I’m glad I’m not the only one.
“Did he just kiss your head?” I ask her.
“Yeah, for the second time,” she says a little wistfully as we watch his large ass retreat out of the building.
“The second time?”
Sloane waves me off. “Some Alpha at the diner was being aggressive with me.”
I hold the head of the fox against my hip.
“Who was it? I’ll make sure they don’t come back again.”
“It’s not a big deal. I can handle myself. Plus, Max was there anyway.”
I nod my head, still not liking it one bit. “Let me go change, and we can head out.”
“Sounds good. I’ll meet you out front.”
As soon as I get to the back, I immediately regret not bringing better clothes to wear, but how was I supposed to know that Sloane fucking Applegate was actually going to give me the time of day?
I slide up my khakis and toss on the gray hoodie I’ve had for years, making sure I properly store the mascot costume, before going outside and looking for Sloane.
She’s sitting next to the same boy who had me sign his shirt. I look around for his mother and see her animatedly speaking on the phone.
“My daddy doesn’t like cats,” the boy says sadly.
Sloane looks frustrated but is able to keep her thoughts about this kid’s shithead father to herself. The man is clearly a huge selfish prick.
“That has to be hard when you like cats,” she says.
“The hardest. I just want one so bad.”
I come over and step behind the bench; the kid looks me up and down, completely unimpressed. Apparently, Finnegan is hot shit. Meanwhile, I’m just some asshole standing behind a park bench.
“This is my friend Ethan,” Sloane tells him. “This is Harrison. His mom is trying to convince his dad to let him get a kitten,” Sloane says.
I look around, wondering why she just left her kid with Sloane, even if she is only a shouting distance away.
“I wasn’t allowed to get a pet either,” I tell him, and he finally takes an interest in me.
“Was your dad mean too?” he asks, and I watch as Sloane attempts to stifle her emotions down.
“I had a foster dad. He was allergic, and we didn’t have enough space. Maybe there’s a reason.”
“Maybe,” he sighs.
“That’s a pretty sick Finnegan the Fox signature you got there,” I tell him, and he smiles.
“Miss Sloane and Finnegan invited us to come see a game,” he says enthusiastically.
“You know, Miss Sloane is great at her job. I bet we can get you your own stuffed Finnegan the Fox to take home.”
“You mean it?”
“Totally, little man,” I reply, and he looks proud of himself as his mother comes back to the bench.
“I’m sorry about that. Harrison, sweetie, let’s head home. I’ll make sure to email Miss Applegate as soon as I get a moment. Thank you again,” she says, grabbing her son’s hand as they head to their car.
