondering if he was sick on the day they taught the quintessential rose-is-not-pink lesson at school.
“But that’s not what brought you here, son,” his father said gently.
“No, I told you. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want her attached to a man who might…” he trailed off and met Maureen’s gaze.
“Cheat on his wife and stop spending time with his children to flounce around town with women half his age,” Maureen finished.
Hearing her say the words was like a punch to the gut.
“I hate that Deacon did that to you and the girls. It’s selfish and unforgivable,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion.
Maureen nodded. “I agree. But what I don’t understand is why you would think you’d be a husband like Deacon?”
He stared at the ball of lint. “Because when Georgie and I were at our worst, I reverted to the man Deacon wanted me to be. Someone who put winning, ego, and glory above all else.”
Maureen covered his hand with hers. “And that’s exactly the reason why you won’t turn out like him.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Maureen’s features softened. “Deacon doesn’t want to change. I doubt he even sees his behavior as wrong. He writes it off, thinking because he’s found monetary success, he’s earned a certain kind of life where he can neglect his responsibilities. Don’t you see, Jordan? He doesn’t want to be a better man, and that’s the difference. None of us are perfect. We all have our faults. But you want to do better. You want to be better for Georgie.”
His gaze grew glassy. “She deserves it.”
“She deserves you, honey,” Maureen replied gently.
“I don’t know if she wants me,” he admitted.
Maureen squeezed his hand. “She’s as broken up about this as you are. Remember, I work for you both. I’ve watched her mope around her shop the same way you’ve moped around your gym.”
He blinked back tears. “This separation is killing me. I want to be with Georgie. I want to be the man for her.”
“You are, son,” his father answered.
“How do you know that, Dad?”
And there it was. The question that had him up wrestling with his demons until the early morning hours. Even if she’d take him back, how would he know that he could be the man Georgie deserved?
His big, burly father gave him a teary grin. “I know because you helped me become a better man. You showed me I wasn’t honoring your mother’s memory by wallowing in the past. For years, I hated myself for not dealing with her death better and for not being the dad you needed. But when I stopped hiding behind the mask of anger and disappointment, I was able to see there was a way forward. A way to look into my heart and know I could choose to do better. You changed your life, son. You grew strong in body and mind. Thanks to your example, I learned I was the one who had to choose to be better each day.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You’re not going to hurt Georgie. You might not always agree, but, at the end of the day, you’ll always put her first. It’s who you are. You love with your whole heart, Jordan. I’m the same way. We Marks’ men sometimes get so caught up in our head, we lose sight of what our heart knows is true.”
Jordan gazed between his father and Maureen. How he wanted to believe them. How he wanted to know for certain he could be the man these two people—who were so important to him—thought he could be.
“Let Georgie know how you feel. You’re the man for her, son. All you have to do is believe that with your whole heart and lay off on stealing her dryer lint. It’s damn creepy,” his father added.
Jordan shook his head, grateful for the humor, but froze when his cell phone, still resting on the table, began to vibrate.
“Is it Georgie?” his father asked.
Jordan picked up the phone, then cleared the emotion from his throat.
“No, it’s from Simon Bacon’s grandmother, Esther. She’s in the hospital and asked that I come there immediately.”
Maureen pressed her hand to her heart. “Oh no! Did she say anything else?”
He hammered out a quick response, then pocketed the phone and the dryer lint—creepy or not, he wasn’t about to part with it yet.
“No, but I told her I was on my way. I can visit her before I have to get to the Shakespeare Shuffle for the competition. I’m guessing Simon is with her.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Maureen offered.
“I will,” he said and headed for the door.
“And the wedding?” his father asked.
Jordan stared at the doorknob and released a tight breath. “I don’t know, Dad. I need to make sure Simon and Esther are all right first, and then…”
Then, it was time to face the music. Time to confront his fears. Time to make his case to the woman he loved.
He glanced at his watch, knowing one thing for certain.
Time was running out.
12
Jordan
Jordan sprinted through the sliding doors of the bustling hospital lobby and frantically gazed from side to side then stopped dead in his tracks.
With her hair twisted into a messy bun and wearing her running clothes, he stared at Georgie’s back as she spoke to a nurse at the information desk. Unable to move, he watched her start toward the elevators. But after a few steps, she stilled.
Could she feel his presence?
Did she miss him as much as he missed her?
She had his heart. Could she still trust him with hers?
Emotion clogged his throat, and he forced himself to swallow. Every cell in his body screamed for him to run to her and take her into his arms. But he didn’t move—not one damn muscle.
Turn around.
Turn around.
His mind went to the fictional characters Lizzy Bennet, Jane Eyre, and Hermione Granger—Georgie’s trifecta. The literary trio she’d held dear to her heart since she was a girl.
“Ladies, I could use your help,” he whispered.
Was it insane to call upon his fiancée’s fictional besties?
Sure.
Was he up for trying anything?
Oh, hell yes!
He held his breath as the trifecta came through and watched as, slowly, Georgie turned to face him.
He raised his hand in a moronic hey-there-hi-there idiotic wave and felt his cheeks heat.
Get it together, Marks!
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and manufactured an uneasy smile.
Of course, she’d be apprehensive!
He was the Emperor of Asshattery, who decided to throw down over the color rose. He was the Sovereign of Scat who turned a wilderness boot camp laundry sheet flub into an alpaca-sized fiasco.
She glanced around nervously, then started toward him. He met her halfway as her gaze traveled to a spot somewhere beyond his shoulder.
“Esther texted and asked me to come. She wrote that she had a pretty bad asthma attack last night, and the doctors kept her overnight,” she said with the hint of a shake to her voice.
He nodded, wanting so badly to take her hands into his, but tried to remain composed. “Yeah, she texted me, too, but she didn’t tell me why she was here. Just that she needed me to come to the hospital.”
Georgie nodded. “She’s on the fifth floor in the pulmonary unit.”
He took a step toward her. “Georgie, I—”
She raised her hands defensively. “Jordan, let’s get through this for Esther and Simon, okay?”
Jesus! She was right. What was he going to do? Spill his guts right here while a sick old lady and her frazzled grandson waited for them?
“You’re right,” he agreed, forcing his hands to remain at his sides.
He gestured with his chin toward the bank of elevators and stayed half a step behind her as they joined a cluster of medical staff waiting to go up. He couldn’t walk next to her and risk the familiar urge to take her hand into his.
How easy it used to be.
He’d think nothing of twining his fingers with hers or twisting a lock of her hair.
How many nights had they sat side by side, keyboards clicking away as they worked on the blog? She’d mumble under her breath. Lost in her writing and completely unaware, he could hear her debating with herself. How he’d loved listening to her—loved the confident curl to her lips when she’d come up with a catchy line or a memorable description.
And her smile. How he’d missed locking up his gym and walking the few feet to her bookshop. In those few seconds, his breath would catch in his throat, knowing the minute he opened the door to the shop, she’d gift him the sweet, loving, slightly naughty expression reserved only for him.
Own the Eights Gets Married Page 17
