"I think Kate will know if someone starts waving sage leaves around her belly, mother," I say.
"That's not even how it works."
I laugh at the memory, and the movement jostles Kate beside me. When she stirs, she makes a little moaning sound before looking me, groggy, a half-smile on her face. "Mmm. You let me sleep. That was such a nice nap. What time is it?" she asks.
"Three," I say.
She jumps up. "Cautler! You know we have to be at the cake testing! I can't believe you let me sleep!"
"You looked so peaceful," I tell her. "Besides, it's only cake."
She gives me a horrified look. "Only cake," she says. "I'm pregnant, and it's a buffet of cakes. I will cut anyone who gets between me and the grand amount of carbs I'm about to inhale."
"Including me," I say, laughing.
"Especially you," she says, walking across the room and pulling on clothes faster than I've seen her do in a long time. "I have no loyalties when it comes to cake. It's every man for himself."
"Noted."
An hour later, and Kate is true to her word. She threatens to stab me with her fork when I reach for a second bite of one of the cakes she declares to be "almost as amazing a sex," although by the expression she makes I'd almost swear that if I weren't in the room she'd tell the chef it was absolutely more amazing than sex. It's all a blur to me, a parade of confections with ridiculous names, like Quadruple Dark Chocolate Frosted Sugar Dream and Frosted Raspberry Afternoon Delight and Caramel Bavarian Custard Pie and Sweet Pink Champagne.
That's right. I, Caulter Sterling, am discussing the pros and cons of Pink Champagne cake for my wedding.
I'm spending my entire afternoon debating the merits of which vanilla frosting is more vanilla than the three previous vanillas and eating cake named after alcoholic beverages. And not the good kind of alcoholic beverages, either – there's a noticeable lack of scotch or Guinness-flavored cakes in this assortment.
When I make my beer-flavored wedding cake suggestion, Kate gives me a death glare. "No beer-flavored wedding cake," she says.
"No sense of humor," I point out helpfully.
That earns me another glare.
I mollify her by handing her another piece of cake.
CHAPTER THREE
Kate
"The wedding is two weeks away!" Bailey squeals. "Are you excited?"
I sink into the overstuffed burgundy velvet chair in the bridal shop, kicking my legs out as I lean back, and let out the most un-lady-like groan ever.
"That's an incredibly sexy sound, Kate. Kind of like a cross between a sea lion and a gorilla in heat," Libby says, snapping a photo of me with her camera.
"Do I need to ask how you know what a gorilla in heat sounds like, Libby?" Bailey asks.
Normally, I'd threaten Libby with bodily harm and attempt to wrench the camera from her grasp, but I have less than zero energy, and my feet are throbbing from walking around approximately one thousand shops in frigid Boston with my two best friends looking for lingerie for my honeymoon that is suitable for my current state.
One thousand was possibly an exaggeration. It might have been more like two. But pregnant lingerie shopping? It might as well have been a thousand stores.
And no, there is no lingerie on earth that is suitable for my current state. In the last lingerie store, I decided that the only thing that could possibly fit me right now – especially after all that cake the other day -- is a mumu.
So, simple is best, isn't it? Caulter has seen me naked, and he seems to like it. Naked it is.
Besides, we're driving to a little bed and breakfast in Vermont for our honeymoon, and it's Vermont in winter anyway. Super snuggly footie pajamas are totally sexy honeymoon apparel, right?
Libby snorts. "Gorilla in heat? I'm pretty sure that's the sound Bailey makes when she snores."
"What?" Bailey squeals, slapping Libby playfully on the arm. "I do not snore!"
"No, sweetie, you don't snore," Libby says, turning to me and mouthing exaggeratedly, "Yes, she totally does." She drops to her knee, adjusts the lens on her camera, and snaps another photo of me. Picking up one of the decorative throw pillows, I toss it at her, but she ducks and it just winds up bouncing off her shoulder.
"Libby, I will kill you," I threaten her half-heartedly.
Libby snaps a photo again and I decide I might have to hit her with something harder than a pillow for taking photos of me slouched down in this chair in my tent of a maternity dress.
"Oh, you love me," she says, clicking the camera again for effect.
I make a face at her, even though it's true. Despite her incessant camera-clicking, I adore her and Bailey. They've become close friends over the past year since Caulter and I moved to Boston. Libby is a fantastic photographer with an art gallery in New Hampshire and another in Boston. I knew her at Brighton Academy, although not very well. When Caulter and I moved to Boston two years ago, Libby and I connected right away, beyond our shared history at Brighton. She's smart and funny, and her girlfriend Bailey is kind and easy-going.
"Oh, leave her alone," Bailey says. "Can't you see the poor thing is exhausted?"
"Yeah, wench," I agree, leaning back and closing my eyes. "Have some sympathy for me."
"Buck up," Libby jokes. "There's no excuse for a meltdown, even in your condition."
"She's such a drill sergeant," Bailey says. "Just wait until you're pregnant and I force you to shop for hours in the dead of winter."
"Who says I'm ever having a baby?" Libby asks, her tone one of horror. I hear her camera click, and I don't even open my eyes to see if she's taking more humiliating photos of me.
"If you keep taking photos of me looking like a beached whale, I swear to all that is holy you will never live to carry a baby, Libby," I threaten.
"She's serious, Libbs," Bailey warns.
"Don't worry," Libby says, her camera directed at Bailey. "I was taking photos of the other sexy future-mama."
"Oh, no," Bailey says. "Don't even get any ideas. Kate, tell her I'm not cut out to be pregnant. All of the morning sickness, ugh."
"Don't forget the heartburn," I say, opening my eyes. Libby sits down beside Bailey on one of the sofas, her leg crossing lazily over Bailey's legs, her camera in hand, giggling as she snaps a selfie of the two of them.
"And the heartburn," Bailey says, pushing the camera away as she laughs. "Stop photographing this, Libbs. And don't think I haven't realized that you're already mentally marking this in your head as the day you convinced me to have a baby."
"No, this is the day we see Kate's gorgeous wedding dress on her," Libby says. "Speaking of that, where's the wedding dress girl? And our champagne?"
"Don't rub it in," I say.
"Sparkling juice for you," Bailey says, then groans. "God, that sounds just awful. We should abstain from our champagne in solidarity."
"Both of you can have all the champagne you wa – " A sharp kick to my belly nearly takes my breath away and I let out a loud oof, straightening up in the chair.
"Did it kick?" Libby squeals. "Can we feel it? I hate calling it 'it', you know. Like it's some kind of alien – although, I guess it really kind is an alien life-form growing inside, feasting off of you." The two of them cover my belly with their hands, oohing and ahhing as the baby kicks again.
"You know we wanted the gender to be a surprise," I say.
"Who waits to find out the gender anymore?" Bailey asks. "What are you going to do for the room?"
"It'll be neutral," I say. "Besides, it's not like the baby will know what color the room is anyway."
"Well, the little lime seems extra active today," Libby says. Back in the first trimester of my pregnancy, Libby came across an article online that showed the size of the baby's growth in utero compared to different fruits – lime, lemon, orange, grapefruit, watermelon, and so forth – so they took to calling the baby by whatever the fruit-of-the-week was.
"The baby is definitely not a lime anymore," I say, runnin
g my hands over my belly. I don't know what size the baby is right now, but my guess would be watermelon. Maybe even pumpkin – but one of those super giant pumpkins, the kind grown to win a prize at a state fair. That’s what is currently pressed up against my bladder right now, shoving its little pumpkin toes right into me.
The saleswoman comes out with a pile of wedding gown in her hands. "Sorry that took so long," she says, her voice breathless. "We got it in the other day, and I got an order of dresses in this morning that got hung up with it and, anyway – let's get this on you. Are you excited?"
Bailey claps her hands. "I can't wait to see it."
"Is it too late to change my mind?" I ask. "Maybe I should wear a white tracksuit instead?"
I'm only half-joking.
The saleswoman laughs nervously. "You'll look lovely," she says.
And a few minutes later, surrounded by multiple full-length mirrors that give me the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the dress, I think she's right. The top of the dress is made of delicate white lace, long-sleeved and dropping to a deep v between my breasts before turning to chiffon that skims over my belly and flows in layer after layer down to the ground.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever worn. And I can't help but think about what my mother would say if she saw me right now.
I'm suddenly overcome by sadness, a sense of longing for her to meet Caulter and our child, and I can't help myself. Tears well up in my eyes, spilling out before I can even try to stop them.
"Kate, it's gorgeous," Libby says.
"Oh, what's wrong?" Bailey asks, her hand on my shoulder immediately. "Is it the dress?"
"You look fantastic, sweetie," Libby tries to reassure me.
I sniffle. "It's beautiful," I say, my words coming out between sobs. "Pregnancy…hormones."
Libby slides her arm around my shoulder. "You're gorgeous, doll," she says. "And your mom is probably looking down, thinking the same thing."
Of course, that makes me cry even harder.
CHAPTER FOUR
Caulter
I'm surrounded by parts and pieces that go to baby furniture – crib railings, nuts and bolts scattered haphazardly across the surface of the hardwood floor – and thinking I'm this close to losing my shit.
"I think it's admirable that you're trying to put the furniture together yourself, Caulter," Ella says over the phone. The phone is on speaker, and I curse under my breath as I look at the directions to the crib.
"These are the worst fucking directions I've ever seen," I growl. "They make no sense. And there are no words. Only nonsensical pictures."
"You've never assembled anything before, Caulter," she says. "You should call for someone to do it."
"It's baby furniture, Ella," I say. "It's not rocket science."
The pieces I'm trying to screw together clatter as they fall onto the floor.
"Does Kate know you're putting everything together yourself?" she asks.
"It was supposed to be a surprise," I tell her. "She's getting her wedding dress fitted, and I thought it would be nice if all of the baby furniture was delivered and I set up the nursery. Obviously, I didn't know that assembling furniture takes a damn engineering degree."
"You have people to do that for you, Caulter," Ella says.
"I'm doing it myself," I snap. "I don't want my kid to grow up helpless."
"It's not helpless to have help, Caulter," Ella says, her voice dismissive. "Why shouldn't you have people to do things for you? You tried. There's no harm in admitting defeat."
"I'm not defeated," I say, feeling triumphant as I assemble the base of the crib…and then realize I put part of it together backwards.
"Should I send Bill up there to help you?" she asks.
"You're going to send your handyman from New York to Boston to assemble this shit?"
"You say that like it's excessive."
"It is excessive, Ella."
Ella grunts under her breath. "You're not a regular person, Caulter," she says. "Remember that."
"Kate and I are regular people, Ella," I insist.
My upbringing was as far as regular as you could get, as the child of a major celebrity. When I met Kate, Ella was considered a former celebrity, aging out of the industry. But two years ago, she landed a part in a huge movie that won an Oscar. Since then, she's been in high demand, playing parts for "women of a certain age," as she puts it. Now she's on set in New York, filming a television series.
That's put the spotlight back on Kate and I a little bit more lately.
I wanted a regular life. When I backpacked around Asia for a year, after Kate and I were discovered at her father and Ella's wedding reception, that's what I had. And for a couple of years after that, Kate and I stayed very far out of the limelight, living as far under the radar as possible.
"You're not regular people, Caulter," Ella says. "That's not how you were raised."
I laugh. "That's for sure."
"Oh, as if you would have wanted a normal childhood anyway," Ella says. "My makeup artist is here. When are you heading up to New Hampshire? That's what I called for. I was distracted by your handyman nonsense."
"Next week," I tell her. "And you'd better make it for the wedding, Ella. No excuses because something more important came up."
"Caulter Sterling, if I were there, I'd slap you," Ella says. "There is nothing more important that will prevent me from attending your wedding."
I don't bother to stifle my grunt. "Hey, are you sure that you and the Senator can put aside your differences and get along?"
Senator Harrison, Kate's father and Ella's ex-fiancé, were barely on speaking terms, the last time I checked. The thought of the two of them being forced to spend even a few hours together, let alone the several days before the wedding, is insane. They'll probably kill each other.
That makes it sound like our wedding potentially is the setting for a horror film, although with the Senator and Ella there together, that may not be too far removed from reality.
Ella makes a strangled sound. "I have to run," she says. "Makeup artist. Oh, and Caulter?"
"Yeah?"
"Get a fucking handyman."
Instead, I go get another beer. Apparently, assembling furniture requires beer, because an hour later, I have the entire nursery put together.
When Kate returns from the wedding dress fitting, she stands in the doorway to the nursery, her hands covering her mouth. "You did this?"
"I did," I say.
"You put all of this together yourself?"
I shrug. "It was no big deal."
Whatever. I'm proud of that shit. And also a little buzzed from the beer.
Kate stands there looking at me for a long moment, and I think that she might hate it. Then her lower lip quivers, and she starts to cry.
I cross the room, sliding my arms around her. "If you hate it, we'll change it," I say. "Or rearrange it."
"No," she sniffs. "It's just so…beautiful."
I wipe a tear from her cheek and kiss her on the forehead. My gorgeous, pregnant, hormonal fiancé. "So you're crying because it's beautiful?"
"I wish my mom were here to see it."
Now I feel like a jerk for chalking her tears up to pregnancy hormones. Drawing her against me, I stand there with her for a long time, just holding her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Kate
"Are you nervous?" Caulter covers his palm with mine as we near the road to my father's lake house, where we're holding the wedding. We're driving back to New Hampshire to spend the next ten days relaxing before the wedding.
Yeah, right.
The next ten days are going to be less than relaxing. They're going to be filled with last-minute wedding preparations and a rehearsal dinner and keeping the Senator and Ella at a safe distance from each other, and did I mention I haven't done any Christmas shopping yet?
There were a million suitable venues for the wedding around Boston – we also considered eloping, back to Bali, where Ca
ulter proposed – but I was drawn to the house on Lake Winnipesaukee where I spent much of my childhood.
Some of my best memories are of summers at the lake house with my mother, while my father was working down in Washington DC.
It's the place where Caulter and I fell in love.
It's also the place where my mother returned for the last time, before she died.
It holds some of the best and most painful memories of my life.
And some of the hottest…
The thought of that summer with Caulter and all the forbidden things we did – the afternoon in the library when we broke the ladder and nearly got caught; Caulter fucking me in my bedroom while important people celebrated our parents' engagement downstairs; him bending me over my father's desk in his office…
The mere memory of that summer makes me flush warm.
"You're blushing," Caulter says, and I instinctively bring my hand to my face, trying to hide the redness I know is there. He laughs. "You're thinking about that summer."
"What?" I squeak. "No." I don't know why I'm embarrassed.
Caulter chuckles under his breath before sliding his hand up my leg. "You so are," he says. "Dirty girl."
"I wasn't until I met you," I say. "You're the one who corrupted me."
Caulter slides his hand between my legs. "And I'd corrupt you all over again, too."
Heat rushes through my body at the warmth of his hand, even through my jeans. "I think you've corrupted me in every way possible," I say, my breath hitching in my throat.
"I have," he says. "Are there any new ways to defile you, or have we figured out all of them already?"
He’s joking, of course, but as we sit there in silence, driving, my thoughts start spinning. What if all of the excitement is gone? What if marriage and a baby means that we’ll wind up with missionary sex once a week -- if that – for the rest of our lives? Can Caulter Sterling, ex-manwhore, really be happy with the prospect of domestication?
"Are you happy?" I blurt out the words, realizing they must sound completely out of the blue to Caulter.
"Am I happy?" Caulter asks. “What kind of a question is that?”
A Very Dirty Christmas Page 22