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Then again, Harper hadn’t just spent the last five minutes with Mrs. Duffy.
“This is Harper McCoy, the wife of my bandmate Deacon. She’s also my best friend and the moon to my stars.” Jazz hustled forward and clasped Harper’s arm to her side. So what if she was hanging on to her friend like a kid with a security blanket? She had her reasons. “Harper, this is Gray’s mother.”
“Call me Eileen,” Mrs. Duffy said warmly, extending her hand to Harper. Harper shook it, shooting a sidelong glance at Jazz. “Why, you’re pregnant too.”
“Yes, I sure am.” Harper took back her hand and patted her belly, even more rounded than Jazz’s. Harper was about two months more preggo than Jazz and adorable with it in her jeans and smocked top.
“Well, that will be handy, having a built-in playmate.”
“Oh, don’t know about that. Gray’s a randy sort and I’m not too sure I want his son cavorting with my baby girl.” Harper managed to keep a straight face, but Jazz had to cough into her hand.
“Randy, is it? No doubt due to the influence of his wife,” Mrs. Duffy said with a haughty smile, pivoting on her heel to head inside. “Come along, girls.”
“Awesome,” Jazz muttered, shoving her sunglasses back down just in case her eyes started shooting poisonous darts without her input.
“Sorry,” Harper said in an undertone, clutching Jazz’s arm as they went into the store. “I was trying to be funny. You know, lighten the mood.”
“Oh, it’s light, all right. She thinks I’m the Marilyn Monroe of baby mamas, seducing her hapless son.”
Then again, she had kind of seduced Mrs. Duffy’s son, hadn’t she? Not that he was hapless. But she distinctly remembered a pair of hooker boots and a sexy dress and shedding said dress when Gray hadn’t made a move. The fact that she’d been sans underwear at the time had been coincidental.
Okay, so not really. But the boy had needed seducing. They’d been dancing around each other for so many years that she’d finally reached the point she couldn’t wait anymore.
The whole getting knocked up on the first night thing had been completely accidental, even if she’d already scared Gray into talking about adding on to the house they hadn’t even purchased yet. They’d seen a couple of promising ones, but so far none of them had given her that special warm zing that meant the home was meant to be theirs.
Zing or not, they were going to have to find a place soon.
“It’s a mother thing. I’m sure once our kids get older, we’ll view the harlot or manwhore who tries to take them away the same way. I’m pretty sure it’s biological.” Harper deepened her voice like a caveman’s. “Must keep the babies in the nest. Must not let them enjoy sex and fly away.”
Jazz had to giggle, though she sobered up once Mrs. Duffy glanced back at them. “Shall we get a cart?” Jazz asked.
“Two carts, I would think. Unless you’re not shopping, Harlow?”
“Harper,” Harper corrected. “No, I’m more along for moral—” She broke off when Jazz pinched her hip. “To act as the moral police,” she said instead. “You know how scandalous babies’ fashions can be these days.”
“Has Jasmine already been buying inappropriate things?”
Jazz sighed heavily and gave Harper the side-eye. Moral support, my ass. So far all her bestie had done was cause her trouble, not smooth the way. “I’m having a boy, Eileen. What exactly do you think I could be buying him?”
Mrs. Duffy narrowed her eyes. Whether it was because of Jazz’s direct challenge or because she’d dared to call her Eileen—though that offer had never been extended toher—was up for interpretation. “Oh, I’m sure you have your ways. You’ve always been a very resourceful girl, Jasmine.”
“She so is.” Harper nodded eagerly. “In fact, she’s knitted three pairs of booties for both Dylan and for my little girl. With as busy as she is, she still finds time to—”
“Busy how? I thought your band was on hiatus?”
Jazz selected a cart and wheeled it across the front of the store. Maybe if she got lucky, Mrs. Duffy would get lost. “We aren’t on hiatus, we’ve been in the studio finishing the album.”
“But not touring, correct?”
“No, not recently,” Jazz replied, hating how defensive she sounded.
She had no reason to be. Her job might not be conventional, but no one could argue it wasn’t grueling in its own way. There were ticket sales to worry about and quotas to hit. Each song had to be better than the last, and each CD had to outshine the previous. She had to deal with record execs and fans and her own creative urges, never mind the reality of meshing her personality with four other people. Four othermen. That she now shared a last name with one of them didn’t change facts.
Being in a band was awesome. It was also hard work.
“So you’ve had some downtime,” Mrs. Duffy pressed.
“Jazz had to redo her drum sections about fifty times. Talk about exhausting. I don’t know how she does it.” Harper grabbed Jazz’s arm and dragged her up the first aisle, which happened to be filled with baby formula and burping cloths. “Just keep rolling,” Harper whispered in her ear.
