by Amy Andrews
Get your shit together, Jane Spencer.
Do not think about Cole. Do not wonder how well the man could French kiss. Do not collect two hundred dollars.
Do not fantasize about what he might look like naked.
Of course, she’d already seen him mostly naked, so she had a pretty good idea—big and beefy, nicely furred chest, solid arms and legs and puckered abs. But none of those bits were as fascinating as what lay hidden behind his black boxer briefs, and, in her head, she pulled on the waistband and took a peek.
A sudden snore from Finn yanked her out of his underwear. Jeez Louise, she was a mother whose kid was lying eight feet away. It was not appropriate to be thinking about dicks. No matter how long it’d been since she’d seen one, touched one, done unspeakable things to one. Or hell, thought about one.
What Cole may or may not look like fully naked was both none of her business and completely irrelevant. The guy was going to be taking care of her son. It was not appropriate to be lusting after the manny.
Jane squeezed her eyes and repeated it over and over and over until she finally—freaking finally—fell asleep.
…
It took Cole less than an hour to suggest a walk to the park the next morning. Thankfully, it was a plan roundly approved of by Finn, because they had to leave. Jane was hovering, and Cole knew if they didn’t get out of the house she’d probably keep hovering and get little work done. As it was, they hadn’t been able to leave without Jane going all mommy on them.
Before he could blink, there was a loaded backpack for Finn full of water and snacks, and she’d crammed his hat on his head and slathered him head to toe in sunscreen despite his protestations. Cole had been very much afraid she’d start slathering him with sunscreen if they didn’t move out pronto, and he didn’t need her hands on his body, even brisk and efficient, as they’d been with Finn.
It took Cole less than two minutes into their walk to realize Jane had not been exaggerating about Finn’s energy levels. The kid was like a wind-up toy with a broken winder preventing him from the bit where he wound down and eventually stopped. He was fully charged and raring to go from the second Cole had appeared at seven-thirty.
Cole had given up on holding the boy’s hand after about ten seconds into their sojourn to the park. Firstly, because, thanks to needing his left hand for his walking stick, holding Finn’s hand put the kid on the road side of the pavement. Secondly, because he was also trying to juggle a football he’d found lying around the house. And thirdly, because of Finn’s impassioned insistence he was a big boy—just as Jane had predicted.
But the kid had given a solemn promise not to race ahead and always stick to the house side of the pavement, and Cole had caved. He hadn’t wanted to break Jane’s rules right from the getgo, but as with everything since his injury, he was learning to adapt to compensate for his temporary shortcomings. Not to mention him vividly remembering how chafing it had been to be constantly told to slow down and wait up.
Like Finn, Cole had always run at things like a bull at a gate.
Finn chatted away, his bug catcher clasped in one hand, as they walked, rarely stopping to draw breath. Questions about the trees and the sky and the cracks in the pavement. Observations about the wind and the number of red cars, which had lead to a monologue on Finn’s favorite colors and why. All of which was fine by Cole. Finn’s chatter required attention and answers and was, at least, some kind of distraction from thinking about his mother and last night’s kiss.
Cole had no idea why something so chaste was so damn fascinating. He’d certainly had hotter kisses in his life. Kisses that had grabbed him by the balls. But this one—that cool, passive press of lips on lips—had grabbed him by the throat and had lived on a loop in his head all night.
That little exclamation of surprise. The taste of beer. Her unwillingness to cede… Christ, that reluctance had been pretty fucking hot.
And seriously distracting. Out-distracting Finn’s chatter, which had apparently stopped. Registering this abruptly, Cole looked down to find that little blond head that had been bobbing along beside him was not beside him at all.
Cole’s blood pressure spiked, and for one terrible moment he thought he was going to have a stroke as panic descended. Then common sense kicked in, and Cole looked over his shoulder to find Finn had stopped a few feet behind and was, right this minute, about to do the one thing Jane had warned him about.
Lick paint.
Cole hadn’t taken that warning too seriously last night. Boys will be boys and all that, but paint wasn’t exactly the most pleasant thing a kid could put in his mouth, right? He doubted any kid could become addicted to it. But, as if in slow motion, Cole watched the tip of Finn’s tongue pushing closer and closer to a curved iron railing covered in peeling paint.
What the actual fuck?
“Finn!” Cole’s voice cracked through the warm summer air, startling the boy, who jerked back from the railing. Cole had probably said it harsher than he’d meant to, but seriously. It was paint, not cotton candy! “Sorry, mate, but don’t lick the paint, okay?” He softened his voice and smiled at the boy. “Your mother will have my guts for garters.”
Finn screwed up his nose, his fright at Cole’s raised voice obviously forgotten. “What’s guts for garters?” He said it slowly, like he was trying it on for size, relishing its newness.
Oh Jesus. He really had to remember Finn was a parrot and be careful what he said around the boy. He should definitely keep some of those more colorful phrases rugby had taught him to himself. “It’s a saying. It means I’ll be in big trouble. So let’s not lick the paint, okay?”
Finn sighed heavily. “Why not?”
“Because your mum says so.”
“I like how it tickles my tongue.”
“There could be lead in the paint.” Cole wasn’t sure what Jane had told Finn about the paint—if she’d gone into her reasons for not ingesting the tickly flakes. But he figured the truth was always a good place to start. “Lead is bad for you.” He hoped that sounded sufficiently knowledgeable enough to scare a four-year-old into submission.
“But…lead is good. It’s in my pencils.”
Well, yeah. Cole could hardly fault the kid’s logic there, even though there actually wasn’t any lead in pencils. But he didn’t want to get hung up on a technicality and end up down some rabbit hole. He regarded Finn for a moment. The kid seemed genuinely puzzled at the thought. Cole wasn’t proficient in four-year-old-boy stuff, but he figured keeping it simple was best. Changing tack, he said, “Birds could have pooped on the railing.” Weren’t all kids fascinated with poop?
Finn’s face was a picture of disgust as realization dawned. “Eww,” he said as he pulled his shirt up and used it to scrub his tongue.
Cole laughed. He’d definitely hit the jackpot with that little factoid. Finn didn’t look like he’d go anywhere near a railing ever again. Score one for him. “C’mon.” He tipped his head in the direction they were heading. “Let’s catch some crickets for Carl.”
Possible tongue contamination with bird poop forgotten, Finn dropped his shirt, and they continued on. Crossing the road to the park was an unusual experience. Normally, if he wanted to cross a road, Cole would look to the left and right and just cross the damn road. Oftentimes not even at a designated crossing.
But today was different.
Today, he was in charge of a four-year-old kid who did not belong to him, and he felt the weight of responsibility and Jane’s expectations heavily on his shoulders. And the thought Finn might take it upon himself to just randomly bolt across the road brought him out in a cold sweat, so he insisted that Finn take his hand as they crossed at Credence’s only set of traffic lights.
They spent a good hour chasing around the park after grasshoppers and other live bugs Finn thought Carl might find desirable. The kid was in his element. Cole was obvio
usly slower, but he could tell the exercise was good for his leg. It ached a little, but then, this was the first exercise he’d done in over a week, so that was to be expected.
After stopping under a shady tree for a bite to eat and a drink of water, they left the bug catcher and the backpack and kicked the ball around for another hour. It wasn’t a rugby ball, but there wasn’t that much difference between an American football and a rugby ball, and it wasn’t like Cole was kicking to his usual standard, anyway.
But Cole was enjoying himself too much to dwell on how far his game had deteriorated. Finn was impressed in the way only a small child could be every time Cole kicked the ball, no matter the comparatively paltry distance. He was just happy to chase after it and kick it back with all his four-year-old enthusiasm.
Frankly, being able to have a kick around with no pressure, with no cameras poking through fences, no one assessing his ability or fitness or judging him on his performance, was liberating. A professional athlete was always under scrutiny, an injured one even more so. Cole just hadn’t realized the kind of mental toll that had taken.
But playing with Finn was none of those things. It was just…fun. What Finn lacked in sporting finesse, he made up for in enthusiasm, and that was infectious. Watching a kid getting so much out of a simple game of kick made Cole happier than he’d been in a long time.
“You’re a natural.”
Cole turned to find the cop from the bar that first night approaching. And if he wasn’t mistaken, he could detect a slight limp. “I’ve been playing professionally for twelve years. I should be.”
Arlo tipped his chin at Finn, who was tearing after a ball Cole had just kicked. “I mean with the boy.”
Laughing, Cole wiped the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. “I don’t know about that. Kids and balls just go together, don’t they?”
“Yeah,” Arlo agreed.
“You ever play?” Cole asked.
“In high school. Wasn’t up to Wade’s standard, though.”
Cole laughed again. “Neither was I.” He’d enjoyed his time at the Broncos, and he’d learned a lot, but it hadn’t taken him long to figure out he was never going to make the cut for gridiron.
They watched as Finn raced up to them, sweaty and red-faced but with a grin a mile wide. “Hey, Officer Pike,” he said, pulling to a halt in front of them, puffing a little. “You want to kick the ball?”
“How about I throw it to you?” Arlo suggested. Finn nodded enthusiastically, and Arlo shooed him backwards. “Run back a bit, over near that tree.” The police officer pointed to a tree, and Finn ran his little legs off to get there, his hat, which was secured by an elastic strap under his chin, blowing off and hanging off the back of his neck.
“You ready?”
Finn, obviously well-trained in hat wearing, pulled it back on his head and yelled, “Throw it, throw it!” He shifted excitedly from foot to foot.
Arlo grinned, stepping back onto his left foot and launching the ball in the air to Finn, who kept his eye on it, his arms held far too wide to catch anything.
“You still got it, I see,” Cole murmured. The man hadn’t even tried, and it must be about fifty or sixty feet between here and the tree.
“Some things you don’t forget.”
“Yeah.” Cole nodded as he absently massaged his thigh.
Finn missed the ball that landed just in front of him and scrambled after it as it bounced away at an odd angle. “I read about your accident,” Arlo said, tipping his chin at the walking stick lying on the grass. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” Cole was over being surprised at who knew what. Maybe he hadn’t expected someone from buttfuck nowhere on the other side of the planet to know, but a few strokes of the keyboard could give anyone information these days. He glanced at Arlo’s profile as the other man kept an eye on Finn. “I see you’ve also got a bit of a limp going on.”
“Yeah.” Arlo looked down at his leg. “I lost it in the line of duty.”
Cole blinked. Arlo had lost his leg? Here he was, indulging in his own pity party, when at least he still had a leg. Considering how close he’d come to losing it, he was extra thankful now for what he did have, despite the frustration of his limitations. “I’m sorry.”
The other man shrugged. “It was a long time ago now.”
“You have a prosthesis?”
He knocked on his thigh, which produced a dull thud. “Yep.”
Finn came puffing back with the ball, stopping a few feet from them. “Catch!” He tossed the ball wide of Arlo, who threw out his arm and deftly plucked it out of the air. Finn grinned and said, “Throw it again.”
“Okay.” Arlo smiled. “Back you go again.”
They watched as Finn started to run backward, and Cole felt a spike of alarm. “Turn around and look where you’re running,” he called.
“Okay,” Finn yelled as Arlo laughed.
It was no laughing matter. Cole could only imagine his performance review tonight if he returned Finn with even the slightest little scrape. He’d rather not face the wrath and fury of Jane Spencer. He’d prefer her approval, smiling at him around the lip of her bottle.
And besides, he really wanted to do this again tomorrow. It had been fun.
Arlo tossed the ball to Finn again, then turned to Cole. “You given any more thought to that rugby clinic I mentioned?”
Cole frowned. He hadn’t really thought Arlo was serious. “I hadn’t…no.”
“You should. As I said, you’re a natural with kids. There’ll only be a handful, anyway, and I can get you some volunteers, along with the moms and dads, who’ll also help. There’ll be plenty of hands. You can bring Finn, if it’s okay with his mom.”
His first instinct was to dismiss the invitation a second time, but suddenly Cole was seeing the advantages. He’d had a really good time out here kicking the ball around with Finn, it was clear Finn was enjoying himself enormously, and it was exercise.
Before he could change his mind, Cole nodded. “Okay, sure… Why not?”
Finn got his hands to the ball this time, and Arlo clapped and called, “Good job,” before returning his attention to Cole. “Yeah?”
Cole nodded. “Yeah.”
Arlo held out his hand and shook Cole’s enthusiastically. “Thank you. The kids around here are going to love it.”
“No worries.”
“It’ll take me a couple of days to organize. What do you say we do it this weekend?”
“Sure.” It wasn’t like his calendar was full.
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
“Here you go,” Finn announced, squinting up at them, still puffing but obviously not ready to call it quits yet as he passed the ball to Arlo. “One more time?”
“Sorry, Finn.” He ruffled the boy’s sweaty hair before replacing his hat for him. “I’ve gotta go now.” He handed the ball to Cole. “But I’ll be seeing you around, okay?”
Finn nodded solemnly. “You got to catch bad guys now?”
Arlo laughed. “No bad guys in Credence, Finn.” Then he gave a half salute and sauntered away to his car parked near the curb, his limp only just discernible. Cole wondered how long it had taken Arlo to recover and rehabilitate from his injury and how anyone ever got over losing a limb.
“Can you teach me to kick like you do, Cole?”
Finn’s request pulled Cole back from things that swirled dark and dangerous inside his head. A place he’d lived a lot in those early days and weeks after the accident and one he wasn’t keen to revisit.
“Sure, mate.” He grinned and grabbed the ball off the kid. “Let’s start with a dropkick.”
Finn nodded, squinting up at Cole like he’d invented football, and for the first time in a long time, Cole felt ten feet tall and bulletproof.
Chapter Six
Jane stepped ou
t onto the back porch, two cold beers in hand.
She’d showered and changed into a strappy sundress and flip-flops because, for the first time since Finn had been landed on her unexpectedly, she could actually call it quits for the day. The dress was an A-line design, falling from the shoestring straps on her shoulders all the way down to her ankles in a sheath of printed cotton.
Perfect for nights just like this.
Cole was sitting on the top step, still and silent as he stared out over the backyard just as he’d done this time last night. She’d been determined to make her first performance review brief and brisk, but the orange and gold of the setting sun outlined his frame, burnishing him in fire, and she faltered. It was like the universe was pointing a big fat flaming arrow at him.
Or sending her a freaking huge warning beacon.
But, as her gaze fell on his back, on the broad set of his shoulders, the meaty cheeks of his ass, and the brush of dark, tangled curls against his nape, her pulse did a funny little flutter, and her chest cavity felt too tight for the rough inhale expanding her lungs. She’d never missed having a man around, but Cole sitting there, waiting for her, caused a sudden, vicious well of yearning. And not just for any man but for him.
Warning beacon or not, Cole Hauser was definitely under her skin.
Pushing those fanciful thoughts aside, Jane forced herself to walk, then to sit down on the stoop beside him—not too close. Her ponytail brushed against her nape, and the excess material of the dress slipped between her thighs as she settled her feet a natural distance apart, and, with as much casual aplomb as she could muster, she handed over his beer.
“Thanks,” he said, taking it off her and cracking the lid.
Jane cracked hers, too, and for long moments they sat side by side, not saying anything, just drinking beer, their gazes fixed firmly outward. She didn’t know what he was thinking or staring at, but Jane was concentrating hard on the golden diamonds of light shining through the leaves and branches of the oak tree because she didn’t want to think too much at all.
