Page 1 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
1
Georgie
Georgiana Jensen-Marks stared at a window.
A tiny plastic window barely the size of a Tic Tac, her heart beating like a drum.
She narrowed her gaze, as if by sheer force of will, she could alter the outcome and stop another set of faint pink lines from materializing.
“Georgie? Are you okay in there?” her husband asked from the other side of the bathroom door.
Husband.
Jordan Marks, CrossFit trainer extraordinaire, Emperor of Asshattery, reigning Sovereign of Scat, and her partner in lifestyle blogging, was her husband.
After a breakneck-speed romance, where at times, she was damn near ready to break his perfect neck and a whirlwind wedding, she and Jordan had promised to love and honor each other for the rest of their lives. In front of their closest friends and family and a little over two hundred of her mother’s high society country club confidants, the acclaimed event planning guru, the Denver Wedding Frau, had given them the wedding of their dreams and the knowledge that their love was the kind that could last a lifetime.
With the changes they’d endured over such a short period, it was a miracle they didn’t have whiplash!
She’d met Jordan only five months ago when they were forced to team up for the CityBeat Battle of the Blogs. Her Own the Eights philosophy, preaching the merits of dating a solid, dependable eight over a self-obsessed ten, had been the polar opposite of Jordan’s Perfect Ten Mindset. But over a few weeks, the man she’d dubbed the Emperor of Asshattery because that’s exactly who he was when they’d met, had become the one person she couldn’t live without.
Together, they’d created the More Than Just a Number blog, marrying the best of each of their blogs and creating one hell of a bang in the blogosphere.
She’d never dreamed Jordan would pop the question on live TV so soon after they’d moved in together. But that’s what happened a couple of months ago. In only a few weeks from that unconventional proposal, and with more ups and downs than she could count, they’d made it to the altar—stronger and more in love than ever.
With the wedding behind them, this time was supposed to be about them. They’d spent the last fifteen days on their honeymoon, breathing in the salty-sweet Fiji air while indulging in the naughtiest teachings of the Kama Sutra.
Eat. Sleep. Sex. Repeat.
Their time in the beach bungalow had been a welcome reprieve from their publicized romance and newsworthy nuptials. Thanks to their status as CityBeat’s top-rated bloggers, coauthoring their More Than Just a Number lifestyle blog with millions of followers across the globe, the world had watched them fall in love and get married.
It was everything she’d ever wanted.
And everyone wanted a piece of the CityBeat sweethearts.
Opportunities were rolling in by the dozen. Companies were lining up, asking for endorsements. Publishers were dangling book deals, and conferences wanted them as keynote speakers.
She and Jordan had dreamed of this—dreamed of helping people find happiness and reach their true potential. They wanted to be household names associated with living your best life by taking care of yourself, your community, and the world.
Day after day, their blog garnered more likes, more followers, and more people who wrote in, sharing how their posts had inspired them to lead a better life and often, find love in the process.
They were now back in Denver—back in their eclectic Tennyson neighborhood, where her cozy bookstore sat next door to her husband’s CrossFit gym. Now was the time to jump head-on into their roles as business owners and super-bloggers.
Charging ahead at light speed, they were living the dream.
Nothing could stop them.
That’s what she’d thought until a pair of pink lines begged to differ.
She opened the bathroom door and handed Jordan the positive pregnancy test. With slow, deliberate movements akin to that of a crisis negotiator, he regarded her as one would treat a ticking time bomb.
It wasn’t that far off the mark. Once they’d landed in Denver after their long flight from Fiji, Jordan had dropped an actual bomb.
A pregnancy bomb!
You might be knocked upis not what she’d expected her husband to say while they stood next to the baggage claim carousel, waiting for their luggage.
“I need another test and a giant glass of water. No, make that pineapple juice,” she said with as much dignity as one can muster when seated on the toilet with her underwear pooled around her ankles.
