Page 17

I shut out my mother’s voice and walk over to Beau. Adrenaline makes my vision pulse with each step, and an excited buzz makes my fingers twitch. It should be sad, that this small, little choice against what I’m supposed to do makes me this excited.

Beau looks up at me from where he’s crouched over the stone. The little boy doesn’t bother, too focused as he carefully lays a blue marble in the center of his handprint.

“That looks very cool,” I tell him. “I love the colors you chose.”

The boy grins up at me, missing his two front teeth. “I made a circle with them.”

“This is the last one he has to add. He just wanted one of each color, right? Except for orange,” Beau chimes in.

“Why not orange?” I angle my head toward the little boy.

He makes a disgusted face. “It’s my least favorite one.”

“Fair enough, lad.” Beau nods his head seriously, and I have to hide my smile. His eyes flick up to me, full of his own amusement. “Go on over to Miss Bella”—he points to one of the volunteers—“and she’ll help you wash your hand off before you go play.”

The boy scampers off, but his attention gets diverted to a group making paper airplanes out of colorful paper. He pauses, wipes the cement on his khaki shorts, and takes off toward them instead of getting himself cleaned up.

“I’d call him out on it”—Beau chuckles—“but that would’ve been something I would’ve done.”

“You would think he’d listen to the instructions of a Prince, but clearly paper airplanes are too strong a pull.”

“It happens.” Beau rises and brushes off his pants. “What’d you come back over here for? I figured you were done with the simple play.”

I lift my chin up, refusing the natural instinct I have to return to chatter, and gesture toward the row of unused molds. “I came over to make a stone.”

“I thought you don’t much like to get your hands dirty?”

“Well if what you say is true and these are to be set in the Caulfield Palace gardens, then I must ensure my handprint is included.”

He grins. “Not a footprint?”

I glance at his dirty foot and cringe thinking of the uncomfortable feeling of it coating my toes, cracked and drying. “A handprint will do.”

“Well, then”—he claps his hands—“let’s make the Princess a stone.”

He holds up two molds, one round and one square, and I point to the round one. There’s still a large bucket of cement mixed up, and he doesn’t hesitate before grabbing the dirty scoop and piling the mixture in the mold. The cuffs of his pewter-colored button-up are flecked with granules of it, but either he doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

He returns with the mold and hands me a popsicle stick. I arch a brow and he says, “To smooth the cement before you can make the print.”

I almost ask him to do it for me. And when I meet his expectant gaze, he’s clearly waiting for the same thing.

Nope. I am committed to this. Plus, I enjoy art and getting my hands dirty. Usually it’s paint under my nails, but that’s in the comfort of my own home, away from anyone’s appraising view.

I slip off the silver ring from my pointer finger but realize my skirt doesn’t have pockets and my bag is back inside.

Beau notices and extends an open palm to me.

I smile gratefully at him. “Thank you.”

He wordlessly pockets the ring.

I crouch down and get to work. The cement is hard to smooth, and it takes more time than I would’ve thought. And much more patience than I assume many of the children have.

Beau sits on the pavement across from me. His blue eyes track each sweep of the stick. “Not as easy as it looks?”

The scraping makes my teeth clench. “Not really,” I admit. “Did you help the kids do this part?”

“A few other volunteers did most of it. I helped with the cosmetic portion.”