Page 37 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
Why was this man okay with a baby being stuffed into a bag?
She opened the cinched cloth wrapping and found…
“Thank goodness! It’s not a real baby,” she cried, removing the mannequin infant from the wrapping.
“You’re giving us a fake baby? Afaby?” Jordan questioned as they stared at the remarkably lifelike figure.
“It’s an infant care simulation doll. Stu and I designed them. We’ll be using them later in the Battle of the Births. But for now, take it home, and get used to having it around,” Lenny explained.
She stared at the little thing. Dressed in only a white cotton diaper, its painted eyes gazed up at her.
“You want us to hang out with a fake baby?” Jordan pressed.
Stu nodded. “Yes! Carry it around the house. Take it on a walk. It’ll help you ease into becoming parents.”
“Does it need anything?” she asked, touching the mannequin’s chin.
“That’s what this is for,” Stu replied, then handed Jordan a giant bag.
“The fake baby needs all this?” he exclaimed, his large frame slumping as he secured the strap of the bag over his shoulder.
“Like I said. Get used to it. We’ll be in touch with the details, but plan on a challenge or two during each trimester,” Lenny replied.
Her gaze bounced between the diaper bag and the fake baby—Faby…whatever.
This was it.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
She cradled the infant care simulation doll in her arms as the walls seemed to cave in on them; the air growing stagnant.
She inhaled a steadying breath. “Hector, I have to ask. What made you think I was pregnant in the first place?”
“It was what you were eating at your wedding reception. Well, more like what youwereand what youweren’teating,” the man answered.
But that didn’t make any sense.
She shifted the fake baby in her arms. “I hardly ate anything at all. It was such a whirlwind of an evening.”
“Then perhaps you don’t remember when you honored me with a dance.”
Her brows knit together. “Of course, I remember our dance.”
“Do you also remember the part where I twirled you around, and you plucked a piece of pineapple off the dessert table?”
She thought back to their dance. They’d laughed and talked, but she had no recollection of fruit being a part of it.
“I remember the twirl but not eating any pineapple.”
“You certainly did. I was surprised to see you do that after what your mother told us.”
“What did she say?” Georgie asked, but she already had a good idea.
Hector leaned in. “One afternoon after we’d read the psychic energy of three hundred citrus-scented votive candles for your wedding, a tiring task, your mother told us the story of how you cleared out a Ritz-Carlton ballroom, losing your lunch all over the beauty pageant judges after you ate a pineapple fruit cup,” he replied.
“It was the pineapple that tipped you off?” she pressed.
“That, and you didn’t even glance at the tiny tubes of vegan chocolate chip cookie dough we had made especially for your wedding day. We all know how you feel about those.”
