Page 33 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
“We did?” Jordan asked under his breath.
Damn those wanton pregnancy hormones! Instead of planning and strategizing their next steps with her family and CityBeat, they’d gone all sexy cowboy scenario instead. She’d never thought of her CrossFit husband donning Western wear, but with a body like his and abs that literally brought her to her knees, this man in chaps would be a Texas-sized panty-melter.
And rope! Cowboys used rope, lots of rope. They were always lassoing animals in cowboy movies. Jordan in chaps, tying her wrists together, then taking her like a wild stallion. That would be—
“Georgie?” her husband said gently.
“Yes?”
“You spaced out and started salivating,” he answered, concern woven into the words.
“I did?” She wiped the back of her wrist across her lips. Yep, full-on drool. Leave it to her to not only suffer from pregnancy fog but a sex-fueled pregnancy haze.
“You were saying you wanted to wait on telling your mother,” Bobby offered, getting her back on track.
“Yes, that’s right,” she answered, hoping she didn’t look like someone who’d blanked out for an imaginary quickie with a cowboy. “We want my mom to harness her chi and balance her yang before dropping such psychically exciting news,” she added, throwing together one heck of a word salad.
“I see,” Hector answered, tapping his chin.
“Yes, that’s it,” she reiterated, glancing at her husband who, bless him, nodded like what she said had made complete sense.
Hector stilled. “Your mother is quite gifted, Georgie. She knew before we opened the box that the first batch of wedding favor chocolate from Switzerland had an adverse aura.”
“Yeah, that’s some expert psychic maneuvering,” she replied as if they were discussing something gravely serious and not the perceived ominous vibes emitted from a box of candy.
“Have you ever had psychically unbalanced chocolate?” Hector asked, lowering his voice.
She pressed her hand to her belly. The thought of chocolate, balanced or unbalanced, made her want to hurl.
“I’m sure it would have ruined everything. It was a good catch,” she replied as the faint hint of an acoustic guitar drifted into the room.
“What’s that?” Jordan asked.
“That’s how we’re amending your situation. The universe works in mysterious ways. Open the door, Barry!” Hector said, that glint back in his eyes.
Barry bolted from his spot on the couch. “You guys will love this!” he said, almost as wild-eyed as Hector.
With a dramatic flair, the CityBeat producer threw open the door, and the guitar music grew louder. And it wasn’t just a guitar. There was singing. And it wasn’t only one person. No, two distinctly male voices wafted into the room.
“My name’s Lenny, and this is Stu, we love little babies, it’s what we do!”
Two smiling men entered the room. Looking to be in their mid-fifties with hipster beards, one man was tall and thin while the other was short and plump. Wearing newsboy caps and jaunty scarves tied around their necks, they looked like the kindergarten version of vagabonds—the tall one playing the guitar while the shorter man shimmied around with a tambourine.
“We should call Dr. Beaver and ask if men can suffer from pregnancy delusions,” Jordan whispered, narrowing his gaze at the singing manifestation.
“We love to learn! We love to sing! When it comes to babies, we know everything,”the men continued.
“Do you see two guys standing in front of us singing about babies?” she asked, unable to look away from the crooning odd couple.
“Yeah,” he answered, staring slack-jawed at the men.
She cocked her head to the side. “Then, we’re either having the same pregnancy delusion, or this is really happening.”
“What the f—” Jordan began, coming to his feet.
She sprang up and clapped her hand over his mouth.
“Who are these people, and why are they singing?” she asked the CityBeat founders.
