Georgie
“Is everything okay?” Bobby asked, pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose.
Georgie tightened her grip on Jordan’s hand. “Yes, everything is…fine.”
As fine as one can be after discovering an eight-week-old blueberry-sized human had set up camp in your uterus and learned that a hoard of people had just watched them perform act one of the first act of the Naughty Rancher’s Daughter.
Concern marred Hector’s expression as he lowered his voice and spoke to the marketing and PR employees. The group headed back to the other side of the office when Barry looked over his shoulder and caught her gaze.
“Barry, would you mind staying as well?” she asked.
Barry had been with them from the beginning. The easygoing producer had been by their side during the Battle of the Blogs, and like Hector and Bobby, he’d become like family.
“Sure, Georgie,” the man said, pressing a button on the wall that activated the retractable divider to close.
Hector paced in front of them. “It’s the whole outdoors angle, isn’t it? You think it will be like that awful boot camp the Denver Wedding Frau made you attend before you got married where you had to bring your own pooper scooper.”
“Shit shovel,” she and Jordan said in unison as a chill traveled down her spine.
That implement from hell would haunt them forever.
Bobby gave them a sympathetic grin. “We promise that there won’t be any camping involved. The team thought it would be great for you to branch out and highlight some of the attractions the state has to offer, and the Colorado office of tourism also reached out to us. They’d love to have you as ambassadors. And it’s not all extreme sports. They’d mentioned having you visit some of the city’s small breweries, and they even suggested a trip to the Western slope to check out Colorado’s vineyards and budding wine industry. The sky’s the limit!”
While partaking in wine tastings and extreme sports to showcase the state would be an incredible opportunity, it didn’t exactly fit into the parameters of a safe pregnancy.
“That all sounds great,” she answered warily, sharing a look with her husband.
“Interesting ideas,” he added, but the concern in his eyes signaled his unease.
Hector gestured to a pair of sofas, and they settled themselves.
“I feel a but coming on,” the man said, catching Bobby’s eye.
This was the moment she’d been dreading since the first pair of pink lines appeared on the pregnancy test this morning. The moment she’d realized the plans she and Jordan had made had to be scrapped.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t want her baby. She did. Sweet blueberry pineapple surprise, she did!
The minute that alien peanut showed up on the screen, she knew it was meant to be. What she didn’t have the answer to was what happens next, followed quickly by a sense of panic, not knowing the first thing about raising a child.
She loved her mom, but the woman had her quirks when it came to parenting. When she was a girl, Lorraine Vanderdinkle’s idea of mother-daughter bonding had been to spend the weekend in a hotel ballroom, wearing enough rouge to make a newscaster cringe and jamming high heels onto her little feet so she could parade on stage in a beauty pageant.
She didn’t want to be that kind of mother. She wanted to shower her child with books and days spent staring at the sky, searching for cloud-shaped animals. She wanted to sing songs and finger paint. With Jordan on one side and her on the other, she’d imagined swinging their little one between them as they enjoyed a meandering walk.
But what if her child wanted to be in beauty pageants?
Would she be like her mother and deny the wish because it wasn’t in line with her taste?
While they were on their honeymoon, between bouts of mind-blowing sex, they’d planned their future.
Their love story unfolded over a handful of months. Their honeymoon in Fiji had been their first real vacation. Lying in the shade of a cluster of leafy palm trees, they’d listened to the ocean’s calming melody as they’d laughed and dreamed, talking of the future and the adventures to come.
A future that included growing their brand and their businesses. Jordan wanted to branch out and open gyms in other parts of the city, and she had dreams of doing the same with her bookstore. They wanted to travel and share their More Than Just a Number philosophy all over the world. Yes, it would be a lot of work, but they’d be in it together. CityBeat’s sweethearts. Partners. A team. A perfect pair.
The idea of turning their duet into a trio hadn’t even popped up.
Like some abstract concept, she’d wanted to become a mother—someday.
That someday, however, happened to be the day after they’d returned from their honeymoon.
She fixed her beauty queen smile to her face and turned to the men sitting across from them. “Jordan and I have some news.”
“What kind of news?” Hector asked, his knee bouncing like a kid ready for recess.
It was now or never. Whatever plans CityBeat had in the works, they’d either be put on hold indefinitely or go down the drain.
“The kind of news that wets diapers,” she answered, waiting for Bobby, Hector, and Barry to go nuts.
“Is my Aunt Gertrude coming to town? And if she was, how would you know that, Georgie?” Barry asked wide-eyed.
“No, I don’t know anything about your Aunt Gertrude. I’m trying to tell you all that I’m pregnant.”
The men sat there, as still as statues, until Bobby and Barry’s shoulder’s slumped, and Hector broke out into an ear to ear grin.
“Two somebodies owe me a hot fudge sundae,” Hector chimed, snapping his fingers in a triumphant set of clicks.
“What do hot fudge sundaes have to do with us having a baby?” Jordan asked.
“It has to do with a bet I won,” Hector answered with another smart snap.
She stared at the men. This could not be a pregnancy fog or mirage or whatever Dr. Beaver said women with child experienced. She was eighty-five percent sure this was not how people usually responded to a pregnancy announcement.
“A bet about what?” She needed some damn clarification.
Hector leaned forward. “You, Georgie! I bet Barry and Bobby a hot fudge sundae that you were knocked up.”
“When?” she said with as much indignance as she could muster.
“At your wedding.”
She reared back, her mouth hanging open.
“You thought Georgie was pregnant at our wedding?” Jordan sputtered. “I didn’t put it together until the end of our honeymoon.”
“How far along are you, honey?” Hector asked.
“Almost eight weeks,” she answered, unable to believe how many people got a pregnancy vibe off her when she’d been oblivious—and all of them uterus-less men!
Hector clapped his hands. “I was right! I’m the pregnancy whisperer!”
Barry stared at his cell phone. “Sorry, boss. Somebody already claimed that title.”
Hector’s knee was back to bouncing. “Fine! I’m the…baby sleuther,” he said with a dramatic baby sleuthing edge.
“You’re safe with that one, and if you don’t mind, I’m going to send a quick email to my aunt while she’s on my mind—just to make sure she doesn’t have any trips planned to come to Denver. She snores, too,” Barry replied, gaze fixed to his phone.
Georgie shared a look with her husband, who shrugged. What do you say to a guy who disclosed that his aunt wets herself and snores? Hallmark sure as hell didn’t have a sympathy card for it, and her trifecta had nothing, her fictional friends cringing at the thought.
Luckily, they didn’t have to address the afflicted aunt.
“Bobby! We’re going to be fairy godfathers!” Hector exclaimed and hugged his husband.
Diaper-wearing aunts, fairy godfathers, baby sleuthing, and hot fudge sundaes?
Georgie leaned in toward Jordan. “Am I having a pregnancy delusion?”
“No, babe. They seem genuinely happy. I don’t get it either.”
“You’re not upset or disappointed?” she asked the men.
“Are you kidding! Under the circumstances, this is the best news!” Bobby answered.
The circumstances?
“You understand that means Georgie and I can’t jump off of cliffs while holding hands or guzzle local ale in matching beer steins,” Jordan said, sharing a perplexed look with her.
“All the plans and sponsorships will have to be canceled. I’m due in June,” she added.
“Not canceled, amended,” Hector replied with a devious little glint in his eyes.
“Amended to what?” Jordan asked.
Hector steepled his fingers as a contemplative crease formed on his brow. “Barry, have they arrived?”
They?
What was Hector talking about?
The CityBeat producer checked his phone. “Yep, they’re here.”
“Tell them what’s going on and ask them to join us.”
“Will do!” Barry replied, hammering out a text.
Georgie looked around. Were there more people watching them?
“Who are you talking about?” she shot back.
Barry pocketed his phone and stood, but Hector raised his hand, ushering him to sit.
“Hold on, one hot knocked-up second!” Hector said, doing a yoga-thing with his hands, drawing his index finger and thumb together in a mystical okay gesture.
“Now, Georgie, you know the psychic energist shared that I have a gift. I know things. Spiritual things. Energetic things,” he whispered into the air.
Sweet Jesus!
She’d been grateful to have her mother, Hector, and Bobby occupied and out of her hair when their wedding planner sent them to a psychic energist, who deemed them enlightened, then assigned the trio the important job of reading the spiritual energy of wedding favors.
But she’d never considered the ramifications or ripple effect of their newfound skill set.
At least Bobby seemed to have realized their psychic abilities mounted up to supernatural silliness. Unfortunately, that insight hadn’t dawned on his husband.
Hector looked ready to continue talking of otherworldly things when his eyebrows jumped to his hairline. “Wait! Have you told your mother and Howard about the baby?”
Oh, crap!
“Not yet. We just confirmed the pregnancy with the doctor this morning,” Jordan answered.
And there it was—again, the question of when they would tell her mother.
How would she handle spilling the beans? The minute her mom found out she was going to be a grandmother, she’d visit the dermatologist for a few Botox hits and then, depending on which Lorraine Vanderdinkle personality showed up, it would either be Mrs. Namaste Vanderdinkle, let’s chant and light some candles, or socialite Lorraine, who’d be all about designer baby this and designer baby that.
Either version, she wasn’t up for it. Not yet. Not when she hadn’t fully wrapped her mind around becoming a mother.
No, she’d hold off telling her parents. People did that. They waited, didn’t they? Plus, her mother and Howard were probably very busy meditating and measuring the psychic energy of mini Buddhas and elephant figurines. When she and Jordan were ready, they’d call her stepfather’s office and send word. It bought them a little time.
Georgie swallowed hard. “My mother and Howard are in India, honing their psychic skills at a retreat for the next several months, but we wanted to wait before we told them.”
“We did?” Jordan asked under his breath.
Damn those wanton pregnancy hormones! Instead of planning and strategizing their next steps with her family and CityBeat, they’d gone all sexy cowboy scenario instead. She’d never thought of her CrossFit husband donning Western wear, but with a body like his and abs that literally brought her to her knees, this man in chaps would be a Texas-sized panty-melter.
And rope! Cowboys used rope, lots of rope. They were always lassoing animals in cowboy movies. Jordan in chaps, tying her wrists together, then taking her like a wild stallion. That would be—
“Georgie?” her husband said gently.
“Yes?”
“You spaced out and started salivating,” he answered, concern woven into the words.
“I did?” She wiped the back of her wrist across her lips. Yep, full-on drool. Leave it to her to not only suffer from pregnancy fog but a sex-fueled pregnancy haze.
“You were saying you wanted to wait on telling your mother,” Bobby offered, getting her back on track.
“Yes, that’s right,” she answered, hoping she didn’t look like someone who’d blanked out for an imaginary quickie with a cowboy. “We want my mom to harness her chi and balance her yang before dropping such psychically exciting news,” she added, throwing together one heck of a word salad.
“I see,” Hector answered, tapping his chin.
“Yes, that’s it,” she reiterated, glancing at her husband who, bless him, nodded like what she said had made complete sense.
Hector stilled. “Your mother is quite gifted, Georgie. She knew before we opened the box that the first batch of wedding favor chocolate from Switzerland had an adverse aura.”
“Yeah, that’s some expert psychic maneuvering,” she replied as if they were discussing something gravely serious and not the perceived ominous vibes emitted from a box of candy.
“Have you ever had psychically unbalanced chocolate?” Hector asked, lowering his voice.
She pressed her hand to her belly. The thought of chocolate, balanced or unbalanced, made her want to hurl.
“I’m sure it would have ruined everything. It was a good catch,” she replied as the faint hint of an acoustic guitar drifted into the room.
“What’s that?” Jordan asked.
“That’s how we’re amending your situation. The universe works in mysterious ways. Open the door, Barry!” Hector said, that glint back in his eyes.
Barry bolted from his spot on the couch. “You guys will love this!” he said, almost as wild-eyed as Hector.
With a dramatic flair, the CityBeat producer threw open the door, and the guitar music grew louder. And it wasn’t just a guitar. There was singing. And it wasn’t only one person. No, two distinctly male voices wafted into the room.
“My name’s Lenny, and this is Stu, we love little babies, it’s what we do!”
Two smiling men entered the room. Looking to be in their mid-fifties with hipster beards, one man was tall and thin while the other was short and plump. Wearing newsboy caps and jaunty scarves tied around their necks, they looked like the kindergarten version of vagabonds—the tall one playing the guitar while the shorter man shimmied around with a tambourine.
“We should call Dr. Beaver and ask if men can suffer from pregnancy delusions,” Jordan whispered, narrowing his gaze at the singing manifestation.
“We love to learn! We love to sing! When it comes to babies, we know everything,” the men continued.
“Do you see two guys standing in front of us singing about babies?” she asked, unable to look away from the crooning odd couple.
“Yeah,” he answered, staring slack-jawed at the men.
She cocked her head to the side. “Then, we’re either having the same pregnancy delusion, or this is really happening.”
“What the f—” Jordan began, coming to his feet.
She sprang up and clapped her hand over his mouth.
“Who are these people, and why are they singing?” she asked the CityBeat founders.
“This is the next frontier, Georgie,” Hector offered, which told her nothing.
“The next frontier is grown men dressed up as put together hobos who sing about babies? No offense,” she said to the men, who’d stopped singing.
“None taken. That’s what we were going for,” the taller of the two replied with a friendly strum.
Hector raised his hands like a carnival barker. “CityBeat Rattle. We’re gettin
g into the baby business,” he said, piling on the drama.
The stout man slung the tambourine under his arm, then plucked a trio of baby rattles from his pocket like a gypsy Mary Poppins and started juggling.
“Meet Lenny and Stu. They’re the hottest thing on the baby music circuit,” Barry added.
“And toddlers and preschoolers. Our chant, ‘The Clean-up Chicken Dance,’ is used in early childhood education classes across the globe,” the tall man with the guitar replied.
“That is quite an accomplishment,” she offered, still not sure this was happening.
She reached over and pinched her husband as the short rattle juggler slid the baby toys back into his pockets.
“Ouch! What was that for?” Jordan exclaimed with a startle.
“A reality check,” she answered.
“Good call,” he whispered back, rubbing his arm.
Georgie’s thoughts went to her literary trifecta. But the girl wizard and Georgian-era ladies sat stupefied with no advice to dispense on the topic of internet baby sites.
These three were no help today!
“You’re starting a new company?” Jordan asked.
“Not a new company—an offshoot,” Bobby replied.
“And now we’ve got CityBeat’s sweethearts, welcoming their own bundle of joy, to bridge the gap from our main site to our parent-friendly domain,” Hector added as a topsy-turvy wave washed over her.
No, no, no, no, no, no!
She plastered on her beauty queen smile, which she only used in dire situations. “But Hector, we don’t want to make anything public yet. Remember, I haven’t told my mother.”
The man waved her off. “That’s not a problem. The site won’t be up and running until late July. You’ll have delivered by then—and hopefully, told your mother,” he answered with a chastising lift of his eyebrow.
“And all the content we put together will be archived until then,” Bobby supplied.
“And the timing couldn’t be better,” Barry added.
Jordan crossed his arms. “For what?”
“Lenny and Stu are leading the first-ever CityBeat Rattle Battle of the Births,” Hector answered, in circus ringmaster mode.
For Pete’s sake!
Own the Eights Maybe Baby Page 7
