“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.
“Wow. Yeah, right over there. Behind the corn dog station. Is he okay?” asked the soap maker.
“Are you okay?” Waverley looked worried.
“I’m fine,” he assured her.
“He’s not fine,” Chelsea said. She proceeded to haul him to the ambulance in question, and he went mostly because Waverley still seemed concerned.
A glance in the reflective surface on the side of the ambulance hiked his own worries through the roof. “What the hell?”
“Language,” chastised Chelsea. “Hey, can you help me out?”
The EMT caught one look at Aiden and said, “Allergic reaction?”
“Yeah,” Chelsea sighed. “Apparently, it didn’t occur to him that pink lemonade would have strawberries in it.”
Some allergy medicine and time on the stretcher later—although Aiden still thought they were blowing the whole thing out of proportion—he groggily itched his way behind the ladies. Waverley still bounced, talking a mile a minute to Chelsea, who kept glancing back at him, concern keeping her elegant brows low over her eyes. He wanted to grumble at her, tell her for the millionth time he was fine, but he could tell it would be a practice in futility.
One thing Aiden hated most—futility.
After a brief conversation with Jimmy, Chelsea rounded on him again. The damn medicine made him sleepy, but he put forth an effort to concentrate on the annoyed oval of her lovely face. “You’re well and truly doped up, aren’t you?”
“At least the anxiety backed off a bit,” he admitted. Then he rubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t meant to admit to that. “I’m fine,” he said instead, not altogether positive if he’d verbalized the first bit or just thought he did.
Chelsea sighed. “Jimmy still has a migraine, and I got an email back from Kimberly at the office—”
“I told you not to work,” he said. Or whined. He was very irritated to realize his voice sounded whiney rather than commanding.
“She is going to send someone to pick up Jimmy. I managed to book him a night at the B&B for him to use while he waits for them to show up. I think I should drive. Apparently, security took a wrong exit, and they’re still working their way back toward us.” Chelsea looked particularly stubborn, which annoyed him to no end.
“I don’t pay you to be a driver, Chels.” He figured that was a mostly reasonable response. “Besides, they have to spend years learning how to do the map reading and the driver-ing. You have no skills in that area.”
Her face said he hadn’t sounded nearly as practical as he’d hoped. “Actually, I have maps on my phone and have always had my license. I can handle this. Why don’t you go stretch out in the back seat and let me handle this?”
He opened his mouth to argue, but it came out a yawn. “Fine, I’ll obey you but only because I need a minute to collect myself.”
“Collect away,” she said. If he wasn’t mistaken, she snickered.
Chapter Seven
Aiden
He awoke to giggles. Not creepy ones, but his daughter happily laughing as she pointed out her window. “Thought you said no one ever found Alaska? I just found one.”
Out the window, the world blurred by at a fast clip. In the dark, he couldn’t see a lot, but he recognized a lot of corn. “Where are we?” he asked.
“Ah, sleeping beauty woke up,” Chelsea said, her tone a warm balm to his still-a-little-jangled nerves. He wasn’t used to sleeping in vehicles, and the view out his window was so foreign from what he was accustomed to, it just left him feeling out of place.
“He’s not sleeping beauty. He’s a boy,” Waverley said, still chuckling. “New York!”
“You’re really stomping me at this game, kiddo,” Chelsea answered.
“What game?” he asked, rubbing his face and trying to force himself awake.
Waverley peeked back at him, twisting in her seat a bit to get a better view. “The license plate game. Have you ever played it?”
Games weren’t really his thing, never had been. He was too competitive and rarely saw the fun in them. But based on the clear happiness on his child’s face, he might have to learn to look at them in a new way. “Nope. Want to teach me?”
Waverley rolled her eyes. “You’re super old, even older than Chelsea, but you don’t already know how?”
“Hey,” he grumbled. “Who said I was old?”
Chelsea’s answering laughter wrapped him in sudden and completely unexpected carnal need. He worked to control the unwanted response as she spoke. “I told her you were older than me. She asked. Not my fault. And you are a couple years older. Hey, there’s a gas station up ahead, and we can fuel up there. We can even get your dad some coffee, so he can wake up a bit more from the meds. Sound good?”
“Sure! I have to go to the restroom anyway,” Waverley said.
Although the idea of gas station coffee didn’t really appeal, stretching his legs did. He felt like every muscle in his body had tightened to a knot. Once Chelsea parked the car, he unwound and stretched. He obediently followed the ladies to the bathrooms and then followed them back outside before his brain really started working again.
“You know how to pump gas?” he asked Chelsea. Waverley had gotten back into the car and was blasting some sugary pop music so loud that the windows on the SUV rattled in complaint. Chelsea wasn’t really paying attention to him, either. She instead inserted a card in the pump and then deftly popped the handle into the side of the vehicle.
“Yup, I sure do. You hired a very multi-talented executive assistant, boss man.” Her somewhat cockeyed smile reminded him of his earlier moments of attraction toward her, and perhaps impulsively, he stepped closer to her to brush a lock of hair back from her forehead.
This close, he could smell her. He could see the way her pupils dilated when he touched her. He could hear the quick intake of breath as she otherwise went very, very still.
“I can’t begin to thank you enough for your quick thinking and willingness to help make all of these bumps in the road smooth for Waverley,” he said.
But what he was thinking was that kissing her might not be such a bad idea after all. He was thinking of how her lips might taste and how she’d fit into his arms.
“Glermpfh,” she answered, turning away.
Faced with her stiff and poised back, he considered that response. She’d moved to stare at the pump as the numbers ticked upward, but her hand shook.
Just a little. Not something he even would’ve noticed if he hadn’t been so intently studying her. “We should get a room,” he said.
She abruptly yanked the nozzle out of the car but didn’t stop squeezing the handle, sloshing gas all over the side of the car and onto his legs and shoes. Her scent vanished, washed away in the noxious fumes of fuel. “Ugh!” she sputtered. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You just sprayed me with gasoline,” he pointed out, surprised at how calm he sounded. The shoes were one of his favorite pairs, and he figured they were ruined. “And you’re asking me what I’m talking about?”
“You said get a room,” she practically shrieked at him. She grabbed globs of paper towels from a dispenser near the pump and mopped up the side of the car before scrubbing them against his legs and feet. Not once did she bother to look up at him, but she continued to rant. “What am I even supposed to think when you say something like that? Nothing. I can’t think anything when my boss, which, yes—hello! You’re still my boss. You should not be saying things like that to me. What are you thinking?”
Amused beyond words, even though he was still covered in gas—and now bits of paper towel as the delicate paper was leaving tiny globs all over his jeans—he reached down and caught her wrist. Pulling her up so they were again face to face, he said softly, “For the night. We should get a room
for the night and start out again in the morning. All of us—me, you, and Waverley.”
Although, now that she mentioned it, getting a room with her would be a hell of a lot of fun. He liked that her mind had also strayed that direction, even if she quickly got back on track and remembered that at least for the remainder of this trip, she was still his employee.
“Oh.” She sniffed once and then looked at the paper towels in her hands. “Of course you meant that.”
She discarded the handful into a nearby trash receptacle before glancing at him again. “Look, I’m sorry. I have no idea why I made that leap of assumption. You’re right. We should get a room. Today has been…chaotic, so I apologize for my mistake and the gas thing.”
“No apologies needed.” Especially since his mind had been in the very same gutter. “Not to mention, you’re going to be stuck inhaling these fumes until we do find a place for the night. Let me give Gary back at the office a call, and we’ll see what is nearby in the way of lodgings.”
He turned and walked away from her but couldn’t resist one final glance back. Scolding himself mentally, he forced his thoughts back to what would be in the best interest of Waverley. Not her father seducing his executive assistant—that needed to stay at the top of the list.
Besides, in a few short weeks, Chelsea would be gone. No sense getting attached to her on yet another level just to lose her when she quit. It wasn’t like he’d see her around—without the work they shared, he’d likely never see her again.
The thought was like a weight in his stomach.
Then again, maybe that was just the reason to give into his cravings when it came to her. There wouldn’t be any consequences if she didn’t work for him anymore—fulfill his craving and move on with his life. Funny thing was the more time he spent with her out of the office, the less earth shattering the idea of hooking up with Chelsea seemed. And the less he could imagine going on without her when she left.
…
Chelsea
Chelsea reminded herself he was doped up on so much Benadryl, he probably wouldn’t remember any of it. Well, the gas. He’d probably recall that one time she sprayed him with gasoline like she was planning his eminent and fiery end.
But maybe not.
She might have gotten lucky. They’d gotten lucky so far—the little festival in the town was a great day, at least until he’d had his allergic reaction. But they’d fixed that and gotten back on the road with no problems, other than the driver’s migraine. Aiden hadn’t had any other ill effects, and the medicine seemed to have fixed his allergy issue—even if he did itch a bit when they were checking in. The gas station moment, although embarrassing beyond belief, wasn’t even a problem, really.
She was sure a shower and a change of clothes probably erased all evidence of her massive mistake. Probably.
Who was she kidding? This trip had been an utter disaster so far, and they’d not even made it to the official halfway point of the trip. She was a damn good assistant. So far, she’d sucked donkey nuggets at being a good road trip companion.
What had she been thinking, anyway? When he’d said “get a room,” he might have meant it as a euphemism for sex? Ha! She’d been projecting; that was what happened. She found him attractive, so she was stupid enough to project her own attraction onto him. He’d been standing there, still doped up from allergy meds, and she’d assumed he was coming on to her.
Just because the man flat-out did it for her, ringing all her bells and whistles so to speak, didn’t mean he was attracted back. Not to mention how wildly inappropriate it would be if he did ever notice she was, well, female. Not that he would, since she wasn’t an actress or a model or otherwise even moderately what he’d marked as his type again and again.
She hesitated at the door, trying to work up the bravery to cross into the shared room of the posh suite Gary managed to finagle based on their location when Aiden called him the night before. Hell, just looking around the room she’d been given, she should realize logically that there was no way a man like Aiden Kelley would be interested in a woman like her. The room rate for this place was likely more than her yearly salary.
Sighing, she decided to stop second guessing everything and just turn the damn knob. It wasn’t like she could hide in her room until the whole trip was over and not face him ever again. He was her boss, she had a job to do, and she needed to put on her big girl—not gas-soaked—panties and go deal with it.
Even if part of her still insisted that they’d been having a moment at that gas pump. Even if she would swear on her grave that for a second—brief as it might have been—she’d felt an answering attraction from him and fantasized that he might bend down and kiss her.
In front of his kid, no less. Sure, Waverley hadn’t been paying attention to them but…
There was no way he was attracted to her. End of story. She’d sprayed him with gasoline, anyway, so even if the lust-fueled part of her brain insisted otherwise, there was no way that she hadn’t doused the possibility with her actions.
Sick of being alone with her own circular thoughts, she opened the door and faced her doom.
But there was no doom awaiting her on the other side of the door. Just Waverley, looking adorable and a little lost in the posh living room area. The child held a hairbrush in one hand and chewed her lip. The other arm was hugging what looked like a very battered blue-and-white bear so tight to her chest, the poor thing would be strangled if it were alive.
“Hey, kiddo. Good morning!” Smiling at Waverley, she moved to join her. “You’re looking a little lost. What’s up?”
“My mom usually braids my hair. Even if we’re traveling, she says it is our girly time, and she does my hair every single morning. Guess I’m missing her a little.” Waverley’s lip trembled in a way that had every maternal instinct Chelsea never knew she had screaming in protest.
“Well, I’m sure your dad can learn how to do that for when you’re visiting, but for right now, would you like me to do it?” She held out a hand for the brush.
Waverley passed it to her, looking relieved. “I mean, I could do it myself, but…”
“But you’re missing your mom. I get it. You guys are close?” Deftly, she split the little girl’s soft hair down the middle and twisted one side into a band that the child offered. It wasn’t much different than doing her doll’s hair when she was a kid, which was surprisingly nostalgic for Chelsea.
“Yeah, I guess. Isn’t everyone close to their mom?” Waverley started to turn, but Chelsea moved with her so she didn’t lose the hair she had begun braiding. Also, she didn’t really want to meet her eyes, fearing her own might give away pain she didn’t want to share with a child.
“I suppose. I was raised by my father, though, so I don’t personally have that kind of experience.” She kept her tone modulated, not sad, which wasn’t too hard. She didn’t remember much of her mother, so there wasn’t a lot of loss to mourn.
Or so she reminded herself on the rare moment when she got sad thinking of what might have been if life worked out differently.
“Really?” Waverley sounded amazed. Not surprising, since single mothers were quite common, while single fathers weren’t as talked about, in Chelsea’s experience. “Who did your hair? Taught you stuff? Like, how does that even work?”
Finishing off the first braid, Chelsea tied it off with a band before moving to the other side. “Probably the same way it works for single mothers raising sons. He learned what he needed to know so he could take care of me. He used to braid my hair, just like I’m doing yours. He’d polish my nails. Oh, and every morning, he’d sing me this little ditty…” Chelsea laughed, just thinking about it.
“A ditty? What is that?” Waverley sounded confused.
“A song. He’d sing, ‘Good morning, morning glory, and how are you today? It’s such a pretty morning, it’s time for us to sa-a-ay… Good morning, morning glory, and how are you today!’ Silly, but it still makes me happy.” Tying off the secon
d braid, she allowed Waverley to face her.
“Do you think my dad will be like that?”
The child’s simple question was made all the more poignant by the fact that Chelsea could see Aiden enter the room out of the corner of her eye—just in time to hear his daughter’s question and appear a little stunned.
“I’m sure, if you give him time, he could be even better than my dad was,” Chelsea answered, glancing up to see Aiden’s surprise at her faith in him.
Chapter Eight
Chelsea
Since he hadn’t brought up her inability to control a gas pump on the remainder of their drive to the Grand Canyon, she didn’t, either. She’d taught them the license plate game and a few old camp songs she remembered from her childhood.
When Chelsea asked him if he remembered any songs from his camping days—sure he’d probably went to some rich kid camp or something, and she didn’t know whether or not they even sang like regular kid camps—he surprised her by saying his parents were never able to afford that kind of thing.
She tried to imagine him as anything other than the rich and powerful man she worked for but came up with nothing. He was Aiden Kelley, billionaire, and the press loved him. He had shiny toys, gorgeous women, and more power than he needed. He controlled people and things with bored grace. He wasn’t like everyone else—like her. He was one of the elite.
But he insisted he’d come from a family which bordered on poverty level his whole childhood. She tried to imagine him as a normal kid, with scruffy hair and missing teeth, but her brain refused to even cooperate. Somehow, she’d thought he was born with a silver spoon shoved firmly up his privileged ass.
So to further pass the time, she had him sync his phone to the car and they played Name That Tune, movie and television theme song version. Apparently, it had never occurred to him to even look up old theme songs, but he was laughing as hard as his daughter.
Aiden and his daughter not only looked alike, it turned out they shared a love of comic books—another facet of his personality she never would’ve guessed at. “I worked summers bagging groceries and delivering papers,” he admitted. “Saved every spare dime to buy comics. Well, that and Whatchamacallit candy bars.”
The Irish Prince (The Billionaire Dynasties) Page 5