Page 67 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
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Georgie
“Georgiana Jensen-Marks, why haven’t you told your mother yet?”
Georgie leaned forward and cradled her head in her hands. “I figured Becca would have mentioned that to you.”
Georgie peeked between her fingers at Irene, who scowled at her over video chat.
“One,” her friend said, raising her index finger. “My sister is surprisingly hard to connect with these days.”
Irene wasn’t wrong.
While Becca managed the bookstore, she’d also started her last semester of college this month. But when she wasn’t in the shop, she was damn hard to get ahold of. She’d text or call back, eventually, but she’d definitely been preoccupied for the last few months or so.
“I think she’s seeing someone, but she won’t tell me anything,” Irene said, resurrecting her scowl as she rested her hands on her pregnant belly.
“Bec hasn’t mentioned anything to me,” Georgie answered, knowing she may not be the best judge of what was going on with the younger Murphy sister.
Life had flown by these last several weeks. This was the first time in over a month that she and Irene were able to connect. Honestly, these days, she was lucky to make it out the door with a pair of matching shoes. Business at the bookstore had doubled last month with holiday shopping, and now, with people setting their January New Years’ resolutions, Jordan’s gym had picked up even more steam and signed-on an avalanche of new clients. But Irene was right. Something was going on with Becca.
“I’ll make sure to play the surrogate big sister and find out what’s going on today. Now, tell me everything about your research. Are you leading the way to a world that runs on clean energy alone?”
Irene shook her head. “No, no! You know my project is going well. I’m not letting you off the hook until you tell me what’s going on with you and your mom.”
“Fine,” Georgie said, then took a bite of pineapple cheesecake that her genius of a husband had delivered bi-weekly to the shop.
“Number two,” Irene began. “You’re seventeen weeks pregnant. What’s holding you back from telling your mom and Howard? Everything is still going well with the pregnancy, right?”
Georgie glanced down at the sway in her abdomen, where the alien blueberry peanut had grown into a mini pineapple surprise. And it wasn’t just her belly. Her breasts, once respectable B-cups, had blossomed intova-va-voomC-cups. Something that was not lost on her husband, who had become quite a boob man these days.
“These pregnancy breasts are no joke! I had to buy all new bras last week,” she said, gesturing to her ample chest while simultaneously trying to change the subject.
But Irene wasn’t having it.
“Seriously, lady! What’s holding you back?” Irene pressed.
Georgie shoveled a giant bite of cheesecake into her mouth. “I’m waiting to see what happens today. We’ve got our FBI meeting in less than an hour.”
Irene cocked her head to the side. “Okay, I need you to dial back the cake eating contest and repeat that sentence. All the way in Iceland, it sounded like you said you’re meeting with the FBI? You and Jordan haven’t decided you’ve had enough with blogging and decided to dip your toes into the world of prenatal espionage, have you?”
Georgie swallowed her gargantuan bite. “Do you think prenatal espionage is a thing?”
“Georgie,” her friend pressed.
She wiped a few crumbs of the cheesecake’s delicious graham cracker crust from her lips. “It’s not the Federal Bureau of Investigation, FBI. It’s the facilitated baby intervention activity that the child development experts set up to give us hands-on baby experience.”
Irene pursed her lips. “What are you supposed to do?”
“Some parents are coming to the bookshop with their babies, and Jordan and I are supposed to lead a baby story time movement activity with them.”
She’d spent the better part of the day sifting through board books, looking for something that could work with this age group.
“That sounds right up your alley,” Irene replied, giving her a thumbs-up.
Georgie twisted the cuff of her sweater. “Maybe.”
“Hey, you’ve got this,” Irene said, her expression softening.
