Page 47 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
She set Faby on a table and diapered the doll.
“Look! Clothes and wipey-things,” Jordan exclaimed, pulling the items from the diaper bag. He removed a moist tissue, then cleaned the slobber marks off Faby’s arm as she took the clothes and proceeded to dress the doll in a full-body onesie that zippered up the front.
With Faby safe, cleaned up, and dressed, she handed the doll to Jordan, then crouched down to be eye to eye with Mr. Tuesday.
“There will be no chewing the fake baby, mister. I’m serious! No table scraps for a week if we catch you pulling another stunt like that.”
Mr. Tuesday released a sad doggy sigh, and her heart nearly broke. But they had to lay down the law. It was for his own good.
“Your mom is right, big guy. We have to be careful with Faby,” Jordan continued.
Their pup went all puppy-dog eyes, and she pressed a kiss to the top of her dog’s head.
“We still love you and always will,” she whispered into the dog’s soft fur.
“We’re all fine, and that’s what matters,” Jordan added as the dog’s ears perked up, and his sad bad-dog expression disappeared into a throaty yawn.
And suddenly, she felt like a nap herself—and maybe some pineapple upside-down cake.
What a day!
Crisis averted. Faby rescued. And thanks to one heck of a mad dash, Mr. Tuesday would probably conk out for the rest of the night.
They’d triumphed over their first parenting trial—sort of. But a win was a win.
She reached for Faby, and Jordan gently handed her the doll. Dressed in a one-piece outfit with little ducks peppering the fabric, she stared at the small mannequin’s mischievous painted eyes and the quirk of its cooed lips. If dolls had actual thoughts, she was sure this one quite enjoyed that treacherous romp.
“Um…Georgie, Jordan? Everything all right?” Becca asked.
Georgie looked up to find the entire group staring at them. She and Jordan stood as Mr. Tuesday made his way to his dog bed situated behind the counter. And then she realized what these people had observed: two grown adults fawning over a doll.
“We’re fine! Completely fine,” she answered, resurrecting her beauty queen grin.
“Did you come from a square dance?” Irene asked, narrowing her gaze.
Georgie glanced down at her outfit, aka cowgirl-slutty couture.
She tried to pull the cardigan down past her scrap of a jean skirt, but you could only stretch a cardigan so far.
“I’m wearing this because…” she began.
“Because Georgie and I have been asked to host a children’s literacy event with a Western theme in May,” Jordan finished, like a white knight, swooping in to save a damsel, tangled up in a clothing catastrophe.
“And I was trying on different outfits,” she added, giving up on covering her legs and pulled the cardigan around her body to hide her visible midriff and the black bra, peeking out, highlighting her cleavage.
Gene frowned. “I’m no expert on women’s clothing, but I don’t think that’s an outfit you want to go with for a children’s event.”
“Yes, dear, perhaps, something a little less…” Marjory trailed off.
“Slutty!” piped one of the blue-haired brigade, gazes back on their knitting.
Those Michael Bolton-loving ladies were feisty old broads!
“I couldn’t agree more. Remind me to mark this choice as a no,” she said to Jordan, feeling her beauty queen grin veering off into deranged clown territory.
Her husband leaned in and lowered his voice. “You’ll keep the boots, right?”
My God! This man!
