Playing with Trouble

by Amy Andrews

  “I think hideous is the word you’re after.”

  He hooted out a laugh. “Yes. Who in their right mind would cover up such a beautiful floor?”

  “Right?”

  Cole caught her enthusiastic nod and the glow in her eyes like she’d found a kindred spirit, and his breath caught. Gone was the prickly little crank, and hell if that didn’t paralyze his diaphragm.

  “It’s a crime to hide such exquisite workmanship. This floor is a masterpiece.” She sighed as she looked at it, her foot running back and forth over the parquetry as his had done on the tiles. “To be fair, this house has had many occupants over the years, and I think these tiles were laid in the seventies to give the room a whole art deco feel, but it’s just so poorly done and fundamentally flawed. I mean—” She glanced up at Cole. “This house was built over a hundred years before the art deco movement was even a gleam in anyone’s eyes.”

  “Yeah, it just doesn’t work.”

  “And it’s such a shoddy job. They’ve laid it on top of where there was obvious surface water damage, which was probably why they decided to commit a crime against such vintage craftsmanship. But some of this wood has rotted away. I mean, look at this.” She stomped over to the wall with the windows, where multiple individual pieces of the parquetry had rotted. She squatted beside it, prodding it with the hammer, clearly lamenting the sad state of the floor. “This breaks my heart. And I have no doubt there’ll be other areas as well, beneath all that.”

  Bracing himself, Cole lowered slowly into a crouch, envying her ability to so easily squat. His thigh and hip complained a little, but the discomfort was bearable. Getting up would be a different story.

  “Do you replace those pieces?”

  “Yes. Benji—he’s the one and only local builder in Credence—is going to source what I need when I know how much is required. He’s also going to cut it all the right lengths for me. He’s been a godsend.”

  Cole rubbed at a section of the parquetry with his index finger, hoping to remove some of the gritty black residue, with limited success. “Is that cedar?” He peered at the underlying colors. “And another wood? Maybe even a third?”

  “Yes.” Her grin was huge now as she looked at him. There was both pleasure and surprise at his knowledge. “You know wood?”

  He smiled. “I’m not just a pretty face.”

  Her gaze raked over his face as if she was analyzing his claim. It lingered on his mouth, and hell if that wasn’t like a hot hand to his groin.

  “It’s a mix of cedar, redwood, and bloodwood. Here—” She produced a piece of sandpaper from her back pocket.

  A woman producing sandpaper from her pocket should not be hot.

  She rubbed hard at a small area to free it of the gunk that Cole’s finger hadn’t managed to dislodge. Satisfied she’d done enough, she slid from a squat to kneel, closed her eyes, leaned over, and blew the dust away. Sitting back on her haunches, she caressed the bare wood with her fingers like it was satin.

  “See?” She glanced at Cole. “Isn’t it beautiful? I can’t wait to get it all polished up and looking like new again.”

  She was beautiful. It hadn’t really registered until now. His body had recognized her as an attractive female, but with fine wood dust speckling her cheeks like freckles and a satisfied glow warming her eyes, illuminating her from the inside out, she was transformed. It made him wonder if he could recreate that look in ways that did not involve the properties of wood.

  Not that kind of wood, anyway.

  “It’ll be magnificent,” he murmured, which scored him another bright-eyed smile before her gaze returned to the floor and his followed suit.

  Cole touched the wood as she had done, noting the grain absently as he tried to make sense of what was happening. He couldn’t believe that, within the space of minutes, she’d gone from a cranky frown and raised hackles to soft and warm and glowing, smiling at the floor—clearly in her happy place. Ordinarily, this kind of volatility would be a giant red flag. Who had time for that? But this woman was fascinating.

  Cole’s stomach chose that moment to let out a gigantic rumble. The kind of rumble they could probably hear back in Sydney. He slipped a hand over it as they both looked at the offending organ.

  “Is that your stomach?”

  “Yup.”

  “I thought you went out to get a bite to eat.”

  “I…got chatting instead.”

  She quirked an eyebrow. “And forgot to eat?”

  Cole was pretty sure she was using her mommy voice on him. She was certainly looking at him like he was that kid. The one who was easily distracted and forgot something as basic as his hunger. Or a full bladder. He had the feeling she was well practiced in that look.

  “What can I say? Jet lag’s a bitch.”

  She sighed. “There’s bread and sandwich fixings in the fridge. But don’t expect me to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Cole cut her off. “I am capable of making my own damn sandwich.”

  He didn’t mean to sound irritable, but he was thoroughly sick of being babied. By nurses, by doctors, by physios. He had a bung leg, not bilateral hand amputations.

  She shot him a look that plainly said, you’re the doofus who forgot to eat, before she rose to a standing position. “Well, anyway.” There was a stiffness to her tone as the warmth that had sprung between them evaporated. “I gotta get back to work.” Then she glanced at his cane and held out her hand to him, offering him assistance.

  The mood took a further nosedive.

  He didn’t need a hand like some invalid. Gritting his teeth, Cole ignored it, leaning heavily on his cane as he pushed himself to his feet. “Goodnight,” he muttered as he pivoted in the direction of the door and walked out of the room.

  Chapter Three

  Prickle pants.

  Jane was still brooding over that one the next morning when she heard Cole coming down the stairs. She was baking a couple of batches of chocolate chip cookies—Finn’s favorites—while he was upstairs misting Carl’s cage. She braced herself for Cole’s appearance. Given the untouched state of the fridge this morning, she was fairly sure he hadn’t eaten anything last night.

  His footsteps didn’t come closer, though. In fact, they got farther away, and, within moments, she heard the front door open and then close. Where he was off to, she had no idea, but he was a grown-ass man and not, as she kept insisting, her problem.

  She was too defensive; she knew that. Force of habit. She was just so sick of men making assumptions about her job and her capabilities. Not something she got from a lot of women. Some did judge her, but for her occupational choice, not her competence. They couldn’t understand what she saw in this kind of manual labor and getting her hands dirty.

  But they didn’t doubt she was capable. Unlike so many men.

  Sure, men who knew her, who worked with or for her, knew better than to doubt or question her experience. But too often Jane felt like she was resetting the clock every time another patronizing male made terrible gender-based assumptions. So, it was easier to be on the defensive from the get-go. To keep her shields up and put her expectations out there. To mark her territory by figuratively pissing on everything at a jobsite.

  If it was good enough for men, then why not her?

  That didn’t make her popular with a lot of knuckle draggers in the industry. She knew they called her The Shrew behind her back, which was fine. It was better than bitch, and she didn’t have time to make friends, anyway. She was building a business, and a damn good one at that.

  Why she hadn’t tooted her own horn when Cole had inquired about the demand for her services, she didn’t know. The company was growing rapidly in their home state of California, with a stellar reputation for quality work. From just herself five years ago, she now employed over seventy core people, and sometimes more, depending on the employ
ment demands and location of each project.

  The growth had far outstripped expectations, the company exceeding profit forecasts year on year. And after this magazine article? That level of national attention was the kind of advertising money just couldn’t buy.

  Yup—a man sure as hell would have bragged long and loud about this level of success, and she needed to work on that. Work on being unapologetically forthright about the accomplishments of her business. She bet Cole was unapologetic about his rugby success. She bet he’d never had a hard time bragging about being at the top of his game.

  Although obviously that wasn’t the case now. Since the accident.

  Yeah…she’d googled him. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t. CC had told her he was an old football buddy of Wade’s who’d been injured and was here on some R&R. And Cole himself had told Finn there’d been a car accident. She had all the information she needed. Hell, way more information than she needed. But, last night, after she’d finally put down her tools at almost midnight, she’d given in to temptation.

  It seemed Cole was a big deal in Australia. And his career-ending accident had made news headlines. The fact that he’d recently signed a contract with a new club—the Sydney Smoke—worth several million dollars made the accident an even bigger tragedy. The Smoke still had him in their starting lineup, which seemed to be causing endless speculation. Some commentators said it was because Griff King, the coach, never gave up on a man. Some said it was out of respect for his exemplary career success.

  But, from what she could gather from so-called experts—the medical, sporting, and armchair variety—Cole Hauser was never playing football again.

  And that made her sad for him.

  Jane was a naturally empathetic person. Sure, she kept up a good facade of indifference, because god forbid she burst into tears on a jobsite full of men. But…she couldn’t imagine how it’d feel to have to give up her job.

  The timer on the oven dinged, startling her, and she realized she was thinking about him again. Why was she thinking about him again? In less than thirty-six hours, he’d blasted into her life and taken up too much of her brain capacity already. Sure, he was a good-looking guy. Tall and broad, fit and honed, his dark curls long enough to be scraped back in a man bun but just pushed carelessly backward off his forehead.

  Like a swashbuckling pirate.

  He was masculine in a way that charged the air particles all around him, and she did not have time for charged freaking particles. She had enough on her mind without him. Getting this job done while juggling the demands of her son was going to be hard enough without his kind of distraction.

  But…he’d surprised her last night. He’d sidestepped her inquiries about his experience, but his lament over the travesty of the red sitting room floor had been genuine. And the way he’d caressed the wood spoke even more than his words.

  Not many people got the importance of preserving something from long ago, of reviving a moment in time for all perpetuity—not in this throwaway society. True craftsmanship had been lost in a world of Allen keys and IKEA. There were still those who loved craft and appreciated quality—she employed dozens of them herself—but they were few and far between. They were her kind of people, though, and every one of them held a tiny piece of her heart.

  Except she did not want Cole Hauser to have a tiny piece of her heart, no matter how platonic the esteem. He struck her as the kind of guy who wasn’t ever satisfied with just a tiny piece of anything. Professional athletes liked to win.

  And Jane wasn’t interested in playing.

  Besides, he was obviously dealing with his own crap. The hostile way he’d regarded her helping hand last night was just one indication. He obviously resented his relative incapacity and hated asking for help, which suited her fine. She didn’t have the time, anyway. She only had time for Finn and this job.

  The one that would put her company on the map.

  An hour later, she was sitting with Finn at the big old central kitchen bench. He was dunking warm cookies into cold milk with one hand and stroking Carl with the other.

  Jane wasn’t a fan of the chameleon being on the bench, but it was keeping Finn occupied while she caught up on some work emails on her laptop.

  In the distance, she heard the front door open. So did Finn. And Carl. “That’s him!” Finn exclaimed, preparing to leap down from the stool.

  “Nuh-uh.” Jane shook her head firmly, and Finn checked his imminent leap. “Stay here and finish your snack, young man. Mr. Hauser doesn’t want you bothering him.”

  Just like she didn’t want Cole bothering her.

  “Mom…” Finn grumbled, obviously disappointed at this restriction.

  Within moments, Cole was in the doorway, several shopping bags hanging off the fingers of his right hand. He was wearing purple-and-yellow frangipani board shorts that molded to his thighs, a plain black T-shirt with the white Nike tick that hugged his chest, shoulders, and abdomen, and a pair of flip-flops.

  He couldn’t have looked more Australian had he been wearing a cork hat and muttering crikey!

  He should’ve looked ridiculous dressed like he was spending the day at the beach in buttfuck eastern Colorado, but he didn’t. He looked casual and comfortable in his skin, and damn if her belly didn’t do a little flutter.

  “Mr. Hauser,” Finn said, his face lighting up like a firework. “Mommy cooked chocolate chip cookies. Do you want one?”

  Cole hefted the bags on top of the bench next to the sink. “No thanks, mate.” He pulled out a packet of store-bought cookies. “Got my own.”

  Jane wasn’t sure if that was a dig at her or not, but she didn’t have time to process it as Finn’s eyes widened. “Mommy,” he whispered. Finn’s whispers were usually loud as a foghorn, and this one didn’t disappoint. “He called me mate. Just like on Bluey.”

  Between The Wiggles and Bluey, Finn was exposed to a high proportion of Australian television content, and his newest favorite was Bluey, a cartoon about the adventures of a Blue Heeler puppy.

  She watched surreptitiously as Cole unloaded his bags, shoving the cold stuff in the fridge, including several pints of milk and a couple of six-packs of Bud. Then he stored the non-perishables in an empty under-bench cupboard. He didn’t ask for direction or permission, and Jane didn’t offer any. When he was done, he headed back toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Finn asked as Cole reached the doorway.

  He paused. Jane could see the tension in the rigidity of his frame. Hell, she could practically feel it as it wafted off him in waves. “Couple more bags in the car.”

  More bags? Jane’s heart sank. Just how long was he planning on staying? She didn’t care how much her stupid belly was fluttering—he had to go. She didn’t need this kind of distraction. She didn’t need any distraction.

  “Can I help?”

  If anything, that big frame grew tauter, and Jane opened her mouth to hush Finn, to make an excuse. Cole hadn’t appreciated the offer of her help last night; she couldn’t see him being any more impressed with the offer from a child, no matter how innocently it was proposed. But Cole surprised her with a “Sure thing” before disappearing out the door.

  Jane blinked. So he could accept help. Just not hers…

  A little whoop of joy escaped Finn’s mouth, and he grabbed Carl as he scrambled off the stool. “Oh no.” Jane shook her head. “If Carl decides to make a break for it out there, we might never find him.”

  Finn appeared to consider her statement for a moment or two before nodding solemnly and placing the animal back on the countertop. “You stay with Mommy, Carl. I’ll be back.”

  And then he was off, tearing out the door, leaving both Jane and Carl staring after him. Jane glanced down at the creature, whose intricate multicolored pattern seemed to glow almost fluorescent in the morning sunshine. She supposed most people found it
fascinating, but she couldn’t help but regard the creature begrudgingly.

  She and Tad had not discussed getting their son a pet; he’d just bought the creature for Finn to compensate for the fact he was shirking his parental responsibilities. Finn had apparently been quite upset at Tad’s announcement about having to go to Mommy’s for a few days—surprise, surprise—and Tad did what Tad always did.

  Panicked.

  When the two-year-old veiled chameleon in the Denver pet shop window had made Finn smile through his tears, Tad had bought it for him. Jane didn’t know a damn thing about taking care of a chameleon, so, while Tad hopped on a plane to Vegas, Jane had hit the internet and undertaken a crash course. It had then taken her all day to get Carl sorted. This had involved a three-hour round trip to the nearest pet store and several hundred dollars on supplies, from lights to materials for an enclosure to all kinds of different food supplements.

  Why couldn’t Tad have bought something easy? Like a dog or a cat. Instead of an exotic tropical creature that required a massive cage, regular misting, and the provision of live crickets as its food source.

  Luckily, Jane was more than capable of knocking up the recommended enclosure, which they were housing in the en suite bathroom attached to their bedroom. She couldn’t lie—it did freak her out getting naked in front of an animal whose eyes rolled around in its head and moved independently of each other. She also wasn’t entirely sure about the ethics of exposing herself to an innocent animal. Not that he was in his cage that much. Between Finn ferrying Carl around on his arm or shoulders or head and the animal’s propensity to escape, he was more out than in. Like now, regarding her lazily, looking hale and hearty, like he could live to be one hundred.

  So, whether Jane liked it or not, she and Carl were stuck with each other.

  “Thank you very much, Tad,” she muttered under her breath.

  Ordinarily, Tad would have ditched Finn with his parents, which would have been fine, because Finn adored his grandparents as much as Jane did, and she knew he’d be well looked after. But they were on a cruise.