With or Without Vows (Hot Cops #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Jules

E ntitled arseholes in their fancy cars think the road rules don’t apply to them. Not if I can help it. I stomp my foot on the accelerator, blocking the massive four-wheel drive from crossing into my lane. They blast their horn. So I respond with my hand out the window, flashing the universal ‘fuck you’ finger gesture.

I swing into the coveted parking spot the SUV driver had their eye on, but I saw it first. Well, I think I did. Anyway, it’s mine. Shutting the door, I stroll towards the school entrance, acutely aware that I failed to follow the unspoken dress code. But I refuse to show weakness. What’s the saying ‘Fake it till you make it?’

My friend Taylor leans against the fence, touching up her lippy. I nudge her ribs. “Hey there.”

She squirms and bats me away while her attention remains fixed on her lipstick. “Cut it out, Jules. You know Mr Campbell’s on duty this afternoon. I want to look my best.”

I cast my gaze over her outfit. She’s gorgeous, as always. Brand new running shoes, black leggings that encase slim, toned legs and a cropped T-shirt revealing her perfectly tanned and flat abs, complete with a belly button ring. Her glossy ebony hair is swept into a messy bun, tendrils sweeping across her high cheekbones.

In contrast, my jumper barely hides the muffin top spilling over the waistband of my blue jeans, and on closer inspection, there are two holes at the bottom caused by Zola, our over-enthusiastic staffy cross, who has a penchant for treating my clothes like chew toys. The only saving grace is the icy breeze slicing through the air. It’s a reminder that we’re in the middle of winter, making my boring as fuck outfit way more appropriate than Taylor’s.

I tug my polar fleece jacket tighter. “He’s got a partner.” At least, I think he does. It’s hard to imagine a man that enigmatic being single.

Taylor arches one perfect micro-bladed eyebrow. “Sooo? If there’s no ring on his finger, then he’s fair game.”

I shake my head. “You’re asking for trouble, sister.”

“And I’m ready for it.” She tucks her lippy into her bag and finally takes notice of me. Her jaw drops. “What in the world are you wearing?”

I glance down at my too-tight jeans. I’d changed out of my comfy tracksuit pants because I knew they’d make me stand out like the proverbial outcast if I rocked up in them, but I was running too late to do anything about the top half of me. I’m slipping. “We can’t all be model thin.”

“I wasn’t having a crack at your weight.” Taylor pushes off the fence as a couple of other mums walk past and through the front gate but not before they give me a once-over and snigger. Dressed in the latest high-end athleisure wear, their gazes run up and down my body as if they’re trying to figure out what gutter I crawled out of. I resist the urge to exercise my middle finger again. Instead, I lift my chin and stare them down. They quickly turn away. Cowards.

Taylor snaps her fingers at me. “Seriously, Jules, the way you’re dressed today, you look like someone who not only can’t afford private school fees but can’t afford petrol for the car.”

I cross my arms. She’s right. I blame the scales. If I hadn’t weighed myself this morning and seen those extra kilos, I mightn’t have obsessed over my wardrobe and why nothing fits anymore. “There are more important concerns in life than Botox and lasering.”

“Yeah,” Taylor says. “Like clothes that fit and …” She peers down at my worn slip-ons. “Decent shoes.”

She’s got me there, and I deserve the censure. My comments were catty. Taylor’s in the middle of a messy marriage breakdown. If things don’t improve with my husband, we might be heading down the same path. At least Taylor has no money worries. She stands to come out of the divorce from her CEO husband with a very healthy bank account.

Taylor’s son, Shane, and my daughter race down the pavement. Riley is tiny for her age, but that doesn’t slow her down. Her shiny brown ponytail swings from side to side and her smile beams bright enough to light the darkest room. Bringing up the rear is their teacher, Mr Campbell. I’m not immune. He’s a handsome man, but to his credit, he never flaunts it. It’s not his fault; his very presence sends all women of reproductive age into a swoon.

“Mummy, I drew a pony today.”

I nod at Mr Campbell and squat to Riley’s level. She thrusts a piece of paper at me. There’s a shape that I’m guessing is the pony, another smaller blob which could be Zola, and three stick figures. All coloured red. She’s obviously taken after her father in the art department. “Lovely.”

Riley points at the drawing. “This is you, me and Daddy.”

“It’s beautiful, sweetie. What’s the straight line with a curly bit at the end?” It’s an odd squiggle drawn at the feet of the female figure .

“Um …” She gnaws on her bottom lip. “Sometimes Daddy gets mad at you.”

What? Mick never raises his voice, so I’m surprised Riley has noticed the tension between us when he comes home late. But what’s it got to do with her drawing? Fortunately, Taylor’s busy taking selfies with her phone and doesn’t appear to be listening, but Mr Campbell is hanging on every word. I take her hand. “It’s okay. Sometimes people get upset, but there’s nothing to worry about.”

“But I saw it!”

Now I’m confused. What is she talking about? “Saw what?”

“I know I shouldn’t have looked, but … I saw the whip in your wardrobe.” Her eyes widen to comic proportions. “You must be very bad for Daddy to smack you with that.”

Oh. My. God.

She drew a whip? Kill me now.

Heat rushes to my face. Mr Campbell coughs and covers his mouth. He’d better not be laughing. How the hell do I respond to that?

“Ah …”

Mr Campbell saves me from collapsing to the pavement in a scorched, embarrassed mess. Clearing his throat, he says, “Maybe the whip is for a dress-up party, Riley.”

“Ohhh …” My jumbled brain resets itself. “Yeah. I bought it for, uh … for a Catwoman costume. I’m thinking ahead to Halloween.” It’s months away, but it’s a plausible reason Riley should understand.

She jumps up and down. “I could go as Catgirl.”

Mr Campbell’s face remains a neutral mask, but his lips twitch. I’ll never be able to look at him again. God, I hope we don’t get a call from the school counsellor now. The whip must have fallen from the top of the cupboard. It’s been so long since Mick and I had fun with it; I’d forgotten it was there .

Taylor unwittingly saves the day by sidling up to Mr Campbell and thrusting her boobs in his face.

I take Riley’s hand. “See you, Taylor. Mr Campbell.” I keep my gaze on his feet and step away. I need to get out of here. And fast.

“One moment, Mrs Williams.”

So close … I lift my head. “Yes?”

Taylor purses her lips, obviously annoyed that her flirting hasn’t distracted him.

“Do you think Mr Williams will make parent-teacher night this term?”

Bloody Mick. I might as well be a single mum, given how many hours he spends at work. But he’s not missing out this time. No way am I facing Mr Campbell on my own after this disaster.

“We’ll both be there,” I say and hurry across the pavement, my cheeks burning.

At the car, I strap Riley into her seat and try to stay calm. Home’s only fifteen minutes away. I can make it without bursting into tears. Otherwise, Riley’s next drawing will be of a flood. Or a storm. Or something equally evocative to get the teacher’s attention, and not in a good way.

The internal walls of the house are suffocating, like a prison cell, so I escape to the back deck. Riley plays chase with Zola, oblivious to the trouble she stirred with her artwork. The pale yellow of the afternoon sun has long disappeared behind the gumtrees that line the fence and the Antarctic wind has dropped to a wisp of a breeze. But the spotlights Mick installed when we moved in bathe the yard in light.

I switch on the heating lamp, fill a wineglass to the brim and unlock my phone. The usual preening and fake smiles dominate Instagram—expensive cars, houses, exotic holiday destinations. These people can’t possibly be as happy or as successful as they make out. Can they? I stop at a pic of my best friend, Claire, and her fiancé, Jake. I know for a fact her happiness is real. It’s a selfie of them in the Blue Mountains, faces shining with so much love it hurts to look at them. I like the post and comment with three hearts, then continue flicking through my feed and sipping my wine before I start feeling sorry for myself.

What the hell was that?

I holt my scrolling and flick back to where a photo of an archaeological dig in Egypt fills the screen. A lump lodges in my throat as I read the caption. Amelia Leppington, the woman who took my place seven years ago, has discovered what is believed to be the tomb of Ramses VIII in Egypt. It’s heralded as the greatest find of the century.

I slam my phone on the table, tears blurring my vision. This was my dream. Mine! I grip my thighs to keep my torso upright because it feels like my bones are dissolving and the muscles are crumbling to dust, leaving me with no support.

“Mummy?”

My head jerks up. Riley and Zola have stopped playing and are staring at me. I swallow the bile creeping up my throat and force my lips to curl upwards. “Hey, there.”

I wave, and they both cock their heads like they’re not so sure of my mood despite the smile. I keep that fucker pinned to my face. Riley waves back and resumes throwing a ball to Zola.

My shoulders slump and I scull the remains of my glass. I need something stronger than alcohol to process this news. I slip into my bedroom and pull out my locked diary from the top shelf of the wardrobe. The small plastic bag inside only has three Valiums left. I make a mental note to get a top-up, then pop one in my mouth and shove everything back into the hiding place.

Returning outside, I sink into a chair and pour myself more wine. With alcohol warming the chill in my bones and the Valium seeping into my bloodstream, I re-read the Instagram post. Unfortunately, the second time through is no better than the first. Amelia, who only scraped through her degree with a pass, has made the discovery of a lifetime.

It should have been me!

Seven years ago, my plan was falling into place. After completing my degree with first-class honours, an eminent professor handpicked me to join a coveted archaeological team. For four weeks, life amongst the dust and the heat was perfect until two tiny lines on a pee stick screwed it all up. Occupational health and safety were cited as the reason I couldn’t stay. They shoved me on the next plane out of Egypt and back to Sydney so fast that my head spun for days. So much for equal opportunity.

“I’m home.” Mick’s husky voice pulls me out of my miserable reminiscing and into my miserable present.

Riley squeals and races towards him, Zola hot on her heels.

“Daddy!”

“Hey, sweet pea. How was your day?” He squats and cuddles Riley. Pats Zola. My ovaries, the traitors that got me into this mess, do a little dance as I watch the reunion. The way Mick’s face softens at the sight of our daughter, like she can do no wrong, simultaneously melts my heart and pisses me off because I know his expression will tighten when it gets to me.

I check my phone. It’s eight o’clock. Where did the time go? Riley should have eaten and had her bath by now, but paralysis has had me locked in its steely grip since I saw that post about Amelia. And Riley’s taken advantage of my inattention to continue playing. Cheeky devil.

A lock of brown hair drapes over Mick’s forehead. It gives him a boyish charm despite the sprinkling of silver. He’d have looked dashing in a police uniform, not that I ever got to see it. He quit before I met him. Back in the day, when we had a proper sex life, I’d have loved to try real handcuffs instead of the padded ones. They would’ve paired nicely with the whip in the cupboard.

Damn him for still being sexy.

Mick kisses Riley and whispers in her ear. She races into the house. He takes in the near-empty bottle, his lips flattening.

A bolt of fire rips through me. “I’m not drunk. And don’t you dare get all preachy on me. Just because you don’t drink doesn’t mean the rest of us should abstain.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.” I tighten my grip on the stem of the wineglass. He’s so calm it makes me want to shake him. “While you trotted off to sit at your nice clean desk all day, I was mopping up the bathroom after Riley vomited this morning. And then I cleaned up a mess Zola made after getting into some cheese.”

I pick up my glass and the bottle and push past him into the house.

“You didn’t take her to school, did you? What if she’s coming down with something?”

“She’s fine.” I stop and turn, and he almost collides with me. My muscles tense, ready for a lecture about what a terrible mother I am. “We were running late, so she scoffed down her cereal and made herself sick.”

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “How many times do I have to tell you to watch the time?” His response is so predictable I could laugh. Or cry. He glances at the partially completed jigsaw on the dining table. “Let me guess. You allowed her to work on her puzzle before breakfast?”

“Yeah.” It’s five hundred pieces and recommended for children over ten years old. We bought it for Riley as a challenge because she’s been finishing the ones aimed at her age group too quickly .

He strokes his trim beard. His eyes are red, bags propping up the bottom lids.

“If you weren’t working long hours, you’d be here to help more.” A little niggle of doubt, one that’s plagued me on and off for the last year, pokes at my insecurities. Before I can stop myself, I ramp up my attack. “Assuming it’s work keeping you away?” And not banging some mistress like Taylor’s husband. Or like my useless father.

“Christ, Jules. I’ve told you before. There’s nobody else.” His tone is soft and measured. The only hint of annoyance is the profanity. “I don’t have time to scratch myself, let alone have an affair.”

“Mummy?” I turn to see Riley hovering in the doorway. “Are you and Daddy fighting?”

Her drawing flashes before my eyes. I squat and beckon her forward, folding my arms around her. “No, baby. We were just having a discussion. Sometimes our voices get a bit loud.” Or at least I do. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard Mick raise his voice.

Riley’s bottom lip wobbles. “Shane’s parents fought all the time, and then his daddy left.”

Mick crouches next to us, his face so close I feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. He cups Riley’s chin. “I would never leave you.” His eyes capture mine, brown swirling orbs that still have the power to warm me from the inside out before they harden ever so slightly. “Or your mum.” He kisses the top of her head. “Love you, sweet pea.”

Mick’s woody aftershave envelops me in a hug that echoes the one I’m giving Riley. There’s no hint of a woman’s perfume on his clothes. There never is. It’s his blasted phone that plagues me—he guards it with the zeal of a dog with a juicy bone.

I stand and put some distance between us. He’d better be telling the truth because I didn’t sacrifice everything for my family to have it ruined by a cheating husband.