Page 41 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he pressed, not wanting a repeat of what happened in Hector and Bobby’s new office.
Georgie sat back into the cushions and chuckled, relief written all over her face. “I’m fine. I can’t believe I totally spaced that Irene and Will can help us field any pregnancy questions. They’re due in March.”
That’s right! In all the pregnancy hoopla, he’d forgotten their friends were already living the expectant parent life.
“With the Battle of the Births and our friends able to help us fill in our pregnancy knowledge gaps, I think we’ve got this, babe. But are you sure you don’t want me to set a trash can next to the couch? You know, just in case,” he said, then gave her his best vomit face.
Georgie plucked a small decorative pillow off the couch and went to whack him with it when a knock at the door caught their attention and stopped her mid-swing.
“Are you expecting anyone?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. We’re meeting everyone at the bookshop in a little while to catch up and tell them about our honeymoon.” She picked up her phone and glanced at it. “No one messaged me that they were going to stop by.”
He checked his cell. No texts or new messages, either.
“It’s Nicolette. Lorraine Vanderdinkle’s executive assistant,” came a woman’s voice from the other side of the door.
“I’ll get it,” he said, leaving the couch and opening the front door to a rush of chilly November air.
“Hello,” he said, taking in the new Nicolette.
The petite woman had on sunglasses as big as dinner plates and a straw hat—pretty strange for fall in Colorado, but what did he know about fashion. He’d just learned what a lady romper was today.
“I have something for you and Miss Georgiana,” she said in a thick French accent.
The woman rooted around in her bag. She pulled out her passport, then plucked an envelope from the tote, crammed with magazines and a bottle of sunscreen.
“Are you going on a trip?” he asked as she handed over the envelope.
She stiffened. “No.”
He tapped the envelope to the doorframe. “Well, thanks for bringing this by.”
Nicolette glanced at her watch. “I better be going. Everything you need to know is in the letter,” she said, then ran down the path and jumped into a waiting car.
That was weird, but you’d have to be weird to work for Georgie’s mom.
“What did Nicolette want?” Georgie called.
“She dropped off a letter,” he answered, closing the door only to have it pop open.
“It does that from time to time when the weather gets cooler. Jiggle the handle, and then it should close,” Georgie instructed.
He gave the knob a little shake but stilled when he read the letter’s return address.
“It’s from the office of Lorraine Vanderdinkle,” he said, sauntering over to the couch as Georgie leaned forward to get a better look at the special delivery.
“Your mom has an office?” he asked, handing her the envelope.
“Who knows these days,” Georgie answered, opening the letter, then scanning the page.
He looked over her shoulder. “What does it say?”
“The gist is that many of my mother’s charity duties are mainly ceremonial in nature.”
“Okay,” he answered, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
“I think the only thing we have to do is host a Western-themed charity event for literacy education in May.”
