Page 142 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
“Yes, let’s get you to the chaise lounge,” Lorraine agreed.
“So I can deliver a baby inside of a country club next to an ice sculpture?” Georgie threw back, glancing around wildly.
He rubbed between her shoulder blades. While there were worse places to deliver a child, he could certainly understand her trepidation. She wasn’t wrong. How many women gave birth in the same room as an ice sculpture?
“It’s that or the backseat of a Prius, pumpkin,” her mother said gently but firmly.
Georgie cried out as another contraction hit. Without thinking, he lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the couch.
“Is this actually happening, or is it a pregnancy delusion? Please, say it’s a delusion,” she added, blowing out tight punctuated breaths.
“This is happening,” he answered, resting her on the cushions.
She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand, going back to pregnant labor panting.
She gasped. “The contractions are coming fast. They feel like they’re right on top of each other.”
He was thinking the same thing. Unfortunately, he didn’t know the first thing about delivering a baby. But he was the city’s top trainer. He knew how to take control and get shit done.
He glanced up and assessed the scene.
“Hector, call for an ambulance. Let them know Georgie’s gone into labor,” he said, then barked out more orders, directing his friends and family to find towels, blankets, and even hot water because that’s what they called for in all the historical romance movies Georgie loved to watch. And it didn’t seem like a bad thing to have around. Hell, they had an ice sculpture. Why not a bucket of hot water, too?
“Another contraction’s coming,” she rasped, then released a piercing screech.
He turned to the brunch crowd. “My wife is in labor. We need a doctor. Can anyone help us until the ambulance gets here?”
Dozens of hands shot up.
“This is great,” he said, sharing a look with Georgie’s mom.
Lorraine shook her head. “No, most of them are plastic surgeons. Unless Georgie wants vaginal rejuvenation surgery, which is a great idea after the baby comes, these people will be of no help,” she answered.
“I’m a psychiatrist,” called a Freudian-looking guy.
Jordan hardened his features. “Nope, dude, I need somebody who knows what they’re doing.”
“I’m an obstetrician,” came a familiar voice.
And then a familiar face.
“Dr. Beaver,” Jordan exclaimed.
Georgie sat forward and took in the man, rocking tennis whites.
“Which Beaver are you? There are two of you. One of you is my baby doc—the other works on brains. I need the Beaver twin that knows my beaver!” she exclaimed.
Clearly, his wife had hit the part of the labor process where shit gets crazy, and she can say whatever the hell she wants without any threat of repercussions.
“I’m your Beaver, Georgie,” Dr. Beaver said, dropping his tennis racquet and rushing over.
“The one who complimented my cervix?” Georgie pressed, then leaned forward and groaned as another contraction hit.
“You better be the right Beaver, man,” he said, holding the guy’s gaze.
“Yes, that’s me! You’re Joyce’s favorite patient, Georgie. She talks about you all the time. I promise. I’m the right Beaver.”
“I’m Joyce’s favorite?” Georgie said, falling back onto the pillows in dreamy exhaustion.
