“I’m so happy for you. This is a huge opportunity.”
“And Will and I have you to thank,” Irene added.
Georgie cocked her head to the side. “You do?”
Irene gazed lovingly at her husband. “If it weren’t for your Own the Eights blog, I wouldn’t have met my husband. And, without Will’s encouragement, I don’t know if I would have taken the leap and agreed to move across the Atlantic.”
“We owe you big. We do,” Will answered, then pressed a kiss to his wife’s temple.
“That’s great news! We’re so happy for you both,” Jordan said, shaking Will’s hand, then leaning over to kiss Irene’s cheek.
Everyone turned their attention to the Iceland-bound couple, but Georgie felt a pregnancy haze coming on as the group’s conversation faded into the background.
She was happy for Irene, but now she was three for three.
First, sweet nurse Gina. Then, her gynecologist, Dr. Rosenstein. And now, Irene.
One, two, three.
Uno, dos, and gone without a tres!
Her blog—her words—had helped these women find love. They’d also taken them thousands of miles away when she needed them the most.
“What’s going on?” came a man’s voice from behind.
It was most likely a bookshop patron chatting with a companion, but as she watched the landscape of her life shift yet again, she blew out a tight breath.
“Irene is moving to Iceland, my gynecologist is kicking it in Australia, and I’m pregnant,” she replied, answering the question aloud to herself, even though it wasn’t meant for her.
“You’re pregnant?” came the same voice. A voice she could not believe she hadn’t recognized.
She whipped around to find Brice Casey—the man who seemed to pop up in every phase of her life—standing behind her, donning his Casey Pest Control T-shirt.
She pinched herself, testing to see if this was a pregnancy mirage. But he was still there, smiling that goofy grin with his perfect hair. Granted, she’d softened on Brice—even liked the guy. He did get them to their wedding on time, thanks to his penchant for showing up at key moments in her life. He’d even stayed for the nuptials, and they did the Chicken Dance together. More than that, she couldn’t forget that her disastrous date with him years ago had been the catalyst for starting the Own the Eights blog. Without this well-meaning, half-witted asshat, who knows where she’d be!
“What are you doing here, Brice?” she asked.
He held up a sheet of paper. “Making sure you don’t have any creepy crawlies in the bookstore.”
Georgie froze. “Are there spiders in my shop?”
The thought of those eight-legged mini-monsters made her want to head for the spider-less hills.
“No, but Becca mentioned you guys never had a pest control check the other night when we were…”
“Discussing bookshop maintenance. Let me look over the invoice,” her friend interjected, rushing to Brice’s side and plucking the sheet of paper from his grasp.
Was this another possible pregnancy hallucination?
“Are you and Brice…” she trailed off, staring at her friend.
Becca scoffed and waved her off. “As the manager, I’ve got a little bookstore business to deal with,” she answered, then took the pest control prince by the arm and led him toward the office.
That was certainly odd.
She was about to mention her hunch about Becca and Brice to Jordan when his phone pinged, and like one of Pavlov’s dogs, instantly, she knew what was coming.
“Is that a CityBeat alert?” she asked.
In the flurry to get out the door, she’d left her cell at home, but she’d bet two slices of pineapple cheesecake that her phone just pinged the alert as well.
It was like the Battle of the Blogs. She could feel it in her bones—another challenge, calling their name.
“Yeah,” he answered, checking his phone.
“What does it say?”
Jordan pocketed his cell. “They sent us the date for the first challenge.”
“And Faby?” she asked.
“Faby’s coming with us.”
She glanced at the doll in her arms, staring up at her with that playful glint.
Game on.
Ready or not, here they go again.
8
Jordan
“Are you doing all right in there, messy bun girl?”
Jordan gave a soft knock from the other side of the door. This had become a common arrangement—him, on one side, while Georgie lost her breakfast, lunch, dinner, or even a snack in the restroom on the other side.
Whatever asshat named morning sickness, morning sickness, didn’t seem to take into account that nausea could hit at any time of the day.
“I was able to buy some pineapple lollipops and a bottle of pineapple juice,” he said, glancing into the paper bag.
“What about pineapple squares? Do we still have any left in the car?” his wife asked from the other side of the restroom door.
They’d been driving when Georgie turned the telltale shade of green. Fortunately, he was able to pull over at a coffee shop and rush her inside before she lost her insides.
“I think we’ve got a few left in the car.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And there are a couple of nice people out in the hall, waiting for the restroom.” He smiled at the patrons, then lowered his voice. “My wife’s almost twelve weeks pregnant. The doctor says her morning sickness should ease up soon.”
“And that?” one of the women asked, pointing to the lifelike Faby, nestled into the crook of his arm.
“This is our fake baby,” he answered without missing a beat.
Each lady gave him a placating smile, then they turned and headed back into the coffee shop.
“Never mind. No rush, messy bun girl,” he called to Georgie.
If he’d learned one thing over the last month, it was how to clear out a restaurant or coffee shop. He wasn’t sure if it was his vomiting wife or the fact that he usually had a doll with him while he stood near the entrance to the ladies’ room.
Either way, it gave them a little privacy, and no one had called the cops on them yet.
Even with an infant simulation doll in tow and the bouts of anytime-of-day sickness, which is what it should be called, they’d fallen into a rhythm. Georgie still craved pineapple like a citrus maniac, but they’d gotten back into the groove of writing for their More Than Just a Number blog and running their businesses. Granted, Faby was always close by. But their fake baby didn’t make a sound or wet its diaper. So, despite having to keep an eye on Mr. Tuesday to head off another runaway Faby incident, their fake infant had blended into their lives like an innocuous, incredibly lifelike Elf on a Shelf. Except, it was Faby, Georgie and Jordan’s fake baby, which had a certain ring to it he’d liked.
Or he was losing it. Either way, they’d come to like the hunk of plastic and silicon, and life moved on.
Georgie and Becca had weekly video chats to talk about all things human gestation. And, on the growing a person front, their alien peanut was chugging right along. Truth be told, the science geek in him was fascinated with Georgie’s changing body.
Always an early riser, he’d gather his sleeping wife into his arms and run his hands down her abdomen. Dressed in her signature cardigan and leggings, one wouldn’t know she was carrying precious cargo. But in those moments when her naked body was warm and snuggled into his, he’d caress the slight hint of a bump and marvel at the miracle of the human body.
And then there was the sex.
When Georgie wasn’t losing her lunch, she was positively ravenous—and not only for pineapple cheesecake—but for all kinds of naughtiness.
A little pregnancy tidbit he’d never heard about.
Sure, he could rattle off facts about a pregnant woman’s loosening ligaments, but he’d never read about a revved up libido.
Perhaps that was just his Georgie.
Not tha
t he was complaining.
He didn’t need a reason to get down and dirty with his beautiful wife—especially when she had a box full of costumes.
Cheerleader. Mermaid. Even a Nutcracker number from some holiday pageant.
But the rancher’s daughter remained in the top spot. All she had to do was slide on those boots to get him rock-hard, and instantly, he was ready for a roll in the hay, or bed, or floor, or kitchen table, or sofa. You name it, they could figure out a way to procreate on it.
He leaned against the wall, thinking back to last night’s reverse cowgirl naughtiness when the sound of running water coming from the restroom pulled him from his walk down sexytimes cowboy lane.
“I’d like to splash a little water on my face, and then I’ll be out,” she called to him.
“Faby and I’ll be waiting right here,” he answered as his belly did a flip-flop.
Today was a big day.
The big day.
Their first Battle of the Births challenge.
It was no wonder Georgie got sick. He was jittery as hell. It was a wonder he hadn’t lost his lunch, too.
He’d tried telling himself that this contest was ceremonial at most and not a real competition like the Battle of the Blogs or the wilderness boot camp torment they’d endured before their wedding. No, this would be similar to a class or a seminar. A learning experience they desperately needed because, thanks to their busy schedules, all the baby knowledge they’d garnered over the last month had come from a toy baby.
No burping or feedings. Nope, just a onesie change, here and there, whenever the mood struck.
Honestly, they had the fake baby care down to an art, but he had a suspicion that real babies took a heck of a lot more work.
“I’m coming out,” Georgie said, opening the door.
He cupped her face in his hand and stroked her cheek with his thumb. “It looks like you’ve got some color back.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “Yeah, I feel much better, but remind me to go easy on those pineapple squares.”
He nodded, but it was no use. She was like a mama bear with those squares, and he was a smart enough husband not to get between his wife and whatever pineapple delight she’d happened upon that week.
“And how is Faby?” she asked.
“Just chilling and rocking at being the best fake baby in Denver,” he said, switching the doll to his other arm as he followed his wife out of the shop and back to the car.
Georgie settled herself into the passenger seat, and he passed her the doll. She gently set Faby between her feet on the car’s floorboards. It wasn’t that they didn’t want Faby up with them, but it distressed other drivers to see an infant, even a fake infant, riding shotgun. So, they’d switched to the what-you-can’t-see-won’t-hurt-you option.
And, then again, Faby was a fake baby.
Still, who needs the hassle of getting pulled over and explaining why two seemingly ordinary adults are toting around a doll. Yep, that happened. Twice.
He started the car and maneuvered the BMW into traffic as they headed toward an industrial section of the city.
“I feel like we’ve been here before,” Georgie said, staring at warehouse after warehouse.
He gasped, hardly able to believe his eyes. “You’re right! We have.”
A giant nondescript building loomed in front of them with a weathered porcelain doll head painted on the crumbling exterior.
“We’re in the same location as the Denver wedding underground! We’re not headed to the same building, are we? They can’t be one and the same!” Georgie whisper-shouted.
He glanced at the GPS. “No, the address Lenny and Stu sent for the first Battle of the Births challenge is for the warehouse across the street.”
“What are the chances? That’s crazy,” she said, shaking her head.
It was about to get crazier.
“Georgie, there’s a limo pulling up to the Denver wedding underground!” he whisper-shouted back.
He had no idea why they were whisper-shouting, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
He turned into the parking lot for the Battle of the Births location, which gave them a perfect perch to watch as a doe-eyed couple emerged from the car along with Cornelia Lieblingsschatz, the Denver Wedding Frau and the city’s premier wedding planner.
“That was us not so long ago,” Georgie recalled as Cornelia glanced at their car.
Clad in her signature black with her silvery asymmetrical bob, the formidable woman stilled, then drew her Jackie-O sunglasses down, and gave them a tiny twist of a grin.
“I’m sure glad she likes us. She is one scary lady,” he said, watching the intimidating wedding planner usher the bewildered couple into the building.
“She sure is, but we owe her and Hans,” Georgie answered as another couple entered the warehouse.
He reached across the console, took his wife’s hand into his, then gazed down at her wedding and engagement rings. They shared matching titanium wedding bands, and his chest tightened remembering when Hans shared the story of how, in a marriage, you lived within the confines of the ring. Sometimes, on opposite sides when you disagree, but always able to reunite in the center. He ran his thumb across her knuckles, grateful that Cornelia and her husband had given them the gift of knowing they were meant to be together, despite their rocky ride to the altar.
“I wonder how the dildo guy is doing?” Georgie said with a teasing glint in her eyes.
“Why don’t you pop over and ask,” he threw back.
Georgie shook her head. “Oh no! When Cornelia is in Denver Wedding Frau mode, nobody is safe.”
He pressed a kiss to her palm as a pair of cars turned into the parking lot. There were already at least a half dozen vehicles parked haphazardly in the large lot. But, with all the industrial buildings, it was hard to tell if every car was here for the Battle of the Births. However, when couples emerged from the vehicles, each carrying a fake baby and a diaper bag, then entered the building, they knew this was the right place.
“It looks like it’s now or never,” Georgie said with the hint of trepidation as she lifted Faby onto her lap.
His wife was right. It was go-time. He swallowed hard, his mouth going dry. But he needed to keep this light and upbeat.
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “We’re going to crush this challenge!”
Georgie held his gaze. “Do you think we’re ready?”
He nodded, forcing his features to remain neutral. “I bet it’ll be like school or Baby 101. I don’t think we have anything to worry about. Sit tight,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure what baby secrets the warehouse held.
He exited the SUV, grabbed the baby bag from the back, then helped his wife out of the car.
“No matter what’s in there, we’re good,” he said, going for the strategy of repeating himself.
Georgie glanced down at Faby.
“Hey, we conquered shit shovels and wilderness boot camp. We can do this,” he added, reaching into his fitness motivation trainer toolbox.
Georgie winced. “I don’t know if conquered is the right word.”
“Okay, endured. We endured shit shovels and wilderness boot camp,” he said, amending his statement.
As two decidedly non-outdoorsy types, they’d put up with a hell of a lot more wilderness bullshit than most people experience in a lifetime.
And here’s the thing. They’d only been together for six months. But it was six months jam-packed with just about every emotion on the spectrum. In love years, if those existed like dog years, which they should, they’d be at least a decade in—maybe two—especially after what happened with that alpaca in the middle of freaking nowhere Colorado.
Georgie leaned into him as they walked up to the entrance. “You might also be pushing it with endured, but it’ll have to do.”
Good. She was getting her sense of humor back, and the nervous pageant expression was nowhere to be seen.
“A
re you ready?” he asked, reaching for the doorknob.
“I think so. It’s…” She released an audible breath as the hint of the anxious beauty queen expression stretched across her face. “I’m worried about my mom.”
He understood this. Georgie’s mom was great. He loved Lorraine. But she was also a lot.
A hell of a lot.
The errant lock of hair he’d tucked behind her ear had broken free, and he smoothed her chestnut wisps into place. “You know you can tell her at any time, babe.”
“I know. I’m just not ready.”
He tilted her chin and held her gaze. “That’s okay. We only told everyone at the bookshop because I screwed up and blurted it out.”
Georgie stared at the door. “Are we sure about this? The whole Battle of the Births?”
“How about I make a deal with you? If a guy greets us at the door with a tub full of rubber cocks, we head for the hills and never look back,” he offered, straight-faced.
Georgie smiled her real smile, the one she gave him each time he stepped foot in her bookshop.
She pushed up onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Deal. Rubber cocks at a baby challenge will be a hard no in our playbook.”
“Look at us! We’ve got standards and everything,” he said, feeling pretty damn good. Then, he opened the door and found…
Nothing.
Well, not nothing.
“Isn’t this place great?”
They turned to find Barry, their trusty CityBeat producer.
“What’s going on here?” Georgie asked.
The enormous space stretched out before them with individual rooms divided by clear plexiglass. Couples stood in each sectioned off area, waving their hands and moving around while wearing a head covering.
“Those are top of the line virtual reality headsets. This place is a tech junkies dream,” Barry explained, pointing to several couples engaged in God knows what.
“I don’t see a whole lot going on,” Georgie said, staring at a man who cradled nothing but air and rocked from side to side.
Barry held out his phone. “Everything in here can be viewed via the Battle of the Births app.”
Own the Eights Maybe Baby Page 11