Chapter 16
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
GEORGIA
My house is eerily quiet when I walk into my kitchen after joining my husband for my second shower of the morning. Don West’s soulful voice plays quietly over the sound system, but none of my humans can be seen.
“Mum?” Lu’s voice calls from somewhere up the hallway, and I know just by the tone that she wants something. “Can you come in here a sec?”
“Where’s here?” I call back as I make an about turn and head for the hallway.
“Dad’s office.”
When I walk through the door, Cam’s leaning back in his leather desk chair.
It’s pushed back, and his legs are stretched out in front of him, his fingers laced together behind his head.
Dressed in a plain black tee, grey joggers, hair still damp from our shower, and his salt and pepper stubble covering his jaw, he looks delicious.
Now in his sixties, my husband is hotter than when we first met, and despite what we’ve just done in the shower, I want to ride his face all the way back to our bed.
But our kids are situated around the room, and they’re all looking at me.
My husband arches a dark brow my way, then wiggles both.
A flashback of the way he had me spread on his desk last weekend, when we had the house to ourselves, instantly pushes its way to the forefront of my mind.
Cam remained sat in his chair, while I was flat on my back, legs bent and spread, feet up on the desk as he ate me out.
Heat travels from my neck to my cheeks.
Knowing full well what he’s doing, he winks.
In an attempt at playing him at his own game, I lick my lips.
“Seriously, will you two get a room?” Lu interrupts our moment.
“What’s up?” I ask, ignoring her comment as I walk around the desk and sit on Cam’s lap so I can look at the four of them all sitting on the sofa against the wall across from us.
“We were wondering,” Harry, always the spokesman for the four of them, starts. “After everything you told us this morning…”
My heart sinks down to my belly, which is now doing forward rolls as I brace for what he’s about to say.
Cam knocks my thumb from where I hadn’t even realised it was between my teeth before his arm tightens to give me a little squeeze of reassurance.
I’m not sure if I tensed or if we’re just so in tune that he could feel my stress levels rising.
“We’ve all got mates or know someone who’s had their drink spiked—blokes and birds. Some have had lucky escapes, some haven’t. A couple have become seriously unwell, and some have never fully recovered from the mental trauma it caused them.”
“Not any of you, though, right? You’re not talking about any of you?” My mum brain instantly springs into action, but Tallulah shuts it down.
“I told him he needed to start by saying it’s never happened to any of us. I knew you’d freak out and jump straight to that conclusion.”
“Chill,” Cam whispers in my ear while I wonder where this conversation is going. “Just hear them out,” he says as he wraps another arm around me.
“We’ve chatted to Dad about it, and he’s on board with the clubs getting involved, but we were wondering if the Triple M Foundation would be willing to fund an advertising campaign to raise awareness of the dangers of drink spiking?”
“I was thinking,” Lu says. “Maybe get the design team or one of the outside designers you use?”
“Gracie Baby would be perfect for this,” Kiki interrupts, and Jimmie’s words from last night about no one in this house ever getting to finish what they’re saying because we all constantly interrupt each other come back to me.
“You would say that,” Lu retorts while Kiks rolls her eyes, leaving me totally confused by their little exchange.
“Anyway, yeah. Gracie Baby would actually be perfect to design lids for glasses, like in a little pack of various sizes. Maybe made of silicone, so they’re light and can fit in a handbag or back pocket or whatever,” Lu continues.
I’m listening to what my daughters are saying, and agree, what they’re suggesting would work. Although this conversation is not what I was expecting when I entered the room, my brain is now going off on all sorts of tangents.
“Okay, so that’s prevention covered. What about the victims? What about all those impacted by this scummy act?”
“What?” the four of them, including George, who’s been very quiet so far, say in unison.
“What can we do for the victims? I’ll talk to the mental health team on Monday.
Let’s get something set up to run alongside the ad campaign—somewhere for victims to go with experts for them to talk to.
I’m sure there are government-funded organisations, but we’re better placed financially to do more.
George, can you look into what’s out there?
Find the gaps. Lu, can you look into getting designers on board?
H, you can handle the clubs. Kiks, you can work with the Triple M marketing team. ”
My kids stare at me. Two mouths are wide open—Harry and George’s—One is opening and closing—Kiki—While Tallulah’s is closed, her eyes narrowed on me and her hand on her hip.
“I woke up this morning thinking, finally, Saint Georgia cheated on her husband with my dad and ain’t such a saint after all. Then, despite everything else you’ve got going on right now, you dive headfirst into this. Don’t even bat a lash extension, just fully support us while giving us free rein.”
“Don’t say ain’t. There’s no such word.”
Cam’s arms tighten, and this time it’s him who braces.
“Thanks, Mum, Dad, for backing us on this,” H interjects.
Cam holds up his palms in surrender. “This one’s all yours. We’ll back you, but you four need to put in the work to make it happen.”
Our kids make their way around the desk, and we both get a kiss and a cuddle from each of them before they leave the room, talking loudly amongst themselves.
“Love the fuck out of you, Kitten.”
“Fuck me, T, I’ve not got much in my life right, but we did a good job with those four. Love you, too.”
I turn and look up at him. It’s not often my husband cries, but right now, his eyes are shining brightly with tears.
“We had none, then we had four. And don’t swear.”
“We’re so fucking lucky.”
“Kitten! Language! Beyond lucky,” he says as he kisses my cheek. “And they’re equally lucky to have you.”
“Us,” I correct him. “Teamwork makes the dream work, baby.”
Cam turns his chair so we can take in the view of the paddock to the side of our house, and we both remain silent for a long moment.
“Did they say anything else? Anything about us, what we did?” I ask.
“The boys had a bit to say before the girls came down, about me, not you. Told me I must’ve had some kind of rizz when I was younger—whatever the fuck that means—to have pulled you in the first place, then to have got you cheating on the rock star.”
“You’re not supposed to smile while you tell me that. I bet there were high fives all round.”
He presses his lips together as he tries not to smile, shrugs, and says, “Fist bumps, maybe.”
I shake my head. “And rizz means charisma, by the way.”
“What?” His dark brows pull together in confusion. “Why? How?”
“Char-ris-ma: Rizz,” I explain.
“But there’s no Z, so it should be ris.”
“The rules of proper English don’t necessarily apply to slang and colloquialisms.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Because I’m cool, and you’re old.”
“Do I need to give you another lesson with my dick on how old I’m not?” he asks while burying kisses into the side of my neck.
I let him, devouring every second of his attention, revelling in the sense of safety I feel wrapped in his arms. Again, feeling grateful for what we have, that at fifty-six, I still feel this level of passion for my husband, that we still can’t keep our hands off each other, and that we’re still irrevocably in love.
It’s not always like this. We argue and bicker like any other couple.
He complains about the mess I leave in the bathroom and wardrobe while he leaves a mess in every other part of the house.
He’ll walk past the dishwasher to leave a mug in the sink, that’s if they make it that far.
Usually, I’ll find a collection of plates, cups, and glasses next to wherever he’s been sitting, toast crumbs in the butter and over the worktop, maybe an empty milk carton left in the fridge.
He leaves whiskers everywhere when he shaves, too.
There’s a long list of his wrongdoings, but I mostly bite my tongue because he’s here.
I’ve lost one husband and deeply regret the words I wasted complaining about trivial things and the times we spent apart, so mostly keep my mouth shut when Cam’s just doing what most blokes do.
Instead, I appreciate the fact that he’s here to make a mess, and that we have what we have between us.
The gate alarm sounds.
“Circus has arrived,” Cam says with his mouth pressed against my ear.
“Yay,” I reply sarcastically. “Can’t wait for today’s emotional damage.”
He shifts me so we’re eye to eye.
“Want me to tell them to fuck off?”
“Nah. Like Ash said, it’s going to make great viewing, because for some reason, human beings love to be emotionally damaged and destroyed, whether it be by a TV show, a film, a song, or a book.
I don’t know if it’s because we need the perspective and need to know there are people out there worse off than us, or if it’s about the hope, the recovery.
Witnessing the way people overcome, survive, and hopefully get their happily ever after. ”
“Did you get yours?” he asks as his eyes roam my face.
“This house, our home, is packed to the rafters with my happily ever after. There’s so much of it, it’s bursting at the seams. So much that I think everyone who walks through our front door feels it too.”
Cam smiles, and it’s soft and gentle, lazy almost. I wrap my arms around his neck, bury my face in his chest, and breathe him in.
“Did you get yours?” I eventually ask him.
“Holding the instigator of mine in my arms right now,” he says as he kisses the top of my head.