Own the Eights Gets Married - Krista Sandor Page 0,75
touched the delicate pearls. “It’s lovely. I can’t thank you enough.”
“And the second is the date,” Hans replied.
“The date?” she repeated.
“Fifty years ago, Hans and I were married the third weekend in October,” the frau added.
“This date was good fortune for us, and we hope to pass it along to you,” Hans said, taking the frau’s hand.
“And don’t forget the mother,” Mrs. Lieblingsschatz said, rolling her eyes.
“My mother?” Georgie asked.
The frau leaned in. “Could you imagine what Lorraine Vanderdinkle would be like after a three month, six month, or even a yearlong engagement?”
Georgie shuddered. “There’s not enough psychic energy in all the universe for her, Bobby, and Hector.”
“Psychic energy?” Jordan questioned.
She cupped Jordan’s cheek in her hand. “It’s a long story, but we pretty much owe Mr. and Mrs. Lieblingsschatz for the rest of our lives.”
Jordan held her gaze. “It looks like we’re the real deal, messy bun girl.”
“You’re going to be really late if we don’t get things moving,” the wedding frau said, then clapped her hands.
The curtains parted, and a team of people stood at the ready.
“These are the best of the best. We’ve got stylists, seamstresses, aestheticians, manicurists, and makeup artists,” Mrs. Lieblingsschatz supplied.
“It’s showtime,” Hans said with a glint in his eyes, coming to his feet.
The wedding frau gestured for them to follow her into the mobile salon, but Jordan shook his head.
“Hold on! Georgie never answered me,” he said, taking her hands into his.
She frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“After the race—after I proposed, again. You never got to answer.”
She stared up at him. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“I want to hear you say it,” he replied, his gaze growing dark.
This man. This handsome, part-time asshat and full-time love of her life.
“Georgiana,” he chided, the four syllables sounding good enough to eat.
Her trifecta fanned themselves as she pressed up to her tiptoes.
“You know my answer. Yes! A thousand times, yes!” she whispered against his lips, again, stealing the line from Lizzy Bennet’s sister.
He dropped her hands and pulled her into his embrace. Their lips met, and all she wanted to do was melt into his touch.
“Let’s never go two weeks without kissing again,” she gasped as he threaded his hand into her hair.
“Let’s not go two hours,” he growled as their connection grew more heated by the second.
“Two minutes,” she countered, needing more of him, all of him until the “Here Comes the Bride” horn blasted through the RV’s cab.
They pulled apart and found everyone smiling, except the wedding frau, who had her hand poised on the computer screen.
“Do I have to press this again? We have a wedding to prepare for! After thousands of nuptials, I’ve never had a wedding delayed. Not once! And it’s not happening today!”
“I better let you go,” Jordan said, twisting a strand of her hair between his fingers.
“You probably should,” she answered.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” she answered.
He held her face in his hands, a sweet gesture he’d done more times than he could count. But the next time he did it, he’d be her husband.
He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Don’t let them make your hair too perfect. You know how much I love a messy bun.”
14
Georgie
“You can’t see me in my dress, Jordan.”
“Not even a little peek?” her fiancé asked from the other side of the thick curtain separating them.
She bit back a grin. “No.”
“A teensy-tiny look?” he pleaded.
Georgie wanted to shake her head at her persistent soon-to-be husband, but she didn’t want to mess up the delicate flowers the hairdresser had painstakingly placed into her bridal-beautiful messy bun.
She glanced in the mirror and lifted her hand to touch one of the petals of a dainty white lemon-verbena blossom.
It was a nice touch—and confirmation Mr. and Mrs. Lieblingsschatz had heard everything during their wilderness boot camp blowup. Luckily, if they did think she was a sex maniac, they were polite enough not to mention it.
But, holy alpaca phlegm!
While she understood the motivation of the wedding frau to push their limits as a couple, she never wanted to attend another wilderness boot camp—not for all the vegan chocolate chip cookie dough in the world.
And she wasn’t kidding about banning the word shit shovel. As much as she enjoyed gardening, she’d never look at a trowel the same way again.
“You smell good,” Jordan said from the other side of the curtain.
“Like our laundry?” she teased, inhaling the sweet scent.
“I love the way our laundry smells,” he replied.
“And I love you, but I hope you