Page 65 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
There it was. A family unit. Their own tribe. A party of three.
“You can retrieve Faby now. We’ve kept you long enough,” Lenny said, cutting into her thoughts.
She glanced at the dolls, who all looked like Faby.
“We’ll be in touch in the next week or so with a facilitated baby intervention activity,” Stu added as he and Lenny stood and pushed in their chairs.
She and Jordan followed suit, coming to their feet, but neither of them moved. She glanced at her husband, who nodded contemplatively at the spread of plastic infants.
He didn’t know which one was Faby either!
“Your infant care simulation doll has a band around its ankle with its name,” Stu said over his shoulder as the men left the room.
She turned to Jordan, and they stared at each other until the door closed behind the parenting experts, then each released a relieved breath.
“Which one is ours?” he asked with a nervous laugh.
“I don’t know,” she answered as he gathered her into his arms.
“What do you think?” he asked, resting his chin on her head.
She leaned into him. “I think I could do with a bowl of tortilla chips and an endless supply of pineapple salsa.”
He chuckled and rubbed soothing circles between her shoulder blades. “No, about today, Ms. Pineapple Machine.”
She gave a slight shrug. “When you’re the worst, there’s nowhere to go but up. And, at least for today, nobody’s reporting us to the real FBI.”
He gazed down at her with a sweet boyish grin. “I love you, messy bun girl.”
This man. Her Emperor of Asshattery and reigning Sovereign of Scat. They’d figure this out. Jordan wasn’t entirely wrong when he’d said their relationship had been built on challenges. She’d challenged his Marks Perfect Ten Mindset philosophy, and he’d challenged her Own the Eights attitude. And look at what happened. They found love and were living the life they’d each dreamed of—with a twist. If the perfect ten and the dependable eight could figure out a way to make it work in the game of love, they had to have a chance at not completely screwing up in their brave new world of pregnancy and parenting.
She held onto this moment, warm and safe in her husband’s arms, when her stomach growled as if a ravenous bear had taken up residence in her abdomen.
Jordan’s eyes went wide. “Come on! Let’s grab our fake baby, and then we can get you a tub of pineapple salsa.”
She scanned the bands on the doll’s ankles and found their Faby, while her husband retrieved the fake baby’s diaper bag. They left the creepy nursery and gave the simulation area one last look before exiting the building. She was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a black limo screeched to a stop in front of them, and the breath caught in her throat.
It couldn’t be.
“What time is it in India?” she whispered.
“What does that matter?” Jordan whispered back.
She stared at the car. “I don’t know.”
“Do you think it’s your mom?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
It couldn’t be…could it?
She hadn’t checked her phone in hours. Could they have texted, and she’d missed it? What if they’d learned of the pregnancy from someone else? What if her mother was here to take her shopping for maternity rompers? Did those even exist?
Her thoughts whirled as question after question fueled a frenzied mind tornado until the tinted window lowered.
Georgie’s heart sprang into her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut like a naughty child and waited for her mother’s flowery voice to call out. She braced herself for a Lorraine Vanderdinkle tongue-lashing but was met with a husky German accent instead.
“Georgiana! Jordan!” called their former wedding planner from the driver’s seat.
“Cornelia, I didn’t know you drove this thing,” Georgie said—because saying “thank God you’re not my mother” seemed somewhat tactless.
