“Is this what you pictured?” the frau asked.
Georgie nodded, then turned to him. “What do you think?”
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’m good with anything that makes you smile like that.”
“Hmm, no opinion,” the wedding frau remarked, writing in her notebook.
Georgie’s expression fell, and he shook his head.
“It’s not no opinion. I just want Georgie to be happy.”
“But are you happy?” Georgie pressed, her gaze brimming with worry.
He glanced around the wedding wonderland warehouse. “Yes, it’s just that all this wedding hubbub isn’t really…” he trailed off.
Agitation edged out the worry in Georgie’s gaze. “It isn’t really what, Jordan?”
“Georgie, I…” he stammered.
It wasn’t like he didn’t care about the wedding. But questions like should they have an indoor ceremony versus an outdoor ceremony weren’t foremost on his mind. He didn’t care if they got married at a truck stop in Timbuktu as long as she was the one walking up the aisle.
He steadied himself. He needed to come up with the right thing to say. Her gaze grew more pointed as his mind turned to mush.
“Georgie, I…” he tried again, but instead of looking angry, she closed her eyes and inhaled.
“What is that?” she asked on a dreamy breath.
“That would be the cakes,” Frau Lieblingsschatz answered.
Georgie’s face lit up. “We get to do a cake tasting?”
If he were a comic book character, this would be the scene with phew written above his head in huge block letters as the hero dodged a bullet.
“Jordan, they’re baking cakes for us,” she exclaimed.
He’d never been so grateful for empty calories in all his life.
For the next hour, he received a crash course in Weddings 101. A lot of it seemed like a load of bullshit and old wives’ tales, but Georgie seemed to eat it up, and he quickly understood the old adage, happy wife, happy life.
“And now, Miss Jensen and I will part with you, Mr. Marks,” the frau said as one of the wedding minions cleared away the flowers they’d settled on for the bouquet and centerpieces.
Georgie glanced at the row upon row of dresses lining the back wall. “Is it time to choose a dress?”
“Yes, the dress and the wedding rings,” the wedding planner answered.
Georgie frowned. “I understand Jordan not being with me when I choose my dress. I want it to be a surprise for him. But why would we choose the rings separately?”
“In my many years of planning weddings, I’ve learned that the choice of wedding bands says quite a bit about a couple,” the frau answered.
“Okay,” Georgie replied, still with a slight crease in her brow.
Was this a test? There couldn’t be a right or wrong wedding band, could there?
“Hans!” she called, glancing around the warehouse.
A small man with thick glasses emerged from behind one of the racks of dresses and joined them.
“Miss Jensen and I are going to attend to the dress, and Hans will take you to our ring room to select wedding bands,” the wedding frau instructed.
He reached for his fiancée’s hand. “I know you’re going to look beautiful in whatever you choose.”
“Good luck with the rings,” she answered, giving his hand a squeeze.
The wedding rings. The rings they’d wear every day for the rest of their lives.
He hadn’t thought much about their actual wedding bands. He’d been so relieved to find the antique engagement ring he hadn’t considered the design of their bands.
“Come with me, sir,” the man said in a gentle German accent, gesturing for him to follow.
Jordan watched as Mrs. Lieblingsschatz and Georgie disappeared into layer upon layer of billowy white dresses.
“The wedding frau is something else,” he commented.
“You have no idea,” Hans answered with the hint of a grin.
They snaked through the building until they reached the end of the hall, and the man unlocked a door. In gleaming lit cases, row upon row of rings sparkled under the lights.
“Wow, you guys must have over a million dollars’ worth of jewelry in here!” he exclaimed with a low whistle.
“Try ten,” Hans chuckled. “Now,” he continued, pointing to the shimmering tables, “what do you have in mind for Miss Jensen?”
“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.
“Take a moment to look. Think about what you love most about her, then choose,” the old man instructed.
“No pressure, right?” he asked.
Why the hell was he so nervous?
Jordan gazed down at the multitude of rings when a sparkling number caught his eye.
“Could I see that one?” he asked.
Hans slid a black velvet display tray out from under the glass and gingerly removed a band.
“A very good choice, Mr. Marks. Pavé diamonds in platinum.”
“Right, that’s what I thought. Pavé makes a mean ring,” he answered, trying not to sound like someone who’d never heard of a pavé diamond.
“Pavé is French for paved. It’s a type of setting where the diamonds are close together as if the ring is paved with the gems,” Hans replied.
“That must have slipped my mind,” he answered with the worst comeback in jewelry knowledge history.
Holy pavé fuck balls! Who was he trying to kid?
He stared down at the bank of rings, swearing they’d doubled or tripled in the short amount of time he’d been in the room. There were so damned many of them.
“I think Georgie would love this pavé ring,” he said, staring at the sparkly circle.
The man nodded and slid the band onto a black velvet finger-looking object.
“And for yourself?” Hans asked.
“Something simple. I don’t wear jewelry, no offense, man,” he added, wanting to punch himself in the mouth for, again, sounding like his brain was pavéd with crap.
“None taken, Mr. Marks,” Hans replied.
“And when I was a kid, I learned I had a nickel allergy,” Jordan added, remembering the awful rash he’d gotten from a cheap gold chain he’d worn in a failed attempt to look cool in middle school.
“I see,” Hans replied, selecting a tray. “I’d suggest choosing a platinum or titanium band. Those, unlike gold, do not contain any nickel.”
Jordan watched as Hans placed the tray of nickel-free rings on top of the glass.
“You’re a fitness trainer, correct?” Hans asked.
“Yes, and I operate my own gym.”
“Then I’d suggest the titanium. It’s hypoallergenic, and it resists corrosion from sweat or chlorinated water.”
Jordan gazed at the sleek rings. “Really?”
“See what you think of this one with beveled edges,” the kind man suggested, passing him the silver-colored titanium ring and teaching him what a beveled edge was. He would have called them ridges, but if he’d learned one thing today, it was that he may be able to knock out a thousand push-ups in one training session, but the mental stamina it took to choose something the size of a quarter damn near wiped him out.