Page 136 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
“I see,” the stately gentleman replied with a weary nod.
A nervous grin stretched across her face. “No funny business. I just need to see my mom.”
“I’ve seen your video,” the man parried back.
She shared a perplexed look with her husband. “Which video? Jordan and I make lots of them for our More Than Just a Number blog.”
“This one was from a benefit,” the man added, raising an eyebrow.
Oh no! Gustavo could not think she was a rabble-rouser! He’d never let her into brunch!
She cringed.
“Shall I let your mother know you’re here?” the man offered.
Oh, hell no! He was trying to brunch block her!
Gustavo had over thirty years handling Denver’s social elite, but she was armed with something that gave her the license to do whatever the hell she wanted.
She was mega-pregnant, carrying a baby doll, and packing a giant belly.
She lifted her chin. “No, you shall not let my mother know we’re here.”
“Georgie,” her husband said under his breath, but she’d decided not to take his warning.
“Like it or not, Gustavo, we’re crashing brunch,” she said like a mob boss.
“Hi, there, I’m Jordan Marks,” her husband said, cutting in and shaking the man’s hand.
“Could we at least find a jacket for your husband—club dress code policy, you know—and then I could escort you in,” the manager offered, but she could sense a crack in his brunch defense facade.
She waved him down. “Look at me, Gustavo! I’m as big as a whale and could blow at any minute. We don’t have time to play dress up. Do you have kids?”
“Yes, they’re grown now,” he answered with a distinct look of terror in his eyes.
“Do you remember what it was like when your wife was pregnant? The cravings, the hormones, the yo-yo emotions? I’m going into brunch, Gustavo. And you don’t want to get in my way today,” she continued.
“I’d listen to her, man,” Jordan cautioned.
Gustavo swallowed hard. “I think we can waive the jacket requirement due to your delicate condition.”
She patted the manager’s arm. “You’re good people, Gustavo,” she said, then grabbed her husband’s hand and entered the sanctuary of chef-prepared omelets and a pastry table the size of Cleveland.
“I see them. They’re in the center, close to the windows,” Jordan said, pointing past a swath of club members.
Georgie nodded. With not a strand of gray hair on her head, her mother was back to looking socialite fabulous.
This was it!
They wove their way through the dining room when her nerves started to get the best of her. Her stomach—or the baby—did a flip-flop as another contraction took her breath away.
“Georgie, are you okay?” Jordan asked.
She leaned over, gazing down at the white marble floor, and breathed through the pain.
“Georgiana, what are you doing here?” came her mother’s surprised voice.
Georgie blew out a tight breath, rode out the last spasm of the contraction, then met her mother’s gaze.
