Page 90 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
He grabbed Georgie’s suitcase and the baby carrier. He’d installed the infant car seat unit last week, per Lenny and Stu’s instructions. He’d thought it was a little early to worry about that, but their hospital dry run must have been the reason why.
He slowed his breathing, going into focused trainer mode as his mind methodically fixated on the task at hand.
Bag. Baby carrier. Car keys. Wallet.
He was a man on a mission with—
“Twelve minutes remaining,” came Faby’s super-creepy robot voice, counting down from somewhere in the house.
He gathered the essential items and flew out the door. The adrenaline in his bloodstream centered him, driving him to move with the agility of a cheetah—the stealth of a jaguar, the concentration of a hawk.
He clicked the car seat into place and set the hospital bag beside it. Before he could blink, he was in the driver’s seat and poised behind the wheel.
A man on a mission.
And Denver, we have ignition.
The email regarding the Battle of the Births hospital practice run had conveyed that Stu and Lenny would be at the hospital, waiting to do a debrief, and assigning points to those couples who successfully made it to the hospital in the allotted time.
However, there was nothing about a Faby creepy voice countdown. He’d figured the challenge would come via text. But he was ready. He gripped the steering wheel and narrowed his gaze. Grand Prix drivers had nothing on him as he sped down the street this fine, crisp morning until a faint sound caught his attention.
“Hey, Emperor of Asshattery! Stop!”
His heart jumped into his throat.
Only one person called him by that name.
With a piercing squeal, he slammed on the brakes as the BMW came to a screeching halt, and the scent of burning rubber infiltrated his nostrils. His gaze swept to the passenger seat—the empty passenger seat—and he knew he was toast.
He glanced in the rearview mirror to find his pregnant wife, running down the middle of the road, carrying a demon-glowing doll, and wearing a cardigan over a sequined sailor costume.
Christ! Of all the things to forget!
He threw the car into park and busted out of the vehicle.
“I’m sorry, Georgie!” he cried, sprinting toward her as the clickity-clack of her tap shoes grew louder.
“What were you thinking?” she gasped, holding her belly as they met in the middle of the road.
“I was focused on my tasks. You know, bag, baby carrier, car keys, wallet.”
“And wife!” she yelled as she headed for the car with him a step behind.
“Yes, you’re right! Bag, baby carrier, car keys, wallet, andwife,” he repeated, helping her into the vehicle when thewhoop, whoopof a police car siren cut through the air and the flash of blue and red reflected off the car’s window.
Perfect. Their early morning antics had attracted the Denver PD.
The police car pulled up behind their BMW, and the officer exited the vehicle.
“Everything all right, sir?”
“Nine minutes,” came the robotic voice of their demon fake baby.
He mustered up what he’d hoped looked like the expression of a decent, law-abiding citizen because he was! Unfortunately, this early morningpregnant-lady-chasing-a-carruckus probably appeared otherwise.
“I’m sure this looks strange, but we’ve got everything under control, Officer.”
The man frowned, unconvinced. “I was passing by and noticed a pregnant woman running down the street, chasing after your car.”
