Page 91 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
Yup, exactly what he was worried about.
“I can imagine you don’t see that every day,” he replied, doing his best to play it cool and keep it light.
The officer gave him the once-over. “Yes, this is a new one for me. And you’re not wearing any shoes, sir.”
Jordan stared down at his bare feet and shook his head. “Bag, baby carrier, car keys, wallet, wife,shoes,” he mumbled. He needed to write this down.
“What was that, sir?” the officer asked, his frown deepening.
“Sorry, I was reciting a list.”
“Sir, have you been drinking?”
“It’s barely six in the morning,” he fired back.
The officer crossed his arms. “That’s not an answer, sir.”
The minutes—the precious minutes—were ticking away!
How the hell would he explain this?
Sorry, Officer. No, I haven’t been drinking. Our demon-talking doll told us that we needed to get into the car and drive like maniacs to do a hospital practice-run that will earn us badly needed points in the Battle of the Births. Except, I forgot my wife, so that’s why she’s yelling and chasing after the car.
No! Even in his shoeless, addled state, he knew that would not help get them on their way. In fact, that monologue sounded like the perfect way to initiate a psych hold.
Georgie exited their SUV and pulled the cardigan closed, but it was no use. The sun glinted off the sequins as if she were a pregnant disco ball.
“Hello, there! Sorry for the commotion, Officer. Can we wrap this up? We’re in a bit of a hurry.”
Jordan ran his hands down his face. This wasn’t good. He should have gone with the demon-talking doll story.
The officer stared at his wife and cocked his head to the side. “Are you headed to a costume party?”
“No, the hospital,” she answered.
He had to give it to her. For someone wearing a sparkly sailor suit and tap shoes, she carried herself with exquisite poise.
“Are you in labor?” the officer asked.
Georgie pursed her lips. “No, it’s a challenge event for the Battle of the Births.”
The officer took a step back, his gaze swinging between them, then landed back on his wife.
Twenty-four-hour psych hold, here they come!
The officer whipped off his mirrored sunglasses. “Wait a second. Your Georgie Jensen, aren’t you?”
Georgie’s jaw dropped. “How did you know that?”
“You’re the Own the Eights lady!” the man replied, now grinning ear to ear—which was better than whipping out his handcuffs or calling in for backup.
“Can I get a picture with you?” he continued, pulling a cell phone from his pocket.
Georgie met his gaze, and all he could do was shrug and give her husband eyes forjust do it!
“Okay,” she answered.
“Thank you! My wife’s sister is a CityBeat blogger in Wisconsin, and she told my wife about your blog. She’s a huge fan. That’s how we got together! I’m her solid, reliable eight.”
