Own the Eights Gets Married - Krista Sandor Page 0,10
his phone. “And now?”
“Now, you should say hello to everyone at CityBeat. We’re livestreaming.”
Georgie resurrected her beauty queen grin. “Hey, everyone! Jordan and I are so happy to have you along with us today.”
And she was. She really was. But they’d been engaged less than an hour, and all this fanfare and publicity around their pending nuptials was already snowballing into one behemoth of an event.
“Mom,” she said, turning away from Barry. But before she could utter another word, Lorraine Vanderdinkle went into full-on socialite mode, plucking a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and calling for the crowds’ attention.
“Dear friends and members of the Denver Country Club and global community! Our guests of honor have arrived!” she declared, flashing a Botox grin Barry’s way.
The rapid snap of the photographers’ cameras pelted the air in a clatter of clicks.
Jordan took her hand and leaned in, his lips millimeters from her earlobe. “Remember, Miss Sex Hair, after we get through this, I’m taking you home, and I’m not letting you out of bed until we’ve gone through the entire naughty section of the Kama Sutra.”
She gestured to the bevy of men and women taking their picture, then lowered her voice. “It may take a couple of times through to get this out of my head.”
He gave her a wolfish grin. “Thanks to following the More Than a Number exercise and healthy eating protocol, you know I’m up for it.”
“Jordy! Georgie!” came the booming voice of Jordan’s father, Dennis Marks, and her apprehension over the circus of an engagement party subsided.
Denny slung a zipped up faded garment bag over his shoulder as he shook his son’s hand, then pressed a kiss to her cheek.
“Congratulations! You kids looked great on TV.”
“I don’t know if great’s the word,” she answered, but she was grateful to have him there.
Denny waved her off. “Nah, everybody loved it. I watched most of it with the guys from the shop. They all wanted me to wish you well. Even the crustiest of mechanics have a soft side.”
“A crusty mechanic who also harbors a secret love of Michael Bolton ballads?” she teased, lowering her voice as the big guy blushed.
He’d come a long way from the sullen, angry man he’d become after his wife passed away when Jordan was a kid. But over the past few months, thanks to the father and the son making a real effort to talk to each other rather than at each other, the man had transformed.
And, as of a few weeks ago, he happened to be living down the block from them in Denver’s quaint and eclectic Tennyson neighborhood. He’d sold his home on the Colorado plains and used some of the money to purchase an automotive shop from Jordan’s friends, Ginger and Zeke, the old owners, who were leaving Colorado to be closer to their families on the West Coast.
“I’m glad you’re here, Dad,” Jordan said, throwing a mock punch at the man’s arm.
Denny’s gaze grew glassy. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, son.”
“We are so happy you could join us, Dennis. Now, what is this monstrosity you’ve got hanging off your arm?” her mother asked, eyeing the bag suspiciously.
Denny’s eyes lit up. “This here is a Marks family tradition.”
Jordan paled. “Oh no, Dad! I don’t think…”
“How lovely! Let’s have a look!” Lorraine replied.
Suddenly, Georgie was thankful for her mother’s Botox face as Denny proudly removed a wrinkled electric blue tuxedo with a ruffled dress shirt and matching trousers.
“Is that a vintage sharkskin tux?” Hector asked.
“Sure is. My dad married my mother in this suit, and I married my beautiful late wife in it. Son, it looks like you’ll be wearing it soon, too.”
Jordan’s gaze bounced between his father and her mother. “Dad, I didn’t even know you still had that.”
“I’d never part with it!” he said, running his index finger tenderly over the ruffled shirt.
“Wow, Denny! That tux is unique,” Georgie said, choosing her words carefully and trying to breathe through her mouth. She didn’t want to hurt the man’s feelings, but the suit was in awful shape and smelled terrible.
“Has that suit been stored in a chemical waste plant, or is that the mothballs I’m smelling?” her mother inquired, her face frozen in a muted state of surprise.
But the woman was right. The garment reeked.
“It’s the mothballs. And there’s more!” Denny answered, his features becoming more animated.
“More?” Lorraine Vanderdinkle repeated, drawing her hand delicately to her nose.
“Yes, ma’am! These are the very mothballs my grandfather used more than