He signaled, then maneuvered the car off the highway and onto the exit ramp, headed toward the market.
“That’s not how I remember that book, babe,” he said gently.
She lifted her chin. “You know what I mean!”
He didn’t. He really didn’t. But he wasn’t about to dissect the plot and character arcs of Charlotte’s Web with his upset pregnant wife when he wasn’t armed with at least three pineapple products.
Georgie stared out the window as they weaved their way through the city and toward the market. He pulled into the parking lot, then glanced at his wife. His heart broke at the sight of her in such pain.
There was nothing he wouldn’t do to make her smile—to make her see how any kid would be lucky to have her as a mother.
“Why’d you pick this location?” she asked.
He glanced out the window. They lived within a few miles of several organic grocery stores, but it had been ages since they’d visited this one—which happened to be the location of their first Battle of the Blogs challenge back when they could barely stand each other.
He stared at the entrance. “I don’t know. I was driving on autopilot.”
“This is where I watched you pick up that woman using honey as a prop,” she said with the faintest hint of a smile.
“And where you ruined cucumbers for poor Save the Whales Steve,” he replied, taking her hand.
Yep, they’d been challenged to use their former blog’s dating philosophies to meet a possible significant other at the grocery store. This was also the location of—
“We had our first kiss here,” Georgie said, reading his mind.
“You were neglecting the science of physical attraction. I had to prove you wrong.”
“And now look where we are,” she said, teary-eyed as she stared down at her baby bump.
He rested his hand on her belly. “Amazing, huh?” he answered.
“Don’t get used to me saying this, but it’s pretty obvious that you were right on the chemistry and attraction hubbub,” she said with a sly twist to her lips.
There she was. There was the snarky bookshop owner who’d stolen his heart.
“Oh, Jordan,” she said on a wistful sigh.
“What is it, babe?”
“After my outburst at the farm, who would trust me with a real baby?” she said, about to sink into the seat again when a sharp knock ricocheted through the car.
“I need you to take my baby!”
Their gazes shot to the passenger side window. Standing only inches away was Brice’s sister Briana with Ollie in her arms, her expression awash with anxiety.
He jumped out of the car and came to her side as Georgie exited the SUV.
“Are you guys okay? Are you hurt?” he asked.
The woman shook her head. “No, we’re fine. But I just got a call from the hospital. A patient I operated on yesterday is experiencing complications, and I need to go in. But no one is available to watch Ollie. Thad’s still not back. My family is attending a big pest control expo in Boulder. My mom is on her way here, but it’ll take her at least half an hour. And I don’t have that kind of time.”
Little Ollie reached for Georgie, and Briana passed the boy over.
“We’re happy to watch Ollie for you,” Georgie said, patting the boy’s back.
Briana pressed her hand to her heart. “Thank you! It’s like the universe put you right in my path.”
“Do we need your car seat?” he asked.
“No, my mom has one in her car, but would you mind doing something for me?”
“Anything,” Georgie answered.
“I’m forever waiting until the last minute to buy formula. Could you pick some up for me? And, of course, I’d pay you back.”
He waved her off. “No need. We’re happy to do it, Briana.”
“You two are lifesavers. Here,” she said, handing him Ollie’s diaper bag. “I’ll call my mom on the way to the hospital and let her know to meet you here.”
“Good luck! We hope everything goes well with your patient,” he said.
The woman nodded, kissed her son’s cheek, then jogged back to her car.
They watched as Dr. Briana Casey-Beaver sped out of the parking lot and disappeared into the city. Unmoving, they stood there for a beat before his wife broke their dazed bout of silence.
“Did someone just trust us to take their baby grocery shopping?” Georgie asked with a bewildered bend to the words.
He glanced at the smiling Ollie as an image of the VR diarrhea baby flashed through his mind.
But this was not virtual reality. This was a flesh and blood baby, who needed formula.
“Yeah, I think that’s exactly what happened,” he answered, the weight of this moment sinking in.
Georgie’s expression grew pensive. “We know the brand of the formula. We saw the can at their house. I assume we just buy the same thing.”
“Yeah,” he answered, still a little dumbstruck.
“Would you like my cart?” a man said, pushing an empty one toward the outdoor cart corral.
“Sure,” Georgie answered.
The man grinned as his gaze slid to Ollie. “Mine are nine and thirteen now. Enjoy them while they’re little. It goes by in the blink of an eye.”
“Okay,” Georgie replied, sounding stunned as the man turned and headed for his car.
“Should we put him in it?” he asked, angling the offered cart toward his wife.
Georgie shook her head. “Not yet. Grab the disinfectant wipes from the back of the car. We need to get it sanitized. And get Faby. We’re all going in together.”
“Right!” he said, remembering the wipe stand in the simulation, then sprang into action as hope and anticipation fluttered in his chest.
This was their chance. Their shopping with a baby re-do.
Lucky for them, Ollie looked wholly incapable of shooting an endless stream of baby poo. Thank Christ, they had biology on their side—or at least basic volume.
He wiped down the cart, then buckled little Ollie into the seat. Georgie set Faby next to him, and the delighted six-month-old giggled and cooed, tapping and touching his plastic seatmate.
“Look at that. Faby made a friend,” Georgie said, pushing the cart toward the entrance.
And that’s when he discovered he’d developed dad eyes.
Yep, dad eyes—the ones that see danger lurking around every corner.
All of a sudden, every crack in the pavement, every bird, every car, every person near them became possible threats.
“We’ll want to go in with a plan,” he said, eyeing a pair of teenagers carrying skateboards.
“I agree. Let’s get the formula first, then do the pineapple grab.”
“Roger that, MBG,” he parried back.
The market’s automatic doors slid open, but Georgie stopped in her tracks.
“Who’s MBG?”
He held her gaze. “You are. Messy bun girl. MBG.”
“You’re not playing around?” she replied, that playful twinkle back in her blue-green eyes.
“That’s an affirmative, MBG.”
They were taking this to combat-level serious with codenames and everything.
She grinned up at him. Her real smile. Her Georgie smile. “Let’s do this, PTA.”
He frowned. “PTA? Like the parents who run the bake sale at elementary schools?”
“No, perfect ten asshat,” she replied, looking damn pleased with herself.
PTA didn’t have the badass quality of MBG, but if it made his wife smile, he was totally good with it.
“PTA, MBG, the F-A-B-Y, and the real O-L-L-I-E are good to go,” he said, holding her gaze for a fraction of a second before they moved in on the target aka the grocery store.
They sailed down the aisles and even maneuvered past one of those little caution wet floor warning cones with ease. They picked up the formula. They plundered the pineapple yogurts. They pillaged the juice display. They filled the cart
with pineapple delights and were headed for the check-out when a smell akin to roadkill wafted up from little Ollie.
They stared at the boy, who’d nixed the giggles for a pensive pout.
“You don’t think Faby made that smell, do you?” he asked.
Georgie shook her head. “Diaper bag. Family restroom. This mission is taking a detour.”
“Jesus, babe!”
“What?” she asked.
“It’s pretty hot when you go GI Georgie.”
And boom! They’d added another sexy role-play scenario option to the naughty-times’ portfolio. As much as he would have liked to take a minute or twelve to think about a commando-clad Georgie, they had a bomb to defuse—a stink bomb.
A fart, smelling as if it came from a water buffalo, cut their sexytime talk short. They changed course, slicing and dicing past shoppers, cutting corners, and nearly taking out a pallet of sparkling water before making it to the family restroom.
The vacant sign above the door handle signaled they were good to go.
Georgie plucked Ollie from the cart, and the three, well, four counting Faby, of them entered the market lavatory.
And…
“Wow, it’s nice in here!” Georgie said, glancing around the spacious room.
“There’s even a chair,” he remarked, setting the baby bag on it.
“Okay, I need you to clean the changing table with a disinfectant wipe. I’ll get the diaper and the baby wipes.”
In action movies, there’s often a scene accompanied by an intense techno soundtrack where the characters operate in sync. Hacking the FBI—the real one. Fortifying a stronghold. Whatever the high-stakes scenario, that serious shit-is-getting-done music starts to play, and you know it’s that part of the film where the real nitty-gritty gets done.
In that quasi-luxurious family restroom, he and Georgie fell into that very scene. Except, the store didn’t have hardcore techno playing. No, the piped-in background music was…
He could barely believe it!
“Michael Bolton,” Georgie whispered as a lovely instrumental version of “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You” played over the market’s sound system.
He caught Georgie’s eye, and she nodded. A tiny move that would have gone unrecognized by most, but not him.
This song had been with them from the beginning. It couldn’t be a coincidence that it was playing now.
Table down.
Wipes deployed.
Jordan Marks was a man on a disinfecting mission. He raised his hands, then stepped back and allowed Georgie to move in.
Gently, she laid the baby on the changing table, then proceeded to remove his little baby shoes and his little baby jeans, which were, honestly, damn cute.
“Mr. Ollie, that is quite a smell,” Georgie said, adding a pee-ew sound that had the boy laughing a toothless baby giggle that was also cute as hell.
But the smell!
“You want me to do it?” he asked, eyeing the bulging diaper.
“No, I’m going in. Baby wipe,” she said, holding out her hand like a surgeon requesting a scalpel.
Wipe in hand, she removed the diaper, and, while the VR simulation wasn’t completely accurate, it was still freaky how much poop a tiny person could produce in real life. Still, at least this stuff wasn’t erupting out of him like Mount Saint Diarrhea.
It took a good ten or eleven wipes, but together—no, mostly Georgie with him earning a solid assist—they’d cleaned up the boy, disposed of the diaper, and had those baby jeans and shoes on before that Michael Bolton song even ended.
Things moved quickly after their diaper change win.
They’d washed their hands, left the bathroom oasis, and paid for their items.
And just like that, they’d mastered the real grocery store challenge.
He carried the groceries and Faby while Georgie lifted the boy out of the cart.
“Let’s wait on the bench,” she said with a mischievous grin.
“Ah, the very bench where you cracked open a tube of—”
“Don’t say it. We will not be speaking the name of my former favorite snack,” she replied, giving him a warning glance. “It’s one thing for me to be able to wear my bracelet with the cookie charm. It’s another tube of cookie dough to bring it up in conversation.”
He chuckled, remembering the moment he happened upon her on this very bench, squeezing the raw vegan cookie dough straight into her mouth like a modern-day female cookie monster.
“Hello, there! You must be Georgie and Jordan,” a woman said, waving as she walked toward them.
Ollie clapped his hands and reached for the woman.
“You must be Brice and Briana’s mom,” Georgie said, handing the boy over.
“I’m Louise Casey. It’s so nice to meet you both. Thank you for taking care of our little Ollie. You two were in the right place at the right time when Ollie and Briana needed you.”
Georgie parted her lips to speak, but nothing came out.
“We’re glad we could help,” he said, handing Louise the diaper bag, then wrapping his arm around his wife.
“Here’s Ollie’s formula,” Georgie said, finding her voice as she removed the can from their grocery bag and slid it into Ollie’s diaper bag.
“Say goodbye to the nice people, Oliver,” the woman said to her grandson.
The child made a raspberry sound as Louise turned and headed toward a sedan parked a few rows over.
“That was amazing,” Georgie said with tears in her eyes.
“It appears that we’re not half-bad at caring for real babies,” he replied, then glanced down at Faby, sitting on top of one of the grocery bags. “No offense, little buddy,” he added.
His wife sank onto the bench. “Had that spider not freaked me out and tried to kill Faby, we would probably still be at the farm.”
“You’re right,” he answered, taking a seat beside her.
“Briana said she was grateful that the universe put us in her path,” Georgie continued.
His wife wasn’t wrong. They were supposed to be at that grocery store at that exact time.
Georgie reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She held the phone to her ear and met his gaze. “Listening to the universe.”
He watched the worry and stress caused by the spider melee melt from his wife’s expression.
With one hand on her belly and the other holding the phone, she grinned at him.
“Hello, this is Georgiana Jensen-Marks, Howard Vanderdinkle’s stepdaughter. I need to get a message to him and my mother.”
16
Georgie
“It’s Georgiana Jensen-Marks, again. I’m calling to leave another message for my stepfather, Howard Vanderdinkle.”
Georgie paced the length of the kitchen, then caught a glimpse of the calendar tacked to the wall with a giant thirty-one written in today’s date box.
She’d been cooking a baby for thirty-one weeks, and holy Goodyear Blimp, could anyone within a five-mile radius tell. Her alien peanut blueberry turned mini pineapple turned mango, now felt like one of those giant prize-winning watermelons that took several brawny men to lug around from town fair to town fair.
Being thirty-one weeks pregnant also meant she’d spent the last several weeks trying to contact her mother and Howard.
“Mrs. Jensen-Marks, Mr. Vanderdinkle left word six weeks ago that he and your mother were entering a critical phase in their spiritual journey and would be completely off the grid until—”
“Until they discover their Sankalpa. I know. The last person I spoke with told me the same thing,” Georgie said, hating to interrupt but totally floored that Howard seemed to have jumped onto the psychic energist bandwagon with her mother.
She assumed he was there to placate her mom and figured he would have left the retreat to see to his businesses in the region months ago. But no. From what she’d gleaned from his bevy of
assistants, he’d left strict orders not to be disturbed.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” the woman asked.
Georgie drummed her fingers on the kitchen island. “Do you know what their Sankalpa is?”
“A Sankalpa is one’s innermost intention,” the woman answered with the hint of irritation in her voice, which may be warranted.
She had called the office on a Friday, one minute before five o’clock.
She stopped drumming her fingers and eyed a slice of pineapple upside-down cake. “Yeah, the last person told me that, too. Do you know how long that takes to find?”
“The Sankalpa?”
“Yeah.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t.”
“So, there’s no estimated arrival time for a Sankalpa?” she asked, tearing off a piece of the cake and popping it into her mouth.
“Not that I’m aware of, Mrs. Jensen-Marks. Is there anything else you need?”
Georgie swallowed the bite and sighed.
She needed to talk to her mother. The day she and Jordan had rocked their shopping trip with baby Ollie had sent a palpable zing of excitement through her body. She’d been sure that all signs had pointed for her to contact her mother, right then and there.
Why else would the events of that day have gone down the way they did? At the time, it was like her destiny was written in the stars.
But all that excitement had fizzled.
When she’d called from the grocery store, she’d told the receptionist that she needed to speak with her stepfather, and the assistant had simply taken her message. But after hearing nothing for two days, she’d called again, and this time, a different secretary delivered the Sankalpa line.
She stared at the cake and decided against breaking off another piece.
“I guess that’s it. Please pass along my messages as soon as you’re Sankalpa-capable,” she said, then cringed.
Who made cheesy wordplay jokes like that?
Clearly, she did. And they weren’t even that amusing.
“All righty, then,” the umpteenth person to answer Howard’s office line said before the call ended.
“No dice?” Jordan called from their bedroom.
She shook her head. “Howard has a zillion assistants and secretaries. I’m not even sure who I’m talking to from one week to the next. But they’ve all been telling me the same thing.”
Own the Eights Maybe Baby Page 21
