Page 14 of Own the Eights Gets Married
“Would a champagne fountain the size of a skyscraper count as too crazy?” he asked.
“Why?” she questioned, as a wave of apprehension washed over her.
But Jordan didn’t need to elaborate.
They entered a room that could only be described as Willy Wonka meets pretty, pretty princess. Square in the center of the grand space, a tower of champagne bottles and crystal flutes formed what looked like a Dom Pérignon monster Christmas tree.
But that wasn’t all.
In each corner stood giant fountains, flowing with chocolate and littered with strawberries and other fondue delicacies.
Georgie gasped when she caught a glimpse of a man dressed in a pink chef’s uniform. He stood behind a table teeming with polished silver chafing dishes. Brandishing two large knives, the man held them over his head like a culinary samurai before turning his attention and knife skills on a giant hunk of meat.
And the baby pink! It was inescapable. From the bouquets of flowers placed on every flat surface to the tablecloths to swaths of fabric draped between the chandeliers, they’d walked into a Pepto-Bismol champagne party prison.
“It’s so pink,” she uttered.
“But you like pink, pumpkin,” her mother replied with her signature tinkling laugh.
“I like the color rose, Mom,” she muttered.
“And there are a lot of people here,” Jordan added, taking in the masses, mingling in the opulent room.
Her mother waved him off. “It’s only family and friends. And, of course, everyone from the Country Club and Howard’s venture capitalist chums. Oh, yes, and the media!”
“As well as CityBeat and all their subscribers,” Barry added, holding up his phone.
Startled, Georgie shrieked. “When did you get here?”
“I was behind you the whole time.”
Jordan tensed. “You followed us?”
Barry raised a hand in mock defense. “Only to get some shots of you two walking. I wasn’t close enough to hear you.”
She gestured to 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.
