They took off running, and Jordan gestured to the woman.
“Grab it, babe!” he said as the chase shifted into high gear.
Passing the shocked Tennyson Street patrons, she snagged the diaper out of the woman’s pinched grip. “Thank you! And don’t worry. It’s not a real baby!” she called over her shoulder to the slack-jawed lady as they closed in on their targets.
The diaper bag jostled up and down, bumping Jordan’s elbow, then her arm, then Jordan’s elbow, then her arm again in a bizarre pre-parental masochistic motion. Could they stop and reposition the bag? Sure, if they wanted to spend the rest of the night searching for a dog and a doll. But they were losing daylight by the second, and there was no time to hesitate. Jordan glanced over, and she met his gaze, then nodded.
Like Zen-master mind readers, without a word spoken between them, the choice had been made.
They’d endure the punishing blows from the devil of a diaper bag to capture their dog and save their fake baby.
“This baby stuff weighs a ton, and that’s saying something. I spend my days in a CrossFit gym flipping tractor tires, and that’s nothing compared to this,” Jordan said through tight breaths as the wrecking ball of a diaper bag pinballed between them.
“We can’t stop! We have to endure the pain,” she answered, suddenly craving a tall glass of pineapple juice and a slice of pineapple cheesecake.
Damn these pregnancy cravings, popping up at the worst possible moment!
“It looks like he’s headed to your bookshop,” Jordan bit out as the diaper bag continued its bumpy assault.
The dog showed no signs of slowing when the door to Jensen’s Books opened, and a surprised customer exiting the establishment shrieked as she held the door for the runaway fake baby-snatcher.
“It’s not a real baby!” Georgie cried as they crossed the street and barreled inside the shop to find over a dozen pairs of eyes bouncing between them and Mr. Tuesday.
Her longtime family friends Gene and Marjory Gilbert, along with Irene and her husband, Will, sat on barstools that wrapped around the café portion of the shop. Jordan’s father, Denny, and Maureen, their accountant and also Denny’s girlfriend, had settled themselves nearby in a cozy seating area along with Maureen’s eleven-year-old twins Mya and Mia. Their high school volunteers, Simon and Talya, turned teenagers in love, cuddled across from them in an oversized chair. Even the blue-haired brigade, the octogenarians who enjoyed frequenting her store under the guise of enjoying a place to do their needlework when all they wanted was to get a good look at Jordan running past the shop shirtless—and honestly, who could blame them—were in attendance, their knitting projects halted by the canine kerfuffle.
Everyone was there—all assembled to get together to hear about their honeymoon.
Becca, her sassy friend who managed the bookstore, came out from behind the counter and scratched between the dog’s ears.
“What’s Mr. Tuesday doing with a naked baby doll?”
“Yeah, that’s a freaky chew toy, son,” Denny offered, sharing a look with Maureen.
Jordan leaned forward and pressed his hands to his thighs, working to catch his breath.
“It’s not a chew toy. It’s Faby. Our fake baby. Georgie and I have to keep it in one piece so we can prove that we’ll be able to take care of our baby when he or she arrives in June,” the man bit out between deep, punctuated breaths.
Running while carrying a diaper bag was clearly not for the faint of heart.
Gene Gilbert reached behind the counter and grabbed a bottle of water. “Coming at you, Jordan,” the man said, tossing the bottle across the shop.
At the sight of a thrown object, Mr. Tuesday dropped the doll and followed the bottle’s trajectory. But he wasn’t quick enough. Like a hydration-deprived gladiator, her husband swiped the bottle out of the air, ripped off the cap, and downed the liquid as Mr. Tuesday pranced around him in circles.
Quickly, she rescued Faby from the hardwood floor, cradled the doll in her arms, and checked for punctures before counting to make sure the doll’s plastic fingers and toes were intact.
“Faby’s okay—just a little slobbery,” she said as Jordan came to her side.
Her husband cradled Faby’s head in his massive hand, doing his own scan. “Thank God! We should get Faby’s diaper back on and see if there are any clothes in the diaper bag.”
Relief washed over her. Despite the wild baby doll goose chase, Faby was no worse for wear. Even better? Mr. Tuesday was safely corralled in the bookshop, and at least for the moment, they weren’t the worst fake parents on the planet.
She set Faby on a table and diapered the doll.
“Look! Clothes and wipey-things,” Jordan exclaimed, pulling the items from the diaper bag. He removed a moist tissue, then cleaned the slobber marks off Faby’s arm as she took the clothes and proceeded to dress the doll in a full-body onesie that zippered up the front.
With Faby safe, cleaned up, and dressed, she handed the doll to Jordan, then crouched down to be eye to eye with Mr. Tuesday.
“There will be no chewing the fake baby, mister. I’m serious! No table scraps for a week if we catch you pulling another stunt like that.”
Mr. Tuesday released a sad doggy sigh, and her heart nearly broke. But they had to lay down the law. It was for his own good.
“Your mom is right, big guy. We have to be careful with Faby,” Jordan continued.
Their pup went all puppy-dog eyes, and she pressed a kiss to the top of her dog’s head.
“We still love you and always will,” she whispered into the dog’s soft fur.
“We’re all fine, and that’s what matters,” Jordan added as the dog’s ears perked up, and his sad bad-dog expression disappeared into a throaty yawn.
And suddenly, she felt like a nap herself—and maybe some pineapple upside-down cake.
What a day!
Crisis averted. Faby rescued. And thanks to one heck of a mad dash, Mr. Tuesday would probably conk out for the rest of the night.
They’d triumphed over their first parenting trial—sort of. But a win was a win.
She reached for Faby, and Jordan gently handed her the doll. Dressed in a one-piece outfit with little ducks peppering the fabric, she stared at the small mannequin’s mischievous painted eyes and the quirk of its cooed lips. If dolls had actual thoughts, she was sure this one quite enjoyed that treacherous romp.
“Um…Georgie, Jordan? Everything all right?” Becca asked.
Georgie looked up to find the entire group staring at them. She and Jordan stood as Mr. Tuesday made his way to his dog bed situated behind the counter. And then she realized what these people had observed: two grown adults fawning over a doll.
“We’re fine! Completely fine,” she answered, resurrecting her beauty queen grin.
“Did you come from a square dance?” Irene asked, narrowing her gaze.
Georgie glanced down at her outfit, aka cowgirl-slutty couture.
She tried to pull the cardigan down past her scrap of a jean skirt, but you could only stretch a cardigan so far.
“I’m wearing this because…” she began.
“Because Georgie and I have been asked to host a children’s literacy event with a Western theme in May,” Jordan finished, like a white knight, swooping in to save a damsel, tangled up in a clothing catastrophe.
“And I was trying on different outfits,” she added, giving up on covering her legs and pulled the cardigan around her body to hide her visible midriff and the black bra, peeking out, highlighting her cleavage.
Gene frowned. “I’m no expert on women’s clothing, but I don’t think that’s an outfit you want to go with for a children’s event.”
“Yes, dear, perhaps, something a little less…” Marjory trailed off.
“Slutty!” piped one of the blue-haired brigade, gazes back on their knitting.
Those Michael Bolton-loving ladies were feisty old broads!
“I couldn’t agree more. Re
mind me to mark this choice as a no,” she said to Jordan, feeling her beauty queen grin veering off into deranged clown territory.
Her husband leaned in and lowered his voice. “You’ll keep the boots, right?”
My God! This man!
“Yes, I’ll keep it all. But this is strictly an indoor outfit for adult dress-up only,” she whispered back.
“Gotcha,” he replied with that handsome ranch hand grin that almost had her melting into a pool of enamored pineapple until another voice caught her attention.
“Hey, Georgie?” Becca chimed.
“Yeah, what is it?” she answered, in the headspace somewhere between riding her cowboy and wolfing down more pineapple cheesecake.
Becca crossed her arms and cocked her head to the side. “Are you pregnant?”
Oh no! Lengthening her grin another painful millimeter, she remembered what Jordan had said after they’d burst into the bookshop.
“How do you mean?” she asked, instantly knowing this was not the correct response.
Becca glanced at the wall of spectators, then tapped her chin theatrically. “Well, I don’t think there are many variations of being pregnant. I’ve never been pregnant, but I’m pretty sure that when someone asks if you’re pregnant, it’s a yes or no answer.”
“I can back you up, Becca. It’s a one hundred percent yes or no situation,” Maureen said as her twins giggled on the couch.
Irene rubbed her belly. “Yep, there’s no gray area on this one.”
“Not to mention, Jordan blurted out that you were expecting a baby in June,” Simon added.
“I said that?” her husband asked with a bewildered expression.
Their family and friends nodded.
Georgie glanced at Faby, and then to Jordan, who was giving her oh-shit eyes. No, not oh-shit-eyes—oh-shoot-eyes. There was the hint of a difference.
Expletive version or not, he was right.
What were they supposed to say? Again, they’d chosen to get it on before deciding what—or even if—they wanted to tell everyone.
She chewed her lip. From this moment on, they’d talk first and get their ducks in a row before starting the naughty rodeo antics.
“Am I going to be a grandfather?” Denny asked, his eyes shining with tears.
Jordan wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She glanced up and found him smiling the sweetest smile.
The smile of a proud expectant father, and her beauty queen facade melted away.
“Yes, you are. Jordan and I are expecting a baby,” she answered.
The big man stood and ushered her to the couch.
“Sit, Georgie! Let’s get you off your feet. You can take my seat. And Jordan, let’s get you settled next to your wife,” the man said, wiping a tear from his cheek.
“When did you find out?” Maureen asked.
“This morning,” Jordan answered.
Irene and Will sat down on a loveseat across from them, and while their friends appeared happy, worry flashed in Irene’s eyes.
“How far along are you?” Maureen pressed.
“Eight weeks,” she answered with a nervous cringe.
“That would mean…” Maureen began, but the twins cut her off.
“That Georgie was pregnant when she got married!” the girls exclaimed.
“How do you know that?” Jordan asked, raising an eyebrow.
The twins shared a look.
“Math!” the girls giggled in unison.
“How about Talya and I take Mia and Mya to get some ice cream down the block,” Simon offered.
“It’s on me,” Maureen said, rapidly plucking a few bills from her purse and handing them to the teen.
“Who’s ready for a triple scoop?” Talya asked as the twins bounced from their seats and followed the teens out the door as the adults crowded in.
“This is incredible news! How are you feeling?” Maureen asked.
Georgie glanced around the group. This was not how she’d envisioned telling their friends and family—and there was still the issue of telling her mother—but there was no turning back now.
“I’m doing pretty well. I want to eat pineapple all the time, and I threw up on a guy’s shoes this morning,” she answered.
“That sounds about right,” Irene said with a bemused twist to her lips.
“For me, it was cottage cheese with olives and potato chips mixed in,” Maureen offered with a grimace. “I can’t even look at cottage cheese now.”
Denny patted Jordan’s leg. “When your mother was pregnant with you, all she wanted was scrambled eggs. She ate them morning, noon, and night.”
“Was this planned?” Marjory asked.
Georgie sighed. “No, not at all. I could hardly believe it was true until we saw the baby on the ultrasound.”
Jordan pulled the grainy photo from his pocket and passed it to his dad and Maureen.
“Your mother must be over the moon. Will she and Howard be joining us tonight?” Maureen asked, handing the photo to the Gilberts.
Georgie swallowed past the lump in her throat. “My mom’s not in Denver. She’s in India with Howard at a spiritual retreat.”
“Are they coming home soon?” Gene Gilbert asked, handing the photo to Irene and Will.
“Not yet. We wanted to wait to tell them,” she said, going for pregnancy-casual but sounding more pregnancy-asshat.
“Oh,” Maureen replied with a crease to her brow.
Oh, was right. Was she the worst daughter in the world? Possibly? Absolutely?
No, she couldn’t be the worst.
After they had a handle on the pregnancy thing, they would tell her mother.
“We’re still trying to wrap our heads around it. Georgie’s not that far along, and we still have so much to learn. Fortunately, we’re involved in a project to help us get there,” Jordan answered, white knighting it again and blessedly, turning the talk away from her mother.
“A project?” Denny repeated.
“With CityBeat. They’re launching a site for pregnancy and child development blogs called CityBeat Rattle,” Jordan replied.
Gene narrowed his gaze. “What’s your part in all that?”
Georgie recycled her beauty queen grin. “We’re competing in the Battle of the Births.”
“The what?” the entire group exclaimed, shock gracing their faces.
Imagine if they’d kept it the Battle of the Babies!
Jordan raised his hands defensively. “It’s not as brutal as it sounds. Hector and Bobby assured us that it’s a friendly competition and more of a learning experience. They’re going to gather footage now before launching the site in July.”
Georgie turned to her pregnant friend and her husband. “That’s why we’re so grateful to have you both. You guys are a trimester ahead of us and can help us out along the way.”
“And let me tell you, we need all the help we can get. That’s why we’ve got this fake baby. It’s all part of the Battle of the Births,” Jordan added, gesturing to the doll.
“And I thought you two were a bunch of superfreaks playing with a doll,” Becca teased.
Georgie chuckled and shifted Faby in her arms, but the reality of their situation was starting to sink in. By this time next year, she and Irene would each have a little one of their own. And until then, they’d be gestating partners in crime, supporting each other through the thick and thin of their pregnancies.
She beamed at her friend, but the wattage on her grin dimmed as she watched Irene and Becca share a pensive glance.
It was probably nothing—a weird sister thing. But her trifecta shook their heads. No, something was up. Lizzy, Jane, and Hermione were never wrong.
Georgie turned up the wattage on her smile and tried to discount her literary trio. “It’ll be great, Irene. We can exercise together and eat all sorts of weird foods. I’m so happy not to be in this pregnancy boat alone.”
Now, Irene shared a look with her husband—the same serious look she’d exchanged w
ith her sister.
Irene stroked her belly. “We can do all that. It’ll just have to be over the phone or video chat.”
Georgie frowned. “Why would we need video chat? We live in the same neighborhood, and you run the bistro a few blocks away? Your little sister manages my bookshop. We hardly ever go a day without seeing each other.”
Irene’s gaze grew misty. “Will and I are moving to Iceland.”
Georgie’s mouth fell open. “Iceland? Like the country?”
Irene gave a teary chuckle. “Yes, that Iceland.”
“Why?” she threw back, wide-eyed as her literary trio matched her expression.
Even her imaginary trifecta was thrown by that info drop.
A warm grin stretched across Irene’s face. “A few months back, my old graduate advisor reached out to me. Funding had run out on a renewable energy research project we were working on back when I was in school, going for my masters in bioenergy. After things dried up with the research, I started taking more shifts at the bistro. One thing led to another, and years passed. I never thought I’d get the chance to finish my degree. But that’s all changed. Now, my advisor’s connected with a university in Iceland and has funding for the next five years. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it was going to happen. I got the call last week. The project is good to go.”
“You’ll be in Iceland for five years,” Georgie said on a stunned exhale.
Will took his wife’s hand. “I knew this was huge for Irene, so I asked my boss if I could work remotely, and he agreed.”
“What about your baby? You’re due in March,” Georgie pressed.
This was ridiculous, right? Who picked up and moved to Iceland mid-pregnancy?
Irene gave her belly another loving pat. “People have babies in Iceland, Georgie.”
“I’m…” she began, then paused, taking in her friend’s joyful expression.
Of course, she wanted Irene to follow her dreams and earn her degree.
Would she miss her terribly?
Yes.
Could they make it work with calls and video chats?
They’d have to.
Georgie pushed aside her hopes of double pregnancy bliss with her BFF and reached across the table and squeezed Irene’s hand.
Own the Eights Maybe Baby Page 10