The Irish Prince (Billionaire Dynasties #2)(15)

"Can we go with Mabel over to the festival?" Waverley asked. The cop cars were moving, freeing the street up to traffic again. Both girls-the princess and Waverley-were holding hands, and a woman stood nearby, jiggling a baby on her shoulder. Chelsea would guess she was the mother of the princess.

Chelsea didn't answer Waverley, instead looking at Aiden expectantly. She could try to loosen him up, but she couldn't force him. After all, at the end of the day … he was the boss. Even if he was entirely out of his element and adorably frustrated by exactly that.

"Sounds like fun, Waverley," her father said. His hands were still stuffed in his pockets, and his shoulders were tight with tension. Chelsea could see that he was vastly uncomfortable, but he was trying.

Sometimes, people didn't have to be perfect, in Chelsea's opinion. They just had to be trying.

"We were thinking of staying for lunch and some rides …  Does that sound fun to you?" he asked the little girl, following close on the heels of his daughter and her princess friend. 

"Yes, thanks!" Waverley practically bounced, her red hair gleaming in the sunshine, and her father looked like some angry guardian as he kept close on the walk toward the depot.

Chelsea smiled at them both. Maybe they'd be able to make this whole thing work, after all.

 …

Aiden

Scratching at his neck, Aiden watched his daughter as she climbed the rickety-looking staircase to the top of the bright yellow, plastic slide. Once she'd mounted the dangerous-looking structure, a worker handed her a burlap sack and helped her get into position to ride the steep slide. The child's laughter pleased him, but none of it would've happened without Chelsea.

Glancing at the woman in question, he saw her head bent over her phone. Although it was likely a violation of her privacy, he took advantage of his greater height and peered over her shoulder.

Annoyance flared, making his neck itch even more than it had moments before. "Really, Chelsea? I thought I said no work during this trip."

Her brown eyes were wide when she glanced up at him. He recognized her guilty expression but was more amused than annoyed. Not that he planned to reveal that to her.

"You did," she agreed. He saw her click send before stuffing the phone back in her purse. She might feel guilty about getting caught, but it didn't stop her from working anyway. "But since you hired me to come with you, I can't not work, now can I?"

Her triumphant smile said she'd thought she managed a neat bit of circular reasoning, but he wasn't letting it go. He scratched his wrist and nodded toward the lemonade stand. "Need another drink?" he offered.

"Thanks, but no," she answered. Her smile got bigger as Waverley hopped off the sack at the bottom of the slide and rejoined them. "Having fun, kiddo?"

"Sure am! Uh, is his face supposed to look like that?" Waverley peered up at him, her expression a bit worried.

"Like what?" Chelsea asked before she, too, stared at Aiden. "Oh, dear … "

"What?" he asked. He resisted scratching his neck again, but it was a battle. Maybe he was allergic to country life.

Chelsea's eyes widened. "Aiden, do you have any food allergies that I don't know about?"

"I … " He glanced around. "Strawberries, but just being around them shouldn't bother me."

"No." Chelsea caught his wrist and tugged him to follow her. "But eating them probably is a dumbass idea."

"I didn't eat any strawberries," he pointed out. Although Waverley and Chelsea had enjoyed what looked like a delicious strawberry shortcake in the old rail station portion of the historic depot village, he'd abstained.

"The lemonade," Chelsea said.

"Ah," said Waverley.

"What?" he asked. "Lemonade has lemons, not strawberries."

He allowed her to tug him but mostly because the itching was distracting.

The look Chelsea narrowed on him was annoyed past frustration. "It was pink," she pointed out.

"So?" He'd had pink lemonade before. No problem.

"Pink because they had strawberries in it, you goon." He might have complained at her choice of words, but she looked genuinely worried. Chelsea stopped at one of the booths, one selling a bunch of handmade soaps, and he considered them. Yeah, he had a food allergy, but how bad could it really be? He hadn't had strawberries since he was a kid, but he wasn't that concerned.

"Is there an ambulance parked on the grounds?" she asked the soap maker.

"I don't need an ambulance, Chels," he explained. "Sorry," added for the soap maker's benefit.