Own the Eights Maybe Baby
Krista Sandor
Candy Castle Books
Copyright © 2020 by Krista Sandor
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Krista Sandor
Candy Castle Books
Cover Design by Marisa-rose Wesley of Cover Me, Darling
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-7343629-5-4
Visit www.kristasandor.com
Free 15-Minute Quick Read Romance
Lip Lock Love-a steamy short story
A crash course in kissing can’t be that bad? Or can it?
Lip Lock Love is a short & steamy quick-read with all the feels.
Tap the cover to get your free ebook.
https://BookHip.com/GCQHHG
Contents
Chapter 1
Georgie
Chapter 2
Jordan
Chapter 3
Georgie
Chapter 4
Jordan
Chapter 5
Georgie
Chapter 6
Jordan
Chapter 7
Georgie
Chapter 8
Jordan
Chapter 9
Georgie
Chapter 10
Georgie
Chapter 11
Jordan
Chapter 12
Georgie
Chapter 13
Jordan
Chapter 14
Georgie
Chapter 15
Jordan
Chapter 16
Georgie
Chapter 17
Georgie
Chapter 18
Jordan
Chapter 19
Georgie
Chapter 20
Jordan
Epilogue: Part One
Epilogue: Part Two
The Inside Scoop
Also by Krista Sandor
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Georgie
Georgiana Jensen-Marks stared at a window.
A tiny plastic window barely the size of a Tic Tac, her heart beating like a drum.
She narrowed her gaze, as if by sheer force of will, she could alter the outcome and stop another set of faint pink lines from materializing.
“Georgie? Are you okay in there?” her husband asked from the other side of the bathroom door.
Husband.
Jordan Marks, CrossFit trainer extraordinaire, Emperor of Asshattery, reigning Sovereign of Scat, and her partner in lifestyle blogging, was her husband.
After a breakneck-speed romance, where at times, she was damn near ready to break his perfect neck and a whirlwind wedding, she and Jordan had promised to love and honor each other for the rest of their lives. In front of their closest friends and family and a little over two hundred of her mother’s high society country club confidants, the acclaimed event planning guru, the Denver Wedding Frau, had given them the wedding of their dreams and the knowledge that their love was the kind that could last a lifetime.
With the changes they’d endured over such a short period, it was a miracle they didn’t have whiplash!
She’d met Jordan only five months ago when they were forced to team up for the CityBeat Battle of the Blogs. Her Own the Eights philosophy, preaching the merits of dating a solid, dependable eight over a self-obsessed ten, had been the polar opposite of Jordan’s Perfect Ten Mindset. But over a few weeks, the man she’d dubbed the Emperor of Asshattery because that’s exactly who he was when they’d met, had become the one person she couldn’t live without.
Together, they’d created the More Than Just a Number blog, marrying the best of each of their blogs and creating one hell of a bang in the blogosphere.
She’d never dreamed Jordan would pop the question on live TV so soon after they’d moved in together. But that’s what happened a couple of months ago. In only a few weeks from that unconventional proposal, and with more ups and downs than she could count, they’d made it to the altar—stronger and more in love than ever.
With the wedding behind them, this time was supposed to be about them. They’d spent the last fifteen days on their honeymoon, breathing in the salty-sweet Fiji air while indulging in the naughtiest teachings of the Kama Sutra.
Eat. Sleep. Sex. Repeat.
Their time in the beach bungalow had been a welcome reprieve from their publicized romance and newsworthy nuptials. Thanks to their status as CityBeat’s top-rated bloggers, coauthoring their More Than Just a Number lifestyle blog with millions of followers across the globe, the world had watched them fall in love and get married.
It was everything she’d ever wanted.
And everyone wanted a piece of the CityBeat sweethearts.
Opportunities were rolling in by the dozen. Companies were lining up, asking for endorsements. Publishers were dangling book deals, and conferences wanted them as keynote speakers.
She and Jordan had dreamed of this—dreamed of helping people find happiness and reach their true potential. They wanted to be household names associated with living your best life by taking care of yourself, your community, and the world.
Day after day, their blog garnered more likes, more followers, and more people who wrote in, sharing how their posts had inspired them to lead a better life and often, find love in the process.
They were now back in Denver—back in their eclectic Tennyson neighborhood, where her cozy bookstore sat next door to her husband’s CrossFit gym. Now was the time to jump head-on into their roles as business owners and super-bloggers.
Charging ahead at light speed, they were living the dream.
Nothing could stop them.
That’s what she’d thought until a pair of pink lines begged to differ.
She opened the bathroom door and handed Jordan the positive pregnancy test. With slow, deliberate movements akin to that of a crisis negotiator, he regarded her as one would treat a ticking time bomb.
It wasn’t that far off the mark. Once they’d landed in Denver after their long flight from Fiji, Jordan had dropped an actual bomb.
A pregnancy bomb!
You might be knocked up is not what she’d expected her husband to say while they stood next to the baggage claim carousel, waiting for their luggage.
“I need another test and a giant glass of water. No, make that pineapple juice,” she said with as much dignity as one can muster when seated on the toilet with her underwear pooled around her ankles.
She’d been in the bathroom, peeing on pregnancy tests, for the better part of the morning. This was not even close to what she thought she’d be doing the day after they’d returned from their honeymoon. She met her husband’s gaze, then glanced down to see their dog, Mr. Tuesday. Concern welled in his doggy eyes with one ear poised and alert, looking at her in much the same way as Jordan.
“Georgie, babe, that was the twelfth positive test,” Jordan said, maintaining his calm demeanor. However, he couldn’t completely hide the hint of trepidation when he and Mr. Tuesday shared a knowing glance.
Even her literary trifecta—Lizzy Bennet, Jane Eyre, and Hermione Granger, the three imaginary characters she’d consulted and confided in since she wa
s a girl, were ready to throw in the testing towel and accept what was right in front of them.
She craned her neck and maintained her perch on the potty, trying to see if any pink and white boxes were left on the bathroom counter.
This was not an easy feat.
“There should be one more, right?” she asked.
Jordan and Mr. Tuesday shared another knowing look.
Men!
Once her husband had made the baby-in-the-oven baggage claim proclamation, she did what any woman in her situation would do.
Shop.
Despite being exhausted from their long flight, she’d insisted they stop at the drugstore on the way home. She’d slid an entire row of pregnancy tests into their basket along with several packs of Winterfresh gum, a carton of pineapple juice, a deck of playing cards, a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer, and eight grab-and-go Slim Jims to draw the clerk’s attention away from the more sensitive items—like how she always bought a handful of ChapSticks when purchasing tampons.
Stealthy, huh?
Georgie’s shoulders slumped.
Who did she think she was? A possibly pregnant Houdini?
In her defense, Winterfresh breath was never a bad thing.
Jordan looked over his shoulder. “Yep, there’s one test left.”
One test.
One more shot at putting this pregnancy scare behind them.
It wasn’t like she didn’t want children…someday. She loved children. Well, she loved having them come into her bookshop, enjoyed suggesting picture books to their parents, and adored introducing older kids to the classics.
But she was an only child, and her extent of child-rearing knowledge revolved around fiction.
She didn’t have a clue about the non-fiction nuts and bolts of what to do with a child, let alone a baby.
A baby?
A wave of anxiety, thick with unease, welled in her chest. But she’d be lying if she said there wasn’t a thread of excitement woven through the fabric of frayed nerves. As she sat on the toilet seat, it was as if she were strapped into a roller coaster, the cars clicking up the track, then coming to a halt, motionless for barely a breath, dangling inches away from the first terrifying drop.
“I’ll need that test and some pineapple juice STAT!” she blurted—a touch more forcefully than she’d expected.
Why was she talking like a soap opera doctor?
She held out her hand, waiting for Jordan to pass her the test, when the man pulled the travel-sized hand sanitizer she’d purchased from the drugstore from his pocket and squirted a glop into her palm.
“You’ve been handling a lot of pee covered plastic.”
There’s a sentence she’d never expected to fall from her husband’s lips.
She rubbed her hands together. The man wasn’t wrong. Peeing on twelve pregnancy test sticks did take a level of finesse she hadn’t quite mastered.
He shared another look with the dog. “I called your gynecologist’s office. They can get us in for an appointment later this morning.”
And…another sentence she hadn’t expected to hear from him.
“How’d you get the number for my gynecologist?”
“It’s in your phone contacts under gynecologist,” he answered with a bemused grin.
Why wasn’t he freaking out? In situations like these—and in every chick flick she’d ever laughed, sighed, and swooned over—the guy always freaked out!
“We’ve got an appointment with Hector and Bobby at the CityBeat building,” she answered, brushing past the gyno appointment comment.
Today, they were scheduled to meet with CityBeat’s founders and their good friends, Hector Garcia and Bobby Chen, to chart a grand path for their More Than Just a Number blog and brand. The CityBeat marketing team and PR crew would also be in attendance to help set the course for the next twelve months, regarding the direction of their wildly popular blog.
They needed to capitalize on their success and strike while the iron was hot.
“The meeting is this afternoon. We can make both appointments work,” he replied, all crisis negotiator cool.
She shifted her hips. Right about now, a padded toilet seat cover sounded like heaven.
“Do you think we need to go see my doctor?”
He crouched down to her level. “I think it would give us a definitive answer. Twelve tests seem pretty conclusive, but a professional opinion is always a good thing to get.”
Maybe he had a point. But she wasn’t ready to be definitive about anything yet.
She held out her sanitized hand. “I’ll take number thirteen, please.”
He met her gaze, and she tried to read him. Once upon a time, her husband had completely lost it over having to interact with baby goats and an alpaca named Fred. And while he’d conquered his fear of goats, they’d both agreed alpacas, with their ability to spew green gunk from their bellies like mammal cannons, could be real assholes when they wanted. Still, knowing how her husband behaved when something freaked him out, she couldn’t tell how he felt about their pregnancy purgatory. He’d gone all CrossFit trainer cool. A trait she’d admired in him. But what did he think of all this?
And how could this have happened?
Just as the thought crossed her mind, she filed it under duh.
She wasn’t an idiot.
She knew exactly how this happened.
Any kid who’s sat through sex ed knows how it happened.
But she was on the pill. Granted, the two weeks before their wedding, life had gotten pretty crazy with their less than stellar performance at a wilderness boot camp and then a giant fight that had Jordan bunking at his dad’s place. She’d wondered if they would make it to the altar. It was like living in some bizarre space-time continuum where the days were both excruciatingly long while also racing by in the blink of an eye.
She’d missed a few birth control pills here and there. More like here and there and there and there again. Surely, a little pill snafu couldn’t mean the complete loss of protection, could it?
She swallowed past the lump in her throat, her mouth growing dry. Perhaps it was the dependence on tropical juice she’d acquired, ingesting so much pineapple over the last few weeks. She’d detested the fruit her entire life until they landed in Fiji, and she became a pineapple power-eater.
A pineapple power-eater?
Holy pineapple pregnancy craving!
But that could be a fluke.
They’d been in a tropical paradise. When in Rome, one ate pasta. When in Fiji, one ate pineapple. Or, was it just her, ordering bowl after bowl of pineapple salsa to go along with her grilled steak, pineapple, and avocado salad, and then, for dessert, a slice—or four—of pineapple upside-down cake?
There was no denying she’d ingested a hell of a lot of pineapple over the last two weeks.
“It’s November, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah, today’s the first Monday in November.”
She’d known that they were meeting with Hector and Bobby the day after they returned from their honeymoon. But she hadn’t fully grasped the date had fallen in November because, while October passed with their wedding celebration and their honeymoon, one significant event never occurred.
Good old Aunt Flo hadn’t stopped by for a visit.
Yep, she’d missed her last period.
Still, she was a little irregular, like back when she was sixteen. Maybe her cycle was recalibrating.
That had to be it! Her whole body was recalibrating. It probably happened to all women in their late twenties. She’d google it—possibly write an entire blog post about it. She could collaborate with experts in the field to construct an in-depth examination of the subject.
The Great Recalibration of the Female Body!
A jolt of euphoria surged through her, which was quickly tamped down by the blaring bullshit alarm going off inside her brain.
“Are you sure you want to take another test, babe? They’ll probably have you do one at th
e doctor’s office.”
She’d swiped thirteen boxes into the basket. She might as well make use of all of them.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” she answered, that mix of fear and excitement back, percolating in her chest.
Jordan tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Coming right up, messy bun girl,” he answered, then reached for the pregnancy test when her phone, laying on the counter next to it, pinged.
Jordan grabbed the test with one hand and her cell with the other, then sucked in a tight breath.
“It’s your mom.”
Georgie groaned. That was what she needed at this very moment—not!
Dear Universe, you’ve got one heck of a sense of humor!
She slumped forward as her left foot started to go numb from all the toilet sitting.
“I better answer it. If I don’t, she’ll keep calling. She knows we got back late last night.”
He handed her the phone and the box, and she swiped to accept the call before it headed to voicemail.
“Pumpkin, where are you? Is that your cheek?”
Lorraine Vanderdinkle’s voice rang out. But it wasn’t just her mother’s honeyed, moneyed voice coming from her phone. Nope, the woman’s Botox smooth face stared at her from the other side of the screen.
Sweet baby, Jesus! This was not the time for a video call with her mother—while she sat on the toilet, clutching a pregnancy test.
She held the phone in front of her face and plastered on a grin. “I’m right here, Mom. I didn’t realize we were doing a video chat.”
“Look at that tan! Pumpkin, you are glowing! How was Fiji? Anything exciting to report?” the woman purred.
Georgie shared a look with her husband. “It was fantastic—lots of fun in the sun! Your standard beach honeymoon—no more, no less,” she added, then immediately wanted to stuff her mouth with all the Slim Jims she’d bought at the drugstore to block the deluge of game show hostess gobbledygook flowing from her mouth.
Own the Eights Maybe Baby Page 1