And those stories had become his escape after her death.
He’d find an isolated corner of the library and lose himself in the lives of Peter Parker and Clark Kent. In those moments, he wasn’t a scrawny, picked-on kid with a father wracked by grief. No, he’d become those superheroes, overcoming hardships, beating the villains, and saving the day.
“Look, Jordan,” Georgie said, pulling him from the past.
He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand as they watched Mr. Tuesday sniff and prod the mannequin infant with his nose.
“It looks like he approves of Faby, our no-sex baby,” Georgie remarked, patting the pup’s head.
“It’s got to be a good sign,” he answered, feeling pretty damn proud.
Look at them, introducing their beloved pet to a plastic model infant!
They were excellent dog parents. Sure, human babies were probably more work, but they’d get there. Granted, they didn’t have a clue about the baby NFL or fencing for toddlers—which, after everything he’d learned from the waiting room dads today, probably was a thing. But Lenny and Stu seemed well-connected in this new universe, baby-verse, whatever you want to call the phase of life they were about to enter. And despite their outfits, the men seemed as if they’d be able to provide them with everything they needed to know.
Baby 101, here they come!
He was about to tell his wife they should google toddler fencing to see if it existed when she gasped.
“What is it? Is it the baby? Do you need to hurl again? Should I get a bucket?” he blurted, morphing into a high-alert expectant father.
Georgie waved him off. “It’s nothing like that! I remembered that Irene said that Mr. Tuesday loved cuddling into her pregnant belly while we were in Fiji.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he pressed, not wanting a repeat of what happened in Hector and Bobby’s new office.
Georgie sat back into the cushions and chuckled, relief written all over her face. “I’m fine. I can’t believe I totally spaced that Irene and Will can help us field any pregnancy questions. They’re due in March.”
That’s right! In all the pregnancy hoopla, he’d forgotten their friends were already living the expectant parent life.
“With the Battle of the Births and our friends able to help us fill in our pregnancy knowledge gaps, I think we’ve got this, babe. But are you sure you don’t want me to set a trash can next to the couch? You know, just in case,” he said, then gave her his best vomit face.
Georgie plucked a small decorative pillow off the couch and went to whack him with it when a knock at the door caught their attention and stopped her mid-swing.
“Are you expecting anyone?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. We’re meeting everyone at the bookshop in a little while to catch up and tell them about our honeymoon.” She picked up her phone and glanced at it. “No one messaged me that they were going to stop by.”
He checked his cell. No texts or new messages, either.
“It’s Nicolette. Lorraine Vanderdinkle’s executive assistant,” came a woman’s voice from the other side of the door.
“I’ll get it,” he said, leaving the couch and opening the front door to a rush of chilly November air.
“Hello,” he said, taking in the new Nicolette.
The petite woman had on sunglasses as big as dinner plates and a straw hat—pretty strange for fall in Colorado, but what did he know about fashion. He’d just learned what a lady romper was today.
“I have something for you and Miss Georgiana,” she said in a thick French accent.
The woman rooted around in her bag. She pulled out her passport, then plucked an envelope from the tote, crammed with magazines and a bottle of sunscreen.
“Are you going on a trip?” he asked as she handed over the envelope.
She stiffened. “No.”
He tapped the envelope to the doorframe. “Well, thanks for bringing this by.”
Nicolette glanced at her watch. “I better be going. Everything you need to know is in the letter,” she said, then ran down the path and jumped into a waiting car.
That was weird, but you’d have to be weird to work for Georgie’s mom.
“What did Nicolette want?” Georgie called.
“She dropped off a letter,” he answered, closing the door only to have it pop open.
“It does that from time to time when the weather gets cooler. Jiggle the handle, and then it should close,” Georgie instructed.
He gave the knob a little shake but stilled when he read the letter’s return address.
“It’s from the office of Lorraine Vanderdinkle,” he said, sauntering over to the couch as Georgie leaned forward to get a better look at the special delivery.
“Your mom has an office?” he asked, handing her the envelope.
“Who knows these days,” Georgie answered, opening the letter, then scanning the page.
He looked over her shoulder. “What does it say?”
“The gist is that many of my mother’s charity duties are mainly ceremonial in nature.”
“Okay,” he answered, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
“I think the only thing we have to do is host a Western-themed charity event for literacy education in May.”
“Are you sure that’s it? I thought she did a ton of socialite stuff?” he asked, glancing at the page.
She angled the letter so he could skim the message. And his wife was right. While Lorraine sat on many boards and supported several charities, there appeared to be very little to do.
“I think the bulk of her work is a decent amount of bluster and flowery titles,” Georgie added.
He finished reading the message and twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. “That’s good, right? One less thing to worry about?”
“I agree,” she said with a wide grin. “And we could host a Western-themed literacy charity event in our sleep!”
“Western, huh?” he said as the rancher’s daughter scenario flashed through his mind.
Georgie’s expression grew wicked. “Speaking of Western, I want you to close your eyes.”
“Why?” he asked, meeting her naughty grin with one of his own.
She glanced at her phone. “Because we have a little time before we have to meet everyone at the bookstore, and I remembered something that I think you might like.”
“You’ve got a giant mechanical bull hidden in the closet?” he teased.
She stood up and glanced over her shoulder. “Not a bull. Now, close your eyes,” she directed.
“Are you going all naughty librarian?” he continued, hearing her footsteps disappear toward the back of the bungalow.
He’d never tire of his dirty little bookseller.
Georgie in those grandma glasses, a messy bun, and nothing else was about as hot as it gets.
He closed his eyes and listened as a clunk caught his attention. It had to be either Georgie doing God knows what or Mr. Tuesday playing with one of his slobbery tennis balls.
“Are you ready?” Georgie purred.
“That was fast!” he answered, his eyes still closed.
“When you’re a beauty pageant veteran, you know how to rock a quick outfit change.”
“No more onesie,” he said, riling her up.
“It’s a chic, fashion-forward romper, if you’ve forgotten. But you’re right. The romper is off,” she answered with a hint of playful irritation.
“I hope you kept on the sexy bra you wore for Dr. Beaver and Nurse Joyce.”
Hey, he had no issues with his wife wearing sexy lingerie period—even if it were to see her gynecologist.
“I’m still wearing the bra,” she answered, moving closer as a small gust of air whooshed over his face.
“Did you pack a palm leaf from Fiji in your bag so you could fan me and feed me grapes like a Greek god?” he asked, getting into the idea of role-play.
Bad cop/good cop, rock star and groupie, sexy spies, an
d of course, his rancher’s daughter fantasy shot to the top of the list, thanks to their hot make-out session.
Honestly, the make-believe possibilities were endless.
“No,” she answered as another puff of air kissed his cheeks. “This is more in line with the rancher’s daughter.”
Hell to the yes!
He sucked in a tight breath as his blood supply headed south.
“You can look now,” Georgie said on a sultry rasp.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. “Winner, winner, cowboy dinner!” he exclaimed, unable to stop himself.
Standing in front of him and twirling a baton in a jean skirt barely covering her ass, Georgie wore a checkered shirt tied in the front like a modern-day Daisy Duke in red—that’s right—red cowgirl boots.
A naughty rancher’s daughter!
His gaze raked over her body. “How did I not know you had those boots?”
“This was my costume for the Miss Rootin’ Tootin’ Pageant in Wyoming. My mom wanted to go with a Western theme.”
Under normal circumstances, had his wife uttered the words rootin’ and tootin’, he would have laughed his ass off. But in that outfit, looking like a cowboy’s super-fantasy, all he could do was drink her in.
“Again,” he said, coming to his feet and gripping the baton mid-twirl. “Where have you been hiding this?”
“I have a box of pageant outfits. I haven’t opened it in years, but I remembered this outfit when we got home. Last time I wore it, I hopped off the pageant stage in the middle of my baton routine and ran all the way to a donut shop. Nobody in Wyoming blinked an eye at a girl dressed like this running down the street. It was a little looser and a little longer back then. I didn’t look like—”
“A ranch hand’s wet dream,” he answered.
“Something like that,” she replied, drawing her index finger between her ample cleavage.
“Who needs a mechanical bull when you’ve got the rancher’s daughter version of Georgiana Jensen-Marks in boots and a jean skirt,” he said and dropped the baton to the floor.
“How about Georgiana Jensen-Marks in boots, a jean skirt, and no panties?”
Jesus, how he loved this woman!
“You look like you’ve had a hard, hard day rounding up the cattle,” she said, falling into character.
Two could play at this.
“It’s a lot of work being a cowboy, but I think I could handle one more ride,” he answered, throwing in some twang.
She pressed her hand to his chest, walked him back to the couch, then guided him to sit.
“You’re not riding anything, cowboy. That’s my job,” she answered, then straddled him and went to work, unbuttoning his fly.
All this sexy cowboy dirty talk had him ready to explode. Georgie gripped his hard length as he palmed her ass then slid his other hand between her thighs, finding her sweet center hot and wet.
“I hope you don’t think I do this with all the ranch hands,” she said, working his cock in slow, delicious strokes.
He matched her pace as he caressed her most sensitive place. She might know how to drive him wild with that sexy outfit and cowgirl dirty talk, but this ranch hand had some tricks up his sleeve.
He dialed up his pace, stroking her tight bundle of nerves with his thumb while teasing her slick entrance with two fingers. “I know you like it like this. When you’re in the barn, and you think no one can see you, I like to watch you touch yourself.”
He could totally get into the role of the randy cowboy peeping Tom.
“Do you like watching me?” she said, then closed her eyes, losing herself to his touch.
“I’d rather be inside of you,” he growled. He was damn close, but he wasn’t about to go over the edge without Miss Rootin’ Tootin’.
She released his hard length, and he lined up his cock, brushing the glistening head of his shaft across her delicate folds. Georgie ran her tongue across her top lip before she arched into him and welcomed his penetration with a breathy moan.
“Georgiana, you’re so wet for me, you dirty cowgirl,” he said against her lips, then captured her mouth in a breathtaking kiss.
As their bodies moved together, their tongues met, licking and caressing in a sensual dance. After today’s life-changing revelations, they needed a release, a respite, a moment to lose themselves in one another.
And while they’d done it on just about every surface of the bungalow, here on the couch with Georgie’s hands pressed to his chest as she rode his cock would always bring him back to their first time. It seemed like eons, not months ago, that they’d given in to their mutual disdain and opted for a little sexual stress relief.
He’d never been more drawn, more furious, more frustrated, or more attracted to another person until his life collided with hers.
He rolled his hips and set a heated pace as Georgie’s faint gasps of pleasure bloomed into moans of ecstasy. The friction between them grew into a fiery inferno as he kissed her neck and gripped her ass, ready to take them over the edge.
“Yes,” she panted and raked her nails across his shoulders.
He had the rancher’s daughter right where he wanted her.
Without missing a beat, he worked her body, changing the angle of penetration. And then, they were there, hovering in that space between this world and the next, teetering on the edge of complete carnal gratification. Georgie cried out as they met their frenzied release, rocking and clinging to one another, drawing out each rippling wave of their climax.
“It looks like the rancher’s daughter likes it quick and dirty,” he said, then pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
“Oh, she likes it other ways, too.”
“This cowboy could use some details,” he replied, lowering his voice as the thought of round two sent a fresh jolt of lust straight to his cock.
Georgie sighed, coming back from wanton bliss. “The rancher’s daughter likes it…dog!” she finished, her warm body going stiff.
“You want it doggy style, cowgirl?” he asked, but something was off.
She gazed past his shoulder. “No, not doggy style. It’s our dog.”
“What about him?” he asked as a cool rush of air sent goose bumps prickling up his arms.
Georgie gasped. “He ran out the door with our Faby!”
7
Georgie
Georgie blinked.
Had she just watched Mr. Tuesday swipe the half-diapered doll and run out the front door?
And had she and Jordan had dirty-girl cowboy sex in front of Faby, their fake baby?
“Georgie, we need to go after him,” Jordan cried, jolting her from her stupefied state.
“Hold on! I need to do a quick clean-up,” she said, maneuvering her body off her husband’s cock, then grabbed a few tissues from the box on the end table. It was one thing to chase after a runaway dog dressed like a slutty farmhand. It was an entirely different bale of hay doing it with you-know-what running down your thighs.
Jordan adjusted his clothing, then plucked his jacket and her cardigan from the wall hooks.
“Here, babe! We need to hurry!” he said, tossing her the garment.
They started for the door when she spotted the diaper bag.
“Do you think we should bring Faby’s stuff?” she asked.
Jordan ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. Do you think there’s something in there that Faby will need?”
“I’m not sure what to bring on a mission to save a fake baby from a real dog,” she replied, worry starting to get the best of her.
Her husband paced the length of the living room. “I bet Mr. Tuesday thinks Faby is another chew toy,” he said, then froze.
Wide-eyed, his jaw dropped, and she knew they both just happened upon the same chilling revelation.
They could not show up to the Battle of the Births with a mauled fake baby—or worse than that—no fake baby at all!
What kind of parents lost their fake baby hours after they’
d been entrusted with its care?
“We have to save Faby!” she exclaimed.
“We have to!” he repeated, slinging the diaper bag’s strap across his body before taking her hand as they made a mad dash out the front door.
After barely a block, Jordan was ahead with her lagging behind like a tortoise tethered to a cheetah.
Sweet baby chaser! Her husband could run!
She released his hand as they rounded the corner, headed toward the Tennyson neighborhood’s business district.
She gasped for breath and pointed down the street. “Keep running, Jordan! You’re faster! There’s a good chance Mr. Tuesday is headed for the park. You can corner him there.”
Jordan shook his head. “I am not leaving you behind. We’ll run at your pace. It’s safe for you to continue to exercise at the same level you’re used to.”
She stared up at the sky. Streaked in heavenly shades of orange and blue, the dusk Denver nightscape was a sight to see. But soon, this masterpiece of majestic colors would fade into black. Then, not only would they still be searching for a dog and a doll, they’d be doing it in the dark of night.
She shook her head. “No, you have to go! We’ll be losing the light soon, and God knows where he’ll go if we can’t find him and Faby soon. You’re stronger and faster. You need to get to Mr. Tuesday and rescue our fake baby.”
Jordan ran his hands through his hair again, leaving his perfect dark waves curling out this way and that like a toddler with bedhead.
He took her hand, his green eyes brimming with apprehension. “Georgie, please don’t make me choose between my pregnant wife and my fake baby!”
This was complete insanity.
“Okay, we’ll jog together. I’ll try to pick up the pace a bit. Keep an eye out for Mr. Tuesday and Faby!”
They continued, weaving their way past couples and families strolling down the sidewalk when a chorus of shrieks and squeals caught their attention.
“Is that dog eating a baby?” trilled a distraught woman with a scrap of white material in her hand.
Oh no! She had Faby’s diaper!
“There he is!” Jordan exclaimed as a blur of black and white fur shot down the street, leaving a slew of horrified people in his wake.
Own the Eights Maybe Baby Page 9
