Page 83 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
Jordan brushed his finger over the boy’s tiny knuckles. “He’s so small.”
She gazed down at the baby’s sweet face. “But he’s also a snuggle bug. How about this? I’ll do the bottle part. You do the transport.”
Jordan blew out a tight breath and did a little boxer jog, prancing back and forth.
She frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Loosening up,” he replied, shaking out his arms.
“You’ll be carrying a baby, not a five-hundred-pound tractor tire.”
“You’ve got a point,” he replied, nixing the pre-conditioning moves.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
Carefully, as if they were orchestrating the handoff of an extremely volatile object, Jordan moved in a step closer. It was like in the movies, where the hero has retrieved something highly explosive, and then must hand it off to the bomb squad.
With exquisite precision, Jordan cradled his arms below hers as they transferred the baby into his strong embrace.
It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours. Time stood still.
Okay, time didn’t actually stop. In all fairness, it was probably more like eight seconds. But it was the eight most cautious seconds of their lives.
“I’m doing it, Georgie,” he said, grinning like he’d won the lottery as he stared down at Ollie, cradled in his muscled arms.
“Now, you have to carry him to his room,” she said, still in hazardous bomb diffusing mode.
He frowned. “Not yet. We need a plan. You should scout out the house and find his room first.”
“Good idea.”
She hurried down the hall. The Casey-Beavers lived in a one-story sprawling ranch, and—thank God—they wouldn’t have to negotiate the horrors of a staircase. Stealthily making her way down the corridor, she spied the target.
A white door withOliverpainted in whimsical lettering.
Bingo!
She raised her arms, channeling an enthusiastic tour guide, and waved for Jordan to join her.
“Easy,” she cautioned as he grew cocky and picked up a little too much steam for her liking.
Step by step, her big strong husband made his way toward her as little Ollie went on a raspberry bender. If she hadn’t known that the man was holding a baby, it would have sounded as if he’d just departed a bean eating contest—and won—by a landslide or a bean slide.
She chuckled to herself.
“What’s so funny?” Jordan asked, arriving with Ollie. “Wait, let me guess. Farting humor?”
She nodded as the boy released another rip-roaring raspberry, making her point.
She opened the door as Ollie shot off a few more. They stood in the doorway to the baby’s room and assessed the dim space. With a rocking chair in the corner next to a wooden crib, the room most definitely belonged to the little raspberry machine. A small lamp cast a dim golden glow, highlighting a dresser equipped with a changing table and a precious mural of a mountain scene, complete with skiers peppering the slope.
“Why don’t you sit in the chair, and I’ll pass him over to you,” Jordan offered as Ollie continued to serenade them with fart chorale.
She entered the baby powder-scented room, placed the bottle on a side table, then settled herself in the rocking chair.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
She flashed her husband two thumbs-up. “We are a go for bottle time.”
