“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?