“Let’s do chips and some of that amazing pineapple salsa. I asked the resort concierge to send some over every day,” she called.
He glanced at his wife, who was positively glowing.
“Pineapple salsa it is,” he said, sauntering into the kitchen and procuring the snack staples.
“It is Irene,” she said, holding out her phone to share a picture of Mr. Tuesday nestled in next to their friend’s pregnant belly.
“How are they doing?” he asked, setting a bag of chips and the bowl of salsa onto a tray.
Georgie sat up and smoothed a spot for him to set their post-sex snacks, and he joined her back in bed.
“First, pineapple salsa,” she said, loading a chip with more salsa than one would think humanly possible before crunching down on the sweet and salty treat.
“Wow!” he said, both amazed and a little intimidated.
She swallowed the bite. “Okay, Irene says Mr. Tuesday is doing well. He’s very protective of her and loves her baby bump. And they got nine inches of snow last night,” she finished, then typed out a message as her lips twisted into a naughty grin.
“What are you writing back?” he asked.
Georgie licked her lips. “I told her I got nine inches, but it has nothing to do with snow.”
“Georgiana, what would your trifecta think?” he shot back, teasing his very naughty wife.
She gasped. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me! It’s like I’m becoming a—”
“Sex maniac?” he mused.
“Yes,” she answered, crunching into another pineapple salsa-laden chip.
He kissed her cheek. “You may also want to look into competitive eating.”
“Oh, and look at this, Jordan!” she continued, ignoring his comment. “We have tons of posts on our blog, wishing us well on our honeymoon. Even the Belgian Waffle Princess sent us a message.”
“How is her royal waffle-ness doing?” he asked, sinking into the pillows.
Georgie rested her head on his chest. “She says congratulations, and I quote, ‘Georgie and Jordan’s unorthodox courting and engagement has been a delight to read about. I can’t wait to see what it’s like when the two of them have a baby,’” she finished, then popped another chip into her mouth.
The breath caught in his throat.
Holy pineapple salsa!
He glanced around the bungalow. There were pineapples everywhere. She’d literally been eating pineapple nonstop since they’d arrived on the island. If it wasn’t for all the sex, taking her away from indulging in the tropical fruit, she might have turned into one by now.
“Georgiana?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want any vegan chocolate chip cookie dough? The staff stocked the fridge with about twenty tubes,” he asked.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound appealing.”
He twisted a lock of her hair as his mind went into overdrive.
They’d been having lots of crazy, mind-blowing sex.
His wife now positively glowed as if she were part firefly.
And she suddenly loved pineapple more than anything—even, it seemed, more than her beloved cookie dough. And, slightly more concerning, she’d wolfed down those chips like a teenage boy hitting a growth spurt.
“A baby! Isn’t that crazy? Can you even imagine, Jordan?” she said, reaching for another chip.
He smiled at his wife. If these signs meant what he thought, the Belgian Waffle Princess may not have long to wait.
* * *
