Page 109 of Own the Eights Gets Married
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 wordshit 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 don’t have my dryer lint in your pocket,” she teased.
“About that…” he answered, trailing off as the muffled sounds of her fiancé shifting and, most likely, parting with the incriminating evidence made her press her lips together to stifle a chuckle.
If Jordan Marks was a superfreak dryer lint hoarder, then he was her superfreak dryer lint hoarder.
She glanced over at a full-length mirror and sighed, taking in her appearance. With Jordan under strict orders not to come over to her side of the RV, all they had to do was wait another thirty minutes until they’d made it to the Botanic Gardens.
In an ivory empire waist gown, harkening back to the age of Jane Austen, and her hair just as she and Jordan liked it, wound into a wedding-chic, messy bun with tendrils framing her face, she’d never felt more lovely or more ready to become Mrs. Jensen-Marks.
Of course, she was going with a hyphenated last name. But it wasn’t only her sense of autonomy guiding her in the decision. Jensen wasn’t only her last name. It was her father’s last name, and she intended to keep it to honor the man she knew was looking down on her and smiling.
“Not too bad, huh?” she whispered to her trifecta, who wholeheartedly approved of her attire.
“Are you talking to them?” Jordan asked.
She could hear the smile in his voice.
“I hope you don’t think it’s strange that you’re marrying someone who converses with her childhood imaginary friends.”
He chuckled. “Not at all. I asked for their help today.”
She gasped. “When?”
“When I saw you in the hospital lobby. I knew if you sensed I was there and if you turned around, it meant our connection hadn’t been broken.”
“You asked Lizzy, Jane, and Hermione to get me to look at you?” she shot back.
“Yep, and it worked,” he replied, sounding quite proud of himself.
Georgie blinked back tears, wondering if her father hadn’t played a little part in that, too, when the RV lunged forward, and she scrambled to stay upright.
