She beamed at her friend, but the wattage on her grin dimmed as she watched Irene and Becca share a pensive glance.
It was probably nothing—a weird sister thing. But her trifecta shook their heads. No, something was up. Lizzy, Jane, and Hermione were never wrong.
Georgie turned up the wattage on her smile and tried to discount her literary trio. “It’ll be great, Irene. We can exercise together and eat all sorts of weird foods. I’m so happy not to be in this pregnancy boat alone.”
Now, Irene shared a look with her husband—the same serious look she’d exchanged with her sister.
Irene stroked her belly. “We can do all that. It’ll just have to be over the phone or video chat.”
Georgie frowned. “Why would we need video chat? We live in the same neighborhood, and you run the bistro a few blocks away? Your little sister manages my bookshop. We hardly ever go a day without seeing each other.”
Irene’s gaze grew misty. “Will and I are moving to Iceland.”
Georgie’s mouth fell open. “Iceland? Like the country?”
Irene gave a teary chuckle. “Yes, that Iceland.”
“Why?” she threw back, wide-eyed as her literary trio matched her expression.
Even her imaginary trifecta was thrown by that info drop.
A warm grin stretched across Irene’s face. “A few months back, my old graduate advisor reached out to me. Funding had run out on a renewable energy research project we were working on back when I was in school, going for my masters in bioenergy. After things dried up with the research, I started taking more shifts at the bistro. One thing led to another, and years passed. I never thought I’d get the chance to finish my degree. But that’s all changed. Now, my advisor’s connected with a university in Iceland and has funding for the next five years. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it was going to happen. I got the call last week. The project is good to go.”
“You’ll be in Iceland for five years,” Georgie said on a stunned exhale.
Will took his wife’s hand. “I knew this was huge for Irene, so I asked my boss if I could work remotely, and he agreed.”
“What about your baby? You’re due in March,” Georgie pressed.
This was ridiculous, right? Who picked up and moved to Iceland mid-pregnancy?
Irene gave her belly another loving pat. “People have babies in Iceland, Georgie.”
“I’m…” she began, then paused, taking in her friend’s joyful expression.
Of course, she wanted Irene to follow her dreams and earn her degree.
Would she miss her terribly?
Yes.
Could they make it work with calls and video chats?
They’d have to.
Georgie pushed aside her hopes of double pregnancy bliss with her BFF and reached across the table and squeezed Irene’s hand.
“I’m so happy for you. This is a huge opportunity.”
“And Will and I have you to thank,” Irene added.
Georgie cocked her head to the side. “You do?”
Irene gazed lovingly at her husband. “If it weren’t for your Own the Eights blog, I wouldn’t have met my husband. And, without Will’s encouragement, I don’t know if I would have taken the leap and agreed to move across the Atlantic.”
“We owe you big. We do,” Will answered, then pressed a kiss to his wife’s temple.
“That’s great news! We’re so happy for you both,” Jordan said, shaking Will’s hand, then leaning over to kiss Irene’s cheek.
Everyone turned their attention to the Iceland-bound couple, but Georgie felt a pregnancy haze coming on as the group’s conversation faded into the background.
She was happy for Irene, but now she was three for three.
First, sweet nurse Gina. Then, her gynecologist, Dr. Rosenstein. And now, Irene.
One, two, three.
Uno, dos, and gone without a tres!
Her blog—her words—had helped these women find love. They’d also taken them thousands of miles away when she needed them the most.
“What’s going on?” came a man’s voice from behind.
It was most likely a bookshop patron chatting with a companion, but as she watched the landscape of her life shift yet again, she blew out a tight breath.
“Irene is moving to Iceland, my gynecologist is kicking it in Australia, and I’m pregnant,” she replied, answering the question aloud to herself, even though it wasn’t meant for her.
“You’re pregnant?” came the same voice. A voice she could not believe she hadn’t recognized.
She whipped around to find Brice Casey—the man who seemed to pop up in every phase of her life—standing behind her, donning his Casey Pest Control T-shirt.
She pinched herself, testing to see if this was a pregnancy mirage. But he was still there, smiling that goofy grin with his perfect hair. Granted, she’d softened on Brice—even liked the guy. He did get them to their wedding on time, thanks to his penchant for showing up at key moments in her life. He’d even stayed for the nuptials, and they did the Chicken Dance together. More than that, she couldn’t forget that her disastrous date with him years ago had been the catalyst for starting the Own the Eights blog. Without this well-meaning, half-witted asshat, who knows where she’d be!
“What are you doing here, Brice?” she asked.
He held up a sheet of paper. “Making sure you don’t have any creepy crawlies in the bookstore.”
Georgie froze. “Are there spiders in my shop?”
The thought of those eight-legged mini-monsters made her want to head for the spider-less hills.
“No, but Becca mentioned you guys never had a pest control check the other night when we were…”
“Discussing bookshop maintenance. Let me look over the invoice,” her friend interjected, rushing to Brice’s side and plucking the sheet of paper from his grasp.
Was this another possible pregnancy hallucination?
“Are you and Brice…” she trailed off, staring at her friend.
Becca scoffed and waved her off. “As the manager, I’ve got a little bookstore business to deal with,” she answered, then took the pest control prince by the arm and led him toward the office.
That was certainly odd.
She was about to mention her hunch about Becca and Brice to Jordan when his phone pinged, and like one of Pavlov’s dogs, instantly, she knew what was coming.
“Is that a CityBeat alert?” she asked.
In the flurry to get out the door, she’d left her cell at home, but she’d bet two slices of pineapple cheesecake that her phone just pinged the alert as well.
It was like the Battle of the Blogs. She could feel it in her bones—another challenge, calling their name.
“Yeah,” he answered, checking his phone.
“What does it say?”
Jordan pocketed his cell. “They sent us the date for the first challenge.”
“And Faby?” she asked.
“Faby’s coming with us.”
She glanced at the doll in her arms, staring up at her with that playful glint.
Game on.
Ready or not, here they go again.
8
Jordan