Page 149 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
Epilogue: Part Two
Jordan
“Cowboy Daddy! Mommy! Come quick! You have to see what Janey did!”
Jordan pulled the bed covers up to his chin and plastered on anoh-shitgrin.
No parenting manual teaches about theoh-shitgrin. This is the face you make when your kid busts in on you while doing the naughty, and you try to appear asun-naughtyas possible—which is harder than you’d think, especially in assless chaps with your dick hanging out.
“What is it, Lizzy? Is everybody okay?” He glanced at the clock. It was barely eight in the morning on a Saturday, but that didn’t mean anything to kids.
His precocious six-year-old daughter cocked her head to the side, looking like an exasperated version of her mother.
Yep, Elizabeth Lorraine Marks, who’d come into the world on a chaise lounge at the Denver country club, was six years old.
Another whopper?
He’d become a girl dad—three beautiful times over.
“Lizzy, sweetheart, give Daddy and me a minute, and we’ll be right there,” Georgie said, modifying heroh-shitgrin to the slightly nuanced, I-may-look-like-I’m-composed-but-I’m-in-bed-with-a-man-wearing-assless-chapsface.
Another thing they don’t teach in VR simulations.
Lizzy pursed her lips. “You better hurry. They’re in Mimi’s room, and Janey’s got the markers out.”
He frowned. Oh, shit—his realoh-shitface.
He shared a look with his wife, who was rocking some amazing sex hair—something he’d love to mess up, even more, but…kids.
“Wrap the sheet around your body. You don’t have time to take the chaps off!” Georgie cried, springing from the bed and throwing on her robe.
Why didn’t he wear a robe?
A question for another time when his four-year-old daughter wasn’t armed with a Sharpie. He took his wife’s advice, yanked the sheet off the bed, and wrapped it around his body like a toga-wearing cowboy. It would have to do.
After Janey, named after Jane Eyre, was born, they’d outgrown the bungalow and had moved to a larger home in the same neighborhood. Now, all three girls had their own room—which they destroyed daily…or hourly. It was a crapshoot.
He followed Georgie out of their room, and Mr. Tuesday met them in the hall. With a touch of gray around his nose, he’d become the keeper of the girls, completely devoted to their happiness.
But something was different.
“Is Mr. Tuesday wearing lipstick?” Georgie asked.
“It’s marker makeup, Mommy,” Lizzy called with her head peeking out of Mimi’s room.
He shared a look with his wife, and they bolted down the hall, then skidded to a stop.
“Whatever we find in there, there’s got to be some substance that can clean it or paint over it,” he said, more to himself than to his wife.
Georgie sighed. “Okay. We tackle this on three.”
“One,” he began.
“Two,” she said with a chuckle.
“Three!”
They entered the bedroom, prepared for complete Sharpie devastation, only to find the cream-colored walls marker-free.
