Page 10 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Elodie

I T TAKES A couple of weeks, but finally, on the third Monday of my job nannying for the world’s hottest rugby player, I’m able to sustain an air of “why, no sir, your beefy tattooed thighs and slightly crooked smile and scarred eyebrow and chest muscles and love for your daughter actually don’t affect me” whenever I see Ansel.

I’d like to say that it’s because that whole idea of being repeatedly exposed to something can make you immune to it is right.

Except that’s not it at all.

Not even close.

There’s no denying how scaldingly hot he is. Or how he makes each and every particle in my body scream “holy FLUFF he’s hot” every time I see him.

No, it’s simply that I’ve stood in front of the bathroom mirror and literally practiced keeping my face from reacting.

I’m not proud of it.

I’m also not proud of how I’ve watched, um, hours— hours!

—of rugby highlights with him in it, trying, I swear, to get immune to him.

All it’s done is made me hyper-aware of the way his body moves.

Also, whoever does the slow-mo reels featuring him and his ridiculous butt on social media should be awarded a medal. Or jailed. I’m not sure yet.

And it’s not as if he’s deliberately showing off his hotness when I’m around. If anything, he’s kind of…a dork. It feels wrong to say, but I’m pretty sure that Ansel would be happiest surrounded by spreadsheets instead of sprinting down a rugby pitch.

Which, of course, makes him that much hotter. A beast of a man on the rugby pitch who turns to absolute goo for his daughter and talks about financial solvency like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

I guess what I’m attempting to say is that I’m trying. And lo and behold, I think I’ve finally succeeded, because this morning, I’m able to smile and meet his warm caramel eyes without blushing. I mentally give myself five points—same as a try is worth in rugby—as I say, “Good morning, Ansel.”

He smiles back, and I still don’t blush. It’s tempting to award myself another five points, but no need to get ahead of ourselves. “Rosie’s putting on her new swimsuit. She’s decided to wear it all day.”

“As she should,” I agree. “It’s disgusting outside already. You didn’t do her hair, did you?”

His answering grin, slightly crooked as always, does things to my insides, but I keep chanting keep cool keep cool keep cool, and I swear, I think it’s working. “No. Still in yesterday’s braids.”

“The ones she did herself?”

“The very ones.” He strides across the kitchen and plucks the keys to his Land Rover off the hook on the wall. “Thank you for teaching her. I don’t know why that never occurred to me.”

I keep my eyes firmly on his back. Not his back side . And you know what? That’s another five points.

I’m winning.

“Stay for dinner tonight?” he asks. It’s casual, delivered with the same nonchalance as asking if it’s one hundred percent humidity outside.

It’s not the first time he’s asked. And every time, except for that first night, the one where he said, and I quote, “Let me feed you,” I’ve turned him down.

I’ve either gone out with Kari for our weekly girls’ night or—once the oven got fixed—made something myself in the guesthouse’s tiny kitchen.

Which has been incredibly strategic. Because, for one thing, he’s my employer.

For another, he’s my landlord. Never mind his aforementioned gorgeousness.

And I don’t want Rosalie to get used to having me around constantly, because I’m only going to be here for three months.

That’s the plan, anyway. I should probably be looking for another place to live after this, but any free time I’ve had has been devoted to working on my business plan. I’m done working my butt off for other people. It’s time to focus on myself.

Which is a lot harder than it looks. I was strong enough to stop talking to my mother after my break-up with Jeremy, but there’s no erasing her voice from my head.

It’s infuriating. The longer I’ve been away from Fore Gone, the more I realize just how poisonous the place was for me.

How I never stood up for myself. And for a long time, I think I stayed because I had Jeremy.

We were happy, or so I thought, and when we got engaged, I was the happiest I’d ever been.

It wasn’t until we started trying for a baby that things went sideways.

And I was so numb in the aftermath of our break-up that it’s a wonder they didn’t “let me go” at that point.

Who knows? Maybe the universe decided to throw me a bone after all these years, because somehow I’ve landed here: nannying for the most genuine and brain-meltingly hot man in the world, and he’s asking me to stay for dinner.

I may be working to put myself first, but I can’t be rude, and saying no to his repeated offers is starting to feel, well, rude. Besides, I’ve successfully managed to keep my body in check for five whole minutes this morning. I can do a dinner. I’m positive. I believe in myself.

“Sure,” I answer, being certain to sound just as nonchalant as him.

Then I make the mistake of looking up. And his expression—he’s beaming —is enough to send heat right to my cheeks. Drats .

“Perfect,” he says. “I didn’t ask the first time, and I’m sorry for that, but do you have any allergies? Preferences? Intolerances?”

I swallow, forcing myself not to be affected by his consideration, then smile brightly. “Nope! None at all.”

Relief washes over his face. “Perfect,” he repeats. “I mean, great. I’ll see you a little later than usual, then. I’ve got to run by the store?—”

“We can go,” I interrupt. “Just tell me what you want us to get.”

“No,” he answers, his brows knitting in a scowl so brief that I can’t decide if he’s irritated or if it’s just an extension of him being considerate.

“I’ll take care of it.” Then he swivels away, the duffel I once again failed to notice swinging off his shoulder.

“Tell Rosie Posie I said goodbye. And—” he turns back, his expression so totally parental it can’t possibly be confused with anything other than that, “Fresh sunblock is in the bin with the towels outside.”

I press my lips together, wondering if he’s telling me that because he thinks I’ve not been applying it to Rosalie every time we’ve been outside for longer than half an hour. “Of course. Thanks.”

He leaves, and I nearly puddle from the five-minute interaction. It’s my own fault, this ping-ponging of feelings.

But I don’t get to think any more about it, because Rosalie chooses that moment to bound into the kitchen, excited to show off the new suit that arrived yesterday from her grandmother. It’s adorable, pink with little red strawberries and white piping.

“And she sent a matching suit for Violet!” Rosalie exclaims, holding her doll in the air with both hands.

“Beautiful!” I agree. “Let’s get the two of you breakfast, and then we can go play.”

“May I have French toast with that yummy white powder again?” she asks, clasping her palms beneath her chin and blinking up at me.

I laugh. “It’s called ‘powdered sugar,’ and sure. But only if you help.”

“Yay!”

The day passes lazily, with multiple trips from the pool to the shade and back again.

Around three, when the sun has baked me within an inch of my life, I finally give in to Rosalie’s demands and agree to join her in the pool.

But I’m not in my suit, so first I get her safely inside the screened-in porch.

Then, I extract a pinky promise that she’ll stay there while I change and hustle to the guesthouse.

I grab the first suit I come to, a royal-blue two-piece that would have been perfectly at home in the fifties, and throw it on. The bottoms are high-rise and the top holds me in tight, ensuring the girls don’t go anywhere. It’s perfect for playing in the pool with Rosalie.

Back outside, I call to Rosie, who squeals at the prospect of me finally joining her.

It’s not that I haven’t wanted to get in, it’s just that somehow, it’s felt like a boundary I don’t need to cross.

As though by doing so, I’m taking one more step toward a relationship with her that I shouldn’t.

But maybe that’s silly. Maybe I’m overthinking the whole thing and Rosie just wants someone to play with.

Besides, she’s dug herself so firmly into my heart already that I can’t fathom not doing just about anything for her.

Getting in the pool is an easy decision.

Once my eyes are on her, she climbs up the ladder to the slide and situates herself at the top.

“Ready?” she calls. When I nod, she scoots off, throwing her hands in the air and sliding down the hard plastic into the deep end of the pool.

She emerges with a gasp and grins while she doggie paddles to the shallow end, strands of hair plastered to her forehead. “Your turn!”

I open my mouth in mock surprise. “You want me to go down the slide? Me?”

She giggles. “Yes, you!”

I don’t hesitate. To be honest, the slide’s been one of the more tempting aspects of the entire thing.

It’s tall, rising easily fifteen feet into the air, curving twice before emptying into the pool.

Strategically placed jets keep water flowing down the slide.

Ansel undoubtedly installed it once Rosalie learned to swim, because it doesn’t really match the aesthetic of the rest of the pool at all.

I climb the stairs and find Rosalie. She’s grabbed a pool noodle and has her arms hooked over it, her little body stretched out in the water behind her. “Ready?” I ask her.

“Ready!”

I push off, raising my arms just like Rosie, not bothering to stop the huge grin or giggle that comes out of me as I go down the slide and into the pool.

The water is perfect, a little warm on top and getting cooler as I descend, letting myself fall so my toes touch the bottom before bending my knees and pushing off. I break the surface to the sound of Rosie’s cheers, then wipe my eyes and tread water.

Why in the world have I denied myself this amazing pool for two weeks?

“Isn’t it fun ?” Rosie asks, kicking to close the distance.

We spend the next hour in the pool, playing Marco Polo and sliding and racing and splashing. Finally, I haul myself onto the giant He-Man float to judge Rosalie on the different faces she can make while jumping into the deep end.

“What’s going on out here?” The deep voice startles me, and I jerk my head around, shielding my eyes from the brutal sun to see Ansel standing just off the edge of the pool. He’s smiling down at his daughter. “Have you been in here all day? Are you a prune yet?”

“No,” she giggles. “Come swim, Daddy!”

He tilts his head in the direction of the kitchen. “I need to start dinner.”

And it has to be the heat that’s addled my brain, because before I know what’s happening, I’m opening my mouth and saying, “We can wait. Come on in—the water feels amazing!”

He turns his attention to me, his eyes narrowing as they travel the length of my body.

My breath catches. Was it wrong of me to say that? Should I have worn a one-piece? Is he mad that I’m on his float?

Then our gazes collide, and I stop breathing. His eyes are dark, darker than I’ve ever seen them, and it warms every part of me.

He’s definitely not mad.

I swallow and wet my lips, and his attention dips to watch the movement before darting back to his daughter.

Whoa.

“You sure you want your old daddy in there with you? I’m stinky.”

I doubt that very much, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m practically hyperventilating at this point, wondering what’s about to happen.

When Rosie answers in the affirmative, he nods and goes inside.

I try to breathe. To remind myself that I’m only the nanny, and that this is not a big deal. That the look he gave me wasn’t filled with…well, that it was just a look.

I slide off the float, needing the water to cool down my overheated body. And I stay there, hoping that maybe he isn’t coming. That maybe he’ll simply choose to start cooking dinner. Dinner that I stupidly agreed to join him for.

Them. Join them for.

But it seems that luck is not on my side, as moments later, he emerges.

And I can’t take it. Can’t take how devastating he is.

I simply cannot. So, like the perfectly mature thirty-year-old I am, I duck under the surface before I can get a good look and push off, swimming underwater from the shallow end to the deep.

I go until I feel the wall against my palm, and even then, I consider turning and swimming back.

Unfortunately for me, my lungs aren’t even remotely suited for that kind of thing, and I pop up, resolutely turned away from Ansel and his muscles.

I know I’m being ridiculous. But I can’t stop my body from reacting to his, and it’s embarrassing. I’m too old to act like this, yet my hormones absolutely refuse to agree with me. I exhale and steel myself. There’s nothing to do but face it. Face him .

Suddenly, a shadow appears on my right and Ansel surfaces not even a foot from me, grabbing the edge with one hand and wiping the water from his eyes with the other.

And I…am transfixed.

Light bounces off the flurry of waves around us, reflecting onto his tanned skin and dragging my attention to the way every muscle on his arm seems to bunch and ripple as he moves.

Water sluices off his hair, drawing my attention to his corded neck.

His collarbones. The dusting of hair that dips below the surface.

He is unfair.

Entirely, completely, wholeheartedly unfair.

He whips the hair out of his face in that distinct move that, God help me, every good-looking man seems to be born knowing how to do, then focuses on me.

I might be hyperventilating. That’s not normal, right? Right.

“Are you okay?” There’s legitimate concern in his eyes.

Reality slams into me with the question.

I am the nanny. Whatever brief moment of insanity that I had a few minutes ago, where I considered that maybe he might have, I don’t know, thought of me as anything other than the help, burns away.

Beneath his searing looks, he’s a legitimately kind man.

And apparently, I’m so starved for the male gaze that I’m willfully creating fantasies in my head now?

I need to get laid. Not by Ansel.

I blink, hoping against all hope that my very expressive face didn’t just convey that particular thought.

“I’m fine!” I chirp. I’ve waited too long to answer, and I hold my breath as he studies me, his gaze roaming over my face and dipping to my shoulders before flicking to my lips and back to my eyes.

He must come to some kind of conclusion, because he nods and says, “Okay.”

I exhale. Flash the pageant smile.

Without another word, he takes a breath and ducks beneath the water, pushing off the side with those powerful legs of his.