A Very Dirty Christmas Read online

  "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