is here about the floor. They’ll be ages.”
Finn said the floor like it was the deathliest dull thing on the face of the planet. Like filing a tax return. Or lawn bowls. And he supposed, to a kid, it probably was. “Okay.” He could still hear faint murmuring outside. “Half an hour.”
Or until his mother realized where the hell he was.
Cole wasn’t deliberately trying to undermine Jane’s rule, but he didn’t mind the company, and the kid was clearly bored. And, in his experience, bored kids got themselves into trouble a little too easily. God knew he’d gotten up to all kinds of mischief as a kid when he’d been home alone while his mother was at work and his father was missing in action. The amount of times he’d played with matches, it was a wonder he hadn’t burned the house down or caught his hair on fire.
Finn beamed. “Yessss!” Then he did a fist pump that was cute as hell. “Thank you, Cole, thank you,” he said as he launched himself at the couch, squirming over until his leg was jammed against Cole’s, his little feet hanging over the edge of the Chesterfield at the ankles, Carl ensconced quite happily, it would seem, in his lap.
And that’s how they stayed for the next forty minutes. The time flew, and Cole wasn’t really keeping an eye on his watch. Finn was surprisingly good company for a four-year-old. He wasn’t disturbed by the blood or the hitting, just curious about everything, peppering Cole with questions that kept him on his toes. Like, what were the ropes made out of? And why did referees wear bow ties?
Neither of them heard the front door close. But they did hear Jane calling out, “Finn?”
Uh oh. Finn, his hand midway between the popcorn bowl and his mouth, glanced toward the door, then back to Cole. “Mommy’s finished.” He whispered like he knew it was only a matter of time before his whereabouts were discovered.
“Finnn?” There was a singsongy note to the way she called her son’s name. So she wasn’t cranky. Yet.
Cole nodded his head solemnly. “Think we’ve been busted, mate.”
The boxing match forgotten, they both watched the doorway, girding their loins as they waited for Jane to put two and two together. It didn’t take long. Crossing her arms, her eyebrows knitting together, she leaned against the doorframe, taking in the sight of Finn sitting next to Cole, his little feet sticking off the cushion, a hand stuffed full of popcorn.
“Finn William Randolph Spencer.” Her lips pursed disapprovingly. “You’re supposed to be in your room misting your cage and watching Bluey, not bothering Cole.”
“Don’t blame him. I told him he could sit with me for a while.”
She cocked one imperious eyebrow at him. “Oh, don’t worry, Cole—” She paused like she wished she knew all his names so she could chastise him the same way she’d done Finn. “Cole Hauser. As the responsible adult in this situation, I’m totally blaming you.”
Maybe it had been the lack of her company the last couple of days, but the way she said his name—kinda gruff and stern—was having, he imagined, the opposite effect to the one she was going for. It was very…schoolmistress.
Jesus. What a time to learn he had a schoolmistress fetish.
“That would be Cole Jacob Hauser.” He paused for a beat before adding, “ma’am.” He couldn’t help it—the devil was suddenly riding him, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, he thought he saw the slightest twitch at one corner of her mouth.
But it was fleeting as she advanced into the room, her gaze falling on the television as the defending champion landed a blow square to the jaw of his rival, knocking out the guard protecting his teeth, a thick spray of blood flying from his mouth as his neck snapped around.
Stepping in Finn’s line of sight, between him and the television, Jane sliced her gaze sideways to Cole. “Boxing?” She folded her arms again as her quiet, controlled voice moved beyond chastising to something far more aggrieved. “You let him watch a boxing match?”
The station chose that moment to replay the hit in slow motion, the blood spray even more grotesque, the whiplash movement of the neck slightly sickening. In hindsight, Cole had to admit it might not have been the best choice for a four-year-old, but it wasn’t running of the bulls.
Or female mud wrestling.
She looked to the massive bowl of popcorn Finn was nursing on his lap and the two empty bottles