Page 17 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
“Oh, her. She moved to France with her boyfriend, Pierre. She told everybody some blog taught her how to meet a nice guy,” Joyce replied flatly.
France?
And a blog that helped her find a good guy?
“How lovely for her,” Georgie answered with a pinched grin.
She wanted to be happy for the woman. It was most likely her advice that helped the kind Gina find love. But now, she detested this Pierre for taking the compassionate nurse and leaving her with this grouchy sourpuss. She wanted to kick herself for suggesting Gina check out the blog in the first place.
Was this a little selfish?
She glanced at the scowling Joyce.
Nope, she was all for selfish at the moment.
“It’s poppycock!” the crabby nurse remarked.
“What’s poppycock?” she asked, treading lightly. And who still used the word poppycock?
Joyce turned toward them. “All that internet mumbo jumbo! All those talking heads, filling the void with nonsense.”
“Not all of it is nonsense. There are places with helpful information, like CityBeat,” Jordan offered.
Joyce reared back. “Did you say cityfreak? Is that a porn site?”
Jordan waved his hands. “No, no! Not freak! Beat. Beat with ab. Like, ‘Beat It.’”
The poor man was zero for two in the spell-it-out department.
“Beat it?” the woman gasped in horror.
“It’s a song—an old popular pop song,” her husband stammered, his crimson cheeks matching his red scratch.
Joyce looked ready to call the cops and report a pervert in the building when somebody tapped out a cheery knock on the door. Before the addled nurse could request backup, a man with glossy blond hair and cheekbones for miles entered the room. He flashed a smile that glinted in the light like a toothpaste commercial.
Who the heck was this made-for-TV doctor?
“Joyce, you delightful creature, I’ll take it from here,” the man purred, sending another dazzling smile toward the grouch.
He was likeBaywatchmeetsERwith a dash ofGeneral Hospitalflare thrown in.
“That’s your gynecologist?” Jordan asked under his breath.
“I don’t know who this is,” she whispered back.
The TV doctor flashed his pearly whites. “Let me help you out with that. I’m Chad Beaver, MD. And you two must be Georgiana and Jordan—or else I’m in the wrong exam room. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened, would it, Joyce?”
The nurse replied with a surly harrumph.
“Forgive me for asking,” the doctor continued, oblivious to Joyce’s discontent. “But aren’t you the More Than Just a Number CityBeat couple?”
“That’s us,” Jordan answered with a grin.
“Joyce, we’ve got internet royalty in our office. Isn’t that exciting?” the doctor remarked.
The nurse’s eyes went wide, likely thinking they were part of the internet porn industry.
One thing was for damn sure—they weren’t winning any points with Joyce today.
