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.