Page 66 of Wishes for August

“Well, if their uncles all keep spoiling them like this, we are going to need a bigger house.” August pointed into the lounge to our right where a pile of multicoloured wrapped gifts stood. Along with two balloons in the shape of the number two.

We already had a bigger house, having bought this one a year after Stella was born. It had more rooms, a larger garden and was only fifteen minutes from my parents.

“And that is not including the swing set that arrived earlier today,” I added.

Declan asked, “Branson?”

“Correct,” August smiled.

I never got tired of seeing my husband smile. Of watching his face light up with laughter. And he did that a lot now. He was a different man in some ways to the man I’d met all those years ago in a boardroom in London. Though the parts that made me fall in love with him in the first place were all the same. He still made my knees weak and my breath catch when he pressed kisses to my neck or when he placed his hand around my throat, and the other on my hip as he fucked me against whatever surface he pleased. He still avoided making small talk where possible which wasn’t easy with all the clubs and events we now did as parents.

His love of travelling never wavered; it only grew with each trip we took together. We had fit in plenty of sightseeing before Stella was born. And though we still travelled now, we werecontent in spending our days at national parks, beaches and much to August’s horror, soft play.

August was all mine and not a day goes by that I don’t kiss him and touch him and remind him that he, and these three - soon to be four - kids, are my whole world.

“Dada, push,” Theo said, pointing to the kitchen and August groaned.

“I told you buddy,” he said with all the patience in the world, “Papa and Dada have to build the swing set first.” Theo stamped his little foot and Hamlet barked at August.

“Push!” Theo shouted again and I heard Darcy chime in with a quiet “push” before burying her face in August’s neck. She was quieter than her siblings and reminded me the most of him. She had his brown eyes and wavy hair and his serious, sometimes stubborn personality. DNA wise, her and Theo were his while Stella was my mini double - green eyes and auburn hair and the biggest smile that rarely ever faded. Though we never ever made that known to anyone - they were ours equally. I was thankful every day that we had found such incredible surrogates and that we could afford them thanks to my trust fund.

I grinned to myself thinking about the day August had bolted into our office - our office because we had started a new firm together, specialising in marketing for travel and tourism - and loudly proclaimed that it was time we grew our family. Daisy had been in earlier in the day to introduce us to her newborn and I’d watched with fascination as all the hard lines in my husband's brow softened into putty when he held her in his arms. We had been talking about it for months, but that moment had solidified it for him.

Stella wandered back into the room and ran over to take my hand, it was tiny in mine but her grip was strong.

“Papa, ‘ave you built the swing yet?” I rolled my eyes at August at the same time he grumbled “fucking Branson” under his breath though not soft enough for Stella to miss.

“Dada said the bad word again about Uncle Branny.” August ignored the scolding he got from our six year old and turned to Declan, a sly grin forming on his face.

“You know what, you three? I heard that Uncle Declan is a master at swing building. I think he’s going to go build it right now for you.” Theo jumped up and down, with a high pitched scream of delight while Declan glared daggers at his brother. August put Darcy down on the floor next to Theo and walked over to Dec. “And then, when that fucker gets here, he can help you.”

“Dada the bad word!” Stella yelled. And I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me. Branson had a habit of sending the kids big toys that often came with complex instructions and August always returned the favour by sending his kids loud, musical toys. Like the drum set he had delivered last month.

Declan walked through to the kitchen, three little Winters’ children and one scruffy dog on his heels and I pulled my husband into my arms, his back against my chest. He smelled like apples and cinnamon and fresh linen, and I inhaled his comforting scent before placing a kiss just below his ear. He still fit perfectly against me, as he had the very first time I’d held him.

“I love you baby,” I whispered.

“Love you too, Boss Man.”

THE END

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