“We did?” Jordan asked under his breath.
Damn those wanton pregnancy hormones! Instead of planning and strategizing their next steps with her family and CityBeat, they’d gone all sexy cowboy scenario instead. She’d never thought of her CrossFit husband donning Western wear, but with a body like his and abs that literally brought her to her knees, this man in chaps would be a Texas-sized panty-melter.
And rope! Cowboys used rope, lots of rope. They were always lassoing animals in cowboy movies. Jordan in chaps, tying her wrists together, then taking her like a wild stallion. That would be—
“Georgie?” her husband said gently.
“Yes?”
“You spaced out and started salivating,” he answered, concern woven into the words.
“I did?” She wiped the back of her wrist across her lips. Yep, full-on drool. Leave it to her to not only suffer from pregnancy fog but a sex-fueled pregnancy haze.
“You were saying you wanted to wait on telling your mother,” Bobby offered, getting her back on track.
“Yes, that’s right,” she answered, hoping she didn’t look like someone who’d blanked out for an imaginary quickie with a cowboy. “We want my mom to harness her chi and balance her yang before dropping such psychically exciting news,” she added, throwing together one heck of a word salad.
“I see,” Hector answered, tapping his chin.
“Yes, that’s it,” she reiterated, glancing at her husband who, bless him, nodded like what she said had made complete sense.
Hector stilled. “Your mother is quite gifted, Georgie. She knew before we opened the box that the first batch of wedding favor chocolate from Switzerland had an adverse aura.”
“Yeah, that’s some expert psychic maneuvering,” she replied as if they were discussing something gravely serious and not the perceived ominous vibes emitted from a box of candy.
“Have you ever had psychically unbalanced chocolate?” Hector asked, lowering his voice.
She pressed her hand to her belly. The thought of chocolate, balanced or unbalanced, made her want to hurl.
“I’m sure it would have ruined everything. It was a good catch,” she replied as the faint hint of an acoustic guitar drifted into the room.
“What’s that?” Jordan asked.
“That’s how we’re amending your situation. The universe works in mysterious ways. Open the door, Barry!” Hector said, that glint back in his eyes.
Barry bolted from his spot on the couch. “You guys will love this!” he said, almost as wild-eyed as Hector.
With a dramatic flair, the CityBeat producer threw open the door, and the guitar music grew louder. And it wasn’t just a guitar. There was singing. And it wasn’t only one person. No, two distinctly male voices wafted into the room.
“My name’s Lenny, and this is Stu, we love little babies, it’s what we do!”
Two smiling men entered the room. Looking to be in their mid-fifties with hipster beards, one man was tall and thin while the other was short and plump. Wearing newsboy caps and jaunty scarves tied around their necks, they looked like the kindergarten version of vagabonds—the tall one playing the guitar while the shorter man shimmied around with a tambourine.
“We should call Dr. Beaver and ask if men can suffer from pregnancy delusions,” Jordan whispered, narrowing his gaze at the singing manifestation.
“We love to learn! We love to sing! When it comes to babies, we know everything,” the men continued.
“Do you see two guys standing in front of us singing about babies?” she asked, unable to look away from the crooning odd couple.
“Yeah,” he answered, staring slack-jawed at the men.
She cocked her head to the side. “Then, we’re either having the same pregnancy delusion, or this is really happening.”
“What the f—” Jordan began, coming to his feet.
She sprang up and clapped her hand over his mouth.
“Who are these people, and why are they singing?” she asked the CityBeat founders.
“This is the next frontier, Georgie,” Hector offered, which told her nothing.
“The next frontier is grown men dressed up as put together hobos who sing about babies? No offense,” she said to the men, who’d stopped singing.
“None taken. That’s what we were going for,” the taller of the two replied with a friendly strum.
Hector raised his hands like a carnival barker. “CityBeat Rattle. We’re getting into the baby business,” he said, piling on the drama.
The stout man slung the tambourine under his arm, then plucked a trio of baby rattles from his pocket like a gypsy Mary Poppins and started juggling.
“Meet Lenny and Stu. They’re the hottest thing on the baby music circuit,” Barry added.
“And toddlers and preschoolers. Our chant, ‘The Clean-up Chicken Dance,’ is used in early childhood education classes across the globe,” the tall man with the guitar replied.
“That is quite an accomplishment,” she offered, still not sure this was happening.
She reached over and pinched her husband as the short rattle juggler slid the baby toys back into his pockets.
“Ouch! What was that for?” Jordan exclaimed with a startle.
“A reality check,” she answered.
“Good call,” he whispered back, rubbing his arm.
Georgie’s thoughts went to her literary trifecta. But the girl wizard and Georgian-era ladies sat stupefied with no advice to dispense on the topic of internet baby sites.
These three were no help today!
“You’re starting a new company?” Jordan asked.
“Not a new company—an offshoot,” Bobby replied.
“And now we’ve got CityBeat’s sweethearts, welcoming their own bundle of joy, to bridge the gap from our main site to our parent-friendly domain,” Hector added as a topsy-turvy wave washed over her.
No, no, no, no, no, no!
She plastered on her beauty queen smile, which she only used in dire situations. “But Hector, we don’t want to make anything public yet. Remember, I haven’t told my mother.”
The man waved her off. “That’s not a problem. The site won’t be up and running until late July. You’ll have delivered by then—and hopefully, told your mother,” he answered with a chastising lift of his eyebrow.
“And all the content we put together will be archived until then,” Bobby supplied.
“And the timing couldn’t be better,” Barry added.
Jordan crossed his arms. “For what?”
“Lenny and Stu are leading the first-ever CityBeat Rattle Battle of the Births,” Hector answered, in circus ringmaster mode.
For Pete’s sake!
“The what?” her husband exclaimed.
“We tested Battle of the Babies, but people thought it was a Hunger Games-type contest with infants, and they didn’t seem to like it,” the CityBeat producer replied.
She cringed. “Well, yeah! Who would want to see babies fight each other?”
“Surprisingly, men aged fifty-two to fifty-eight and women seventy-seven to seventy-nine. But they’re not the age group we’re targeting with CityBeat Rattle,” Barry answered with a grin that seemed very misplaced, even if he were proud of the data and stats.