18
Jordan
“You should try calling your mom,” Jordan said, then took a sip of his chocolate-flavored protein shake as Georgie entered the kitchen.
He took the pineapple muffins out of the oven, then poured her a glass of pineapple juice as she headed for the table.
She blew out a weary breath. “That was quite a feat.”
“What was?” he asked, returning the juice to the fridge.
“Crossing the room,” she deadpanned.
He met her at their compact kitchen table, then pulled out a chair for her. She sank into it, her charm bracelet jangling as she settled in, then kicked her bare feet up onto an adjacent chair. With the morning sun streaming in through the kitchen window, the rays highlighted the copper and chestnut in the tendrils that fell from her messy bun. He stared at this remarkable woman. Clocking in at thirty-eight weeks pregnant, she couldn’t have been more beautiful. That pregnancy glow was the real deal. With her hair piled on top of her head and her hands resting on her belly, he could make a sport out of admiring his wife.
The soon-to-be mother of his child.
He’d understood the biology of having a baby, but bearing witness to the changes in his wife’s body had made him sure of one thing.
Women were a hell of a lot stronger than men.
By a mile.
Probably more.
Sure, he could flip a six-hundred-pound tractor tire. But that lasted seconds. Georgie was saddled with the weight of making a baby twenty-four seven. That took balls—no, not balls—a damn powerful uterus. If, in some far-off dimension, a pair of balls challenged a uterus to a fight, his money would be on the uterus, hands down.
Jesus! People always say it’s the pregnant women who have strange, vivid dreams, but he was living proof fathers-to-be could have some whack-a-do observations of their own.
On the baby front, after the gender reveal debacle, they’d stuck to their—well, mostly Georgie’s choice—and decided not to learn the baby’s gender.
Yeah, he was good with it.
Okay, maybe good was a misleading characterization.
Now, mere days before he was due to become a father, he understood the plight of the men he’d met in the noisy part of the waiting room at the obstetrician’s office.
In a strange daze a few nights ago, he’d crept out of the bedroom, after Georgie had fallen asleep, and worked a little obsessive pre-parent baby magic on the computer.
Had he broken down and possibly added their unborn child to the wait-list for the Denver baby NFL?
Yes, yes, he did.
Had he also gone down another strange rabbit hole after a few clicks and descended upon the world of toddler trombone lessons?
Was their child on the wait-list for that, as well?
Yes, but only because he had to list a gender on the baby NFL registration page. He’d ticked the boy box and then felt like an absolute asshat because, of course, a baby girl should have an equal shot at the baby NFL. What kind of father wouldn’t want the same for his daughter? So, he’d switched the baby NFL to girl, and then chose boy for the trombone classes.
It was completely illogical, but it gave him a strange sense of security.
Very strange.
At least he was doing something—even if this something could be considered a prerequisite for admittance into a psychiatric facility.
If Georgie freaked out and put the kibosh on the idea, they’d only be out the deposits. And even though he knew Thad and Briana, two doctors he trusted, weren’t on board with all the baby-this and baby-that classes, a drive inside him implored him to do more. Here, Georgie was carrying the baby and working and blogging and doing a damn good job pretending like she wasn’t upset about the fallout with her mom. Sure, he’d taken over doing the laundry, cooking, and cleaning, but that seemed a far cry from the full-time job of growing a human.
Georgie stared at the muffin and the glass of pineapple juice he’d set in front of her and sighed.
“My mother knows how to get in touch with me. I’m sure she’s got a new Nicolette by now, who could unlock her phone for her,” she answered, but there was more hurt in her voice than bite as she stared at the meal she’d been eating for breakfast, day in and day out, through her pregnancy and frowned.
“You’re not hungry?” he asked, watching her closely. She’d been a pineapple consuming machine for months. She usually drained a glass in seconds. You’d think she’d just rolled in from a stint on the Sahara.
“I’m not feeling so much like pineapple today,” she said as her gaze slid to the chocolate protein drink in his hand.
He held out the shake. “Do you want this?”
“Yeah? Is that weird?” she asked, taking his protein drink, then chugging down half of it in under ten seconds.
“Protein is a good energy source and great for the baby,” he replied to the spirit of the frat boy who decided to invade his wife’s body.
“Perfect! I was thinking of knocking out a quick 10K run this morning,” she teased, wiping away her chocolate mustache.
“You are one pregnant badass. I’ll give you that, MBG. But, at your race pace, I think the baby would be born before you made it one kilometer.”
She took another sip, then gave him a healthy dose of side-eye. “You better watch it, mister. All these hormones might make me supersonic fast or Superwoman strong.”
He glanced at his phone. “Well, Ms. Supersonic, we don’t have a whole lot of time before we need to head over to the bookshop for—” he paused.
“The baby shower,” she supplied flatly, her gaze trained on a spot on the wall.
Yeah, today might be a tough one.
They’d decided not to follow convention—imagine that—and settled on having a joint baby shower, men included, with their close friends and family. Becca, citing the fact that she was unable to throw her sister a proper shower, had designated herself, and Brice, as the lead party planners.
What could possibly go wrong with those two in charge?
Still, it was the least of his concerns.
“Did your mom even RSVP? I know Becca invited her,” he asked, treading lightly.
The last thing he wanted to do was upset his wife. But it was a coin toss when it came to her reaction regarding her mom. Sometimes, she wanted her mom to show up to the shower, and then she’d change her mind and say that she wanted her to stay away. Other times, she wanted her mom to want to show up, and then not show up—but then decide to show up anyway.
This mother-daughter business was thorny stuff.
He and his father had been estranged for many years after his mother passed. But all it took to get them back on track was Georgie, charming the pants off his dad, and a Michael Bolton ballad.
“Oh yes, Lorraine Vanderdinkle is always one to RSVP,” she answered, injecting a thread of mock-haughtiness into her reply.
“And?”
Georgie made a flippant flick of her wrist. “And she’s unable to attend due to a brunch commitment.”
He frowned. She couldn’t be serious.
“A brunch commitment?” he pressed.
“At the country club, of course. She wouldn’t want to disrupt the delicate balance of the Denver elite brunch dynamic now that she’s back. I’m sure Gustavo has her table all ready,” she said, back to mock-haughty. But even her terrific impression of a deranged socialite couldn’t hide the disappointment he saw as plain as day in her eyes.