His wife stared at him, looking as bewildered as he felt.
“What do you mean this is it? We have to have brunch first. We’re going to have the shower here. Aren’t we supposed to eat chocolate baby poop? And we haven’t picked up any cookie dough, and we don’t even have my hospital bag,” she rambled, the moment hitting her like a ton of bricks.
“Eat what?” Lorraine exclaimed.
“Remember, Virginia, I ate all the candy bars,” Brice called.
Two for four—poor bastard.
“Okay, so no chocolate baby poop,” Georgie repeated. “But, what about my bag? We don’t have it. And what about Mr. Tuesday? He’s at the shop.”
“I’ll call the store and let Talya and Simon know that they’re on dog duty. They’ll make sure he’s taken care of,” Becca said, pulling out her cell.
“Mia and Mya are with them at the shop. Tell them to take Mr. Tuesday to my house when they bring the girls home,” Maureen added.
A flurry of activity buzzed around them as a life-altering event materialized before them.
He cupped Georgie’s face in his hand. “See, we’re all good.”
“What about Faby? We didn’t even make a plan for our fake baby.”
“I’ll take care of your fake baby,” Brice called.
Georgie leaned forward as another contraction hit. “Can we trust him with Faby?” she bit out.
This was not the birth plan they’d been practicing, that was for damn sure!
“I think so.” He handed the doll over. “Just don’t pop Faby’s head off.”
Brice cradled the fake baby in his arms. “That’s what Briana says to me when I babysit Ollie, and he’s still in one piece.”
Jordan nodded, not one hundred percent reassured, but it was better than nothing.
“We have to get to the hospital. Lorraine, can we take your car? The one we came in is out of gas,” he called.
“You’ll never make it,” she answered with a Botox version of worry written all over her face.
“What do you mean? The hospital is only fifteen or twenty minutes away from here.”
“If Georgiana is anything like me, my mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother, my great-great-grandmother, or my great-great-great-grandmother, this baby will be here in minutes.”
“Minutes?” he and Georgie echoed.
“Yes, the women on my side of the family have exceptionally short labor on account of our exceedingly flawless cervixes,” Lorraine explained.
Dr. Beaver must have been serious when he’d complimented Georgie’s lady parts.
“I can’t believe it!” Georgie replied, then gripped his wrist as another contraction hit.
But he believed it. They had to act—and fast.
“Help Georgie over here, so she can lie down,” his father called, removing the throw pillows from one of those fancy half-couch half-bed-looking things.
“Yes, let’s get you to the chaise lounge,” Lorraine agreed.
“So I can deliver a baby inside of a country club next to an ice sculpture?” Georgie threw back, glancing around wildly.
He rubbed between her shoulder blades. While there were worse places to deliver a child, he could certainly understand her trepidation. She wasn’t wrong. How many women gave birth in the same room as an ice sculpture?
“It’s that or the backseat of a Prius, pumpkin,” her mother said gently but firmly.
Georgie cried out as another contraction hit. Without thinking, he lifted her into his arms and carried her over to the couch.
“Is this actually happening, or is it a pregnancy delusion? Please, say it’s a delusion,” she added, blowing out tight punctuated breaths.
“This is happening,” he answered, resting her on the cushions.
She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand, going back to pregnant labor panting.
She gasped. “The contractions are coming fast. They feel like they’re right on top of each other.”
He was thinking the same thing. Unfortunately, he didn’t know the first thing about delivering a baby. But he was the city’s top trainer. He knew how to take control and get shit done.
He glanced up and assessed the scene.
“Hector, call for an ambulance. Let them know Georgie’s gone into labor,” he said, then barked out more orders, directing his friends and family to find towels, blankets, and even hot water because that’s what they called for in all the historical romance movies Georgie loved to watch. And it didn’t seem like a bad thing to have around. Hell, they had an ice sculpture. Why not a bucket of hot water, too?
“Another contraction’s coming,” she rasped, then released a piercing screech.
He turned to the brunch crowd. “My wife is in labor. We need a doctor. Can anyone help us until the ambulance gets here?”
Dozens of hands shot up.
“This is great,” he said, sharing a look with Georgie’s mom.
Lorraine shook her head. “No, most of them are plastic surgeons. Unless Georgie wants vaginal rejuvenation surgery, which is a great idea after the baby comes, these people will be of no help,” she answered.
“I’m a psychiatrist,” called a Freudian-looking guy.
Jordan hardened his features. “Nope, dude, I need somebody who knows what they’re doing.”
“I’m an obstetrician,” came a familiar voice.
And then a familiar face.
“Dr. Beaver,” Jordan exclaimed.
Georgie sat forward and took in the man, rocking tennis whites.
“Which Beaver are you? There are two of you. One of you is my baby doc—the other works on brains. I need the Beaver twin that knows my beaver!” she exclaimed.
Clearly, his wife had hit the part of the labor process where shit gets crazy, and she can say whatever the hell she wants without any threat of repercussions.
“I’m your Beaver, Georgie,” Dr. Beaver said, dropping his tennis racquet and rushing over.
“The one who complimented my cervix?” Georgie pressed, then leaned forward and groaned as another contraction hit.
“You better be the right Beaver, man,” he said, holding the guy’s gaze.
“Yes, that’s me! You’re Joyce’s favorite patient, Georgie. She talks about you all the time. I promise. I’m the right Beaver.”
“I’m Joyce’s favorite?” Georgie said, falling back onto the pillows in dreamy exhaustion.
“Jordan, can you believe it? Joyce likes us.”
He couldn’t believe it, but he honestly didn’t give a damn either.
“What is all this Beaver talk?” his dad asked, looking downright mortified.
“I’m the Beaver. Chad Beaver,” the doctor replied, flashing his toothpaste commercial smile.
“Georgie’s lady doctor is named—”
“Dad!” he said, cutting him off. The Beaver talk needed to end.
“Let’s go wait for the ambulance, hun,” Maureen offered, taking his father’s arm.
The pair headed for the entrance as Dr. Beaver moved to the end of the chaise lounge and got down on his knees.
“I’m going to check you, Georgie. Keep breathing.”
Everything seemed to be moving a mile a minute—as if the universe hit the triple fast-forward button.