Page 11 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Ansel

F UCK. ME.

Two weeks. Two weeks was all it took. I went from thinking I could totally manage my attraction to her to suddenly jumping in the pool at the slightest suggestion from my daughter in an attempt to, what, be close to Elodie? Touch her?

I don’t really know how it happened. It was slow, a frog boiling in water, because I was completely and totally fine until this morning. Truly.

I’ve known the effect I have on her. It’s impossible not to, with the way she blushes the second her eyes land on me. She’s gotten better at it, and this morning, there wasn’t a hint of red to be found. Not even the tips of her ears were pink.

I should have been grateful. Relieved. But no.

No, instead I was disappointed. Which makes no sense, for all the reasons I’ve gone over in my head.

Over and over. Chief among them? My daughter.

Rosie needs her. Hell, I need her. The little things she does around the house that no other nanny ever bothered to do and I sure as fuck never find time to do?

Jesus, I’m damn near tempted to beg her to stay forever based on that alone.

I’m talking about organizing junk drawers and sorting clothes and toys that Rosie’s outgrown type of stuff.

Little stuff that piles up. Bigger stuff that’s a huge mental load that I know I need to deal with, but can’t manage to find time in the day.

Stuff that I can’t possibly keep track of on top of everything else.

I’m over here fighting for my life to keep Rosie and me fed, watered, clothed, and up to date on all our shots, never mind dentist appointments and haircuts, and here comes Elodie, who’s done some kind of Mary Poppins voodoo on me.

But if I’m grateful for her, then I’m pretty sure Rosie is obsessed with her.

God knows I’ve heard all about Elodie these past two weeks.

In fact, I probably know way more about her than she’s comfortable with.

But that’s what happens when you have an inquisitive daughter who doesn’t think twice about sharing what she’s learned at the dinner table.

Then I come home and see them through the kitchen window, Elodie’s plush body laid out on the He-Man float as though it were made specifically to display her every dip and curve.

Of which she has plenty. Never mind the blue bikini she was in, wrapped around her like a modern-day pin-up.

As I watched, she laughed at something Rosie said.

There was nothing but pure joy on her face, and I saw how carefree she was when I wasn’t around.

How fucking gorgeous and kind she was. How she treated Rosie with respect and love. And suddenly…suddenly a switch flipped.

So now I’m here, treading water in the pool and trying desperately to make the switch go off.

It’s not working.

She’s keeping her distance, and I don’t know if it’s because I make her uncomfortable or if it’s something else entirely. All I know is that Rosie’s not having it, and it’s not long before she’s cajoled Elodie to join us for a game of Marco Polo.

And Elodie chooses to be the one to try to find us.

Again: Fuck. Me.

Because now her eyes are closed and she’s standing fully upright in the shallow end, her torso out of the water and right fucking there for me to look at.

I shouldn’t look at her like this. I know that.

Even so, there’s absolutely nothing in this world can keep me from feasting on her.

I repress a groan. She smiles, turning toward the squeals and giggles of my daughter, and before I can stop myself, I call out. I need her to face me. To come close.

She turns, eyes still clenched, but her smile seems to stutter. She calls again, “Marco!”

“Polo!” Rosie answers.

“Polo.” I’m breathless in the face of her.

Her skin is apparently resistant to the sun, resolutely pale except for the faintest tinge of pink on her shoulders.

Shoulders that are, God help me, recklessly painted with freckles and dotted with water falling from her hair.

Even wet, her hair is thick and wild, the curls springing up and around her face like curlicues.

I step toward her.

“Marco!” she calls.

The blue bikini top crisscrosses her chest, drawing my attention to yet another series of freckles, these beginning at the dip of her collarbone and snaking down to disappear into the top. A line leading to heaven, I’m certain of it.

She’s closer now, and I should move, keep playing the game, but I stay in position.

When her fingers brush against my chest, her eyes fly open.

For a split second, the world stills. She’s motionless, the tips of her fingers touching me, branding me. Dark lashes, wet from the pool, frame wide hazel eyes that meet mine. And I see it—the raw, clear need that flashes across her face.

Then the world spins forward, the expression gone, her touch a memory.

“Caught me.” My voice is hoarse.

Red stains her cheeks as she dips her body into the water and pushes away. But she holds my gaze, tipping her chin up slightly. Brave girl . It takes everything in me not to say the words out loud, to offer the praise. Need coils within me. There’s so much more I want to know about her.

I shouldn’t. Obviously. I come with a pretty big set of complications and restrictions.

I duck underwater, my daughter’s squeals of laughter audible even from down here. When I surface, I tell myself that my momentary blip needs to be just that—momentary. A passing phase.

I tag my daughter easily, and then she’s the one with her eyes closed while Elodie and I have nothing to do but look at each other.

She keeps her gaze firmly planted on Rosie, but I don’t bother.

And every time she glances my way, I meet her eyes.

She grows more and more flustered, her cheeks blazing red by the time I launch in front of Rosie to get caught.

I need to stop. Tossing Rosie into the air and catching her, her delighted squeals following as I tickle her and she wiggles in my arms, I say, “I’m going to start dinner. Maybe you and Elodie can make dessert?”

Her eyes light up. “Strawberry shortcake?”

I nod, confirming one of her favorite summer treats. “You know it.”

I force myself to get out of the pool, taking the steps and grabbing the towel I’d brought out. I dry off, and it’s only when I’m heading inside that I allow myself a backward glance at Elodie.

She’s turned away, gathering up the pool noodles.

Dinner is straightforward: citrus grilled chicken, baked potatoes, grilled asparagus and tomatoes, and for Rosie and Elodie, a side of mac and cheese.

I busy myself with the food on the outside grill while Rosie takes Elodie through the strawberry shortcake process.

It’s safe enough: I let Rosie use a plastic knife to cut the strawberries, and then it’s a simple matter of washing them and mixing a bit of sugar in.

I’ve got some cantaloupe set aside for me.

We eat out on the screened-in porch, and just like our first meal, conversation flows easily.

It’s impossible to keep my eyes off Elodie, impossible not to notice how the white T-shirt she’s thrown on highlights the faint pink of her skin, a bit burned from a full day in the sun.

Or notice the smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and how bright her eyes seem in contrast to the flush of her skin.

I can’t remember a time I’ve been so affected by anyone. And to have it happen in what feels like the blink of an eye.

“This is delicious, Ansel,” she says, finally meeting my eyes again. “Thank you.”

God damn. Her sincerity might be the very thing that tosses me into the deep end. I clear my throat and throw on a teasing smile. “See what you’ve been missing by not accepting our dinner invitations?”

She smiles a bit, averting her gaze and reaching for her water glass, not answering me but humming noncommittally in response.

Needing a topic change, I ask, “Any ideas for what you plan to do after the summer?”

Her gaze flicks to mine, widening almost imperceptibly but delivering a punch, nonetheless.

“Not trying to kick you out,” I grin. “Promise. I’m just…interested.” And that’s true.

She fiddles with her napkin before answering.

“I’m working on a business plan at night.

It’s an idea I’ve been mulling over for a couple of years now, but it wasn’t until, well.

” She takes a deep breath. “It wasn’t until I got fired that I realized the only guarantee of safety was to do something myself. ”

Safety ? Interesting word choice. “What’s the idea?”

Elodie takes a bite of chicken and swallows before answering. “It’s not fully baked yet,” she hedges.

I hold my hands up. “No judgment here, I promise. You’re talking to a professional rugger, for goodness’ sake.”

She grins. “Good point. How many knocks to the head have you had, anyway?”

My own smile widens. “Too many to count.”

A breath huffs out of her. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but you can’t laugh at me.”

I make the sign of an X across my upper left torso. “Cross my heart.”

“I want to run a honeymoon planning company,” she says. “Like, I’m who the couple calls. They give me the gist of what they’re after and the budget, and I plan the entire thing from start to finish.”

“Seriously?”

She nods, her lips pressed together nervously.

“That,” I declare, “is the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

A pretty blush stains her cheeks. “No, it’s not.”

“It is,” I insist. “That’s really cool. What made you think of it? How did it come to you?” I’m leaning toward her now, legitimately invested. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was the coolest thing I’d ever heard of. My head whirls with possibilities. “Do you need an investor?”

Her eyes really do widen now. “A—an investor?”

“Seed money. Someone to get you started,” I continue. “Because I’m interested.”

She stiffens. “I don’t need help.”

“That’s not what I mean.”