Give Me War - Kate McCarthy Page 0,1

dream I had a week ago where our house was a giant wedding cake with our kid trapped inside. I had to eat it all to save him. I’m annoyed with myself for sharing. Jared thought it hilarious, but what he doesn’t get is how staggeringly high my cravings and maternal feels are right now. Mama bear is out and she’s hungry.

Jared grins, his eyes dancing as dawn begins its approach. “You don’t remember the dream where you ate an entire cake?”

My nostrils flare. “I did it to save Wolf. I didn’t see you doing anything. You weren’t even there!” I point out.

Conall is our firstborn. Named in honour of the Valentine’s Scottish heritage. It means ‘strong wolf,’ and the name stuck as they seem to do in our circle. My kid is just Wolf now, and he’s a menace. Steve, my father-in-law, thought it would be cool to buy him a pint-sized policeman outfit last week—an early Christmas present. Wolf won’t take it off. He’s sleeping in it right now, and every time I tell him to do something, he flashes his cop badge at me and tells me he’s the law around here. I just know Casey taught him to say that. He’ll pay for it later. I’m considering a scratch on his precious Marjorie. Or a slight drowning during our morning surf.

“Babe. You’re mad at me over a dream?”

“Yes.” Pregnancy makes me an asshole. “I have to do everything around here, so much so I’m even dreaming about it.”

His brows rise but there’s amusement in his expression. “I offered to have tomorrow catered. You did hear me say that, right? And you insisted on cooking. You remember saying that too, don’t you? Or was all that a dream as well?”

I tug at the long dark hair stuck beneath my pillow and huff. “Yes, I remember, and now I regret it, okay? Are you happy? I regret it. I’m not Martha Stewart. I’ll never be Martha Stewart. I’m not a seventh wonder of the baking world. I can’t make a cake without it sinking in the middle.” Wolf’s last birthday I had to fill in the hole with icing so no one would notice. “And I’m the only one who can’t cook a side of beef to save my life.” Tears fill my eyes. My pot roast has become a running joke in our family. My last attempt was cooking one for Christmas in July two years ago and it broke Steve’s (my father-in-law) Black and Decker nine-inch electric carving knife. They threatened to use it in a game of rugby. Now every time we have a gathering, someone always asks if I brought the beef ball and everyone laughs as if it’s a great joke. “It always comes out so dry and tough. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Jared reaches across and helps free my hair from its pillowed prison. Then he brushes a thumb across my cheek, his expression softening. “Babe. I’ll help you.” His hand drops to my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Between the both of us, we’ll get it done.”

“I’m trying to argue with you here. Why won’t you let me?”

His fingers travel slowly down my arm, leaving shivers in their wake. “It’s too early. And besides, you’re …”

He trails off, hesitating. There’s a wealth of love in his expression, but there’s also uncertainty. “I’m what?”

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

I should be happy he still thinks me beautiful, even now with my eyes puffy, hair wild, and my bitchy hormones coming out to play. My eyes well up. Again.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” I say on a queasy heave as I shove the covers off and roll to a seated position. Taking a deep tired breath, I rise to my feet with a groan. “I’m going for a surf.” It will accomplish two of my morning goals. One, strangle Casey, and two, ask him what I should get Jared for Christmas, though I should probably do the latter first.

“Stay.”

I turn my head with surprise at the request. Jared shifts over and slides a warm palm across one lacy-clad ass cheek. It skims around my belly as he shifts closer, dipping down, and down, sliding inside my knickers. His fingers meander south until they glide through the slick heat between my legs.

A moan escapes me, my head tipping back.

Things between us haven’t been ... easy. I’m worried. Three years is a long time to be trying for a baby. It’s hijacked our life and we’ve