Page 16 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Elodie

I ’M STILL OUTSIDE, sitting beneath the pool’s lone umbrella in my bathing suit and preparing to judge what might literally be the fiftieth cannonball of the day when Ansel appears, the screen door clacking shut behind him.

“Daddy, watch!” Rosalie bounces up and down on the diving board, her little face scrunched in concentration.

“I’m watching,” Ansel reassures her, hands on hips and eyes firmly locked on her tiny form.

I study him. He’s wearing an Atlanta Granite T-shirt and black mesh shorts that, praise the Lord, rise well above his knee.

I don’t know when shorter hems came back into style for men, but I am absolutely one hundred percent here for it.

I will never get over the man’s legs. His thighs flex as he shifts position, bringing my attention to the rose tattoo that adorns the outside of his upper thigh.

I haven’t seen all of it—I might pass out from excitement if I did—but the glimpses I get are enough to make me salivate.

The tattoo works with his leg, the deep red of the roses seeming to highlight the way his muscles move.

“Tell me what else you like, Elodie.” Holy fireballs, that was hot. It’s all I can think about.

Well, that and how I told him I wanted to eat him. My Lord. I can’t believe I said that. Honestly, it might be those thighs. They muddle my brain.

A giant splash draws my attention back to Rosie, who pops through the surface of the water and grins like a maniac at her dad.

“Well?”

“A solid ten out of ten.”

“Yay! Elodie never gives me a ten.”

He flashes me a mischievous grin, his eyes dragging down my body as he walks to the edge of the pool and kneels down beside it. To Rosie, he says, “Get over here, you.”

She swims to him and holds her arms out. He pulls her to him, standing as she wraps around him and absolutely soaks him. His grip on her is tight, and his eyes are shut as he turns from the pool, taking a few slow steps.

I blink and look away, feeling like an outsider as I swallow the emotion down.

Rosie giggles. “I’m getting you all wet, Daddy.”

“Doesn’t matter, Rosie Posie,” he says. “Wanna know what we’re having for dinner?”

Her face lights up. “Pizza?”

He smiles. “Pizza.” Then he finally looks over at me, giving me his attention for the first time since arriving home. His brown eyes are warm as they settle on me. “Stay?”

The request is impossible to resist. “I’d like that.” I stand and jerk my thumb to the guesthouse behind me. “I’m gonna shower and change first.”

His gaze darkens as his jaw clenches, but his voice stays the same as he answers, “Sounds good.”

“Daddy, can Cleocatra come over, too?”

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“Please?” she wheedles. “I’ve barely gotten any time with her today and she probably misses me.”

He laughs, then looks over to me. “If Elodie says it’s okay, then that’s fine with me.”

Without missing a beat, Rosalie whips her pleading eyes to me.

“Of course,” I say with a grin. “See you in a bit.”

I shower and throw on a casual cotton dress that falls to my knees, needing the loose fabric after being in the bathing suit a little too long.

I let my hair stay down to air dry, throwing a silk hair tie around my wrist for later.

Grabbing Cleo in one hand and my phone in the other, I make my way back to the house.

Rosie immediately takes the cat, hugging her tightly, and I laugh as Cleo’s tail swishes in resigned irritation. “Be gentle,” I remind her.

“I know,” she responds, placing a kiss on Cleo’s head.

It’s not long before the three of us are huddled around the island, putting our individual pizzas together.

Ansel’s is light on cheese but heavy on the veggies; mine is a solid mix of cheese, pepperoni and mushroom; and Rosie’s is very, very pineapple heavy.

It’s easy being around them, watching the way they are together.

The love, the teasing, the gentle lessons he manages to weave into everything.

As I watch him show her the buttons to press on the oven, I’m struck by the knowledge that it doesn’t hurt to be here.

To be with a man and his daughter, even though they represent the very thing I’ll never get to have.

And shouldn’t it hurt? Shouldn’t it, I don’t know, make me sad that I’ll never get to have the experience of being pregnant?

It doesn’t. Holy crap. It doesn’t. I want to jump up and down and shout with the realization. It’s a cool balm, a relief against the scorching desert of heartbreak that I’ve waded through for so long.

I’m not sure when it happened, this acceptance. But, my goodness, does it feel amazing. The contentment of it is something I never thought I’d experience. And who knows? Maybe it’s not permanent, but for now? I’ll take it.

When the pizza is ready, we eat at the small table in the kitchen, each of us sharing bites of our pizza with everyone else, and Rosalie declares both my and Ansel’s creations to be disgusting.

Ansel just laughs. “Hey, at least I’m not the one eating pineapple like a monster.”

Rosie harrumphs and crosses her arms. “You’re just jealous mine is better.”

After the kitchen is cleaned, Ansel looks at his daughter, still clad in her swimsuit. “Time for a bath.”

“Can I keep my suit on?”

He shakes his head. “Not this time.”

“It’ll be like the pool, only inside the tub. Please?” she begs, blinking big eyes up at him. When he doesn’t so much as give an inch, she deflates. “Fine. But can Elodie give me a bath?”

“Elodie’s probably ready to relax,” Ansel says.

“I don’t mind,” I say. And I don’t. “Show me the way, Rosie girl.”

Rosie bounces on her toes. “Yay!” She runs to me and grabs my hand, leading me to the stairs and then letting go as she climbs. “Come on! You haven’t seen the bathtub yet. It’s huge !”

I look back at Ansel for permission. He nods, a small smile on his face, and I take that as my cue. Turning to Rosie, I crouch and raise my hands into the air, forming claws. “You’d better run!”

She squeals and runs up the steps. I follow at a leisurely pace, the sound of Ansel’s warm laugh at my back.

I head in the direction of Rosalie’s voice, going past her bedroom and to the end of the hallway, where Ansel’s room is. I pause at the threshold before walking in, knowing I’m crossing into what feels like the final frontier of the house.

The room is undeniably masculine, but not overly so.

The walls are painted a dove gray; the king-size bed framed in glossy black wood and covered with a white down comforter.

Light blue pillows are on top, and there’s an overstuffed light blue armchair in a makeshift alcove beside the window.

The comforting scent is unmistakable: Spice and soap, clean and warm. Ansel.

“Why are you just standing there?” Rosalie asks, poking her head out from the bathroom door. “Come on! Daddy always turns the faucet on, but then I get to put in as many bubbles as I want. And I use a lot of bubbles.”

I grin. “Do you now?”

It is, in fact, an unbelievable amount of bubbles. And the bathtub is, just like she said, huge. She wasn’t kidding. It could hold three of me and still be comfortable.

Is it wrong to be jealous of a five-year-old’s bathtub? Because I am.

It’s easily half an hour before she gets out.

She pulls on her nightgown and I brush her hair to pull it into loose space buns at the top.

Naturally, she talks me into reading her a bedtime story, so she runs down to get Ansel’s permission first. Three reads of her favorite three books later, we’re done.

“G’night, Elodie,” she says sleepily, rolling onto her side and tucking her legs into her chest. She kisses her bear’s head, then leans down as if to hear what he’s saying. She nods, then looks back up at me. “Kata says g’night, too.”

I smile. “Good night to you and to Kata.”

She beams, and with a loud yawn, closes her eyes and wiggles under her comforter.

I retreat, clicking off the bedside lamp and turning on the small fan that rests on her chest of drawers. She’s already instructed me to crack the door, so I do as requested, then make my way downstairs.

Ansel’s voice floats up as I go. “Are you sure? Well, no, but I thought— fuck. ” A long pause. “You can’t be serious.” Another pause. “Well, I’d like to see her fucking try.”

Who is he talking about?

“Okay. Yeah. Bye.” He curses and throws the phone, sending it flying into the couch at such a high speed that the sound is audible.

I freeze halfway down the stairs, certain he’ll see me. But he doesn’t. He turns in circles, clearly at a loss.

“Fuck!” he whisper-shouts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Then he sinks into a crouch, running his hands through his hair.

I don’t know what to do. Do I go to him, ask him what’s wrong?

Nope. I’m all out of bravery. Used it up last night. Not ashamed of it, either. Whatever is going on, it’s not my business.

I back up the stairs quietly, then start over, being loud and hoping he hears me.

It works, because by the time my feet hit the hardwood of the downstairs floor, he’s straightening beside the couch, pocketing his phone, and attempting to look like all is well.

“How’d bedtime go?” he asks, a strained smile on his face.

I give him one of my pageant smiles, the one I use when I’m trying to make sure everyone is having a good time. Mom drilled it into me for years, and for the first time ever, the smile leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Forcing my voice to sound normal, I answer, “Great! Three reads of three books.”

He huffs a laugh, and it’s almost genuine. “Sounds like my Rosie.”

We stand there, looking at each other, for what feels like an eternity. And I must be the dumbest woman on the planet, because I actually say, “Are you okay?”

Surprise coats his features. “Me?”

Something about that—the way he’s surprised—hits a tender part of my heart. “Yeah,” I whisper. “You.” Does anyone ever ask him how he’s doing?

He sticks his hands in his shorts pockets, rocking back on his heels. “I… No.” With an audible swallow, he looks away from me.

It stings a little, but I swat the feeling away. He owes me nothing. “Do you want to talk about it?” Instantly, I want to scoop the words back in my mouth, but there’s no going back now. I know one thing: I am not telling him what I heard.

“Talk about it?” he repeats. “Um.” He coughs, then runs his hand through his hair again. “It’s… No,” he breathes. “Thank you. Truly. But…” He grimaces. “It’s nothing. I mean, it’s not nothing, but, ah, no.”

I hold my hands up in surrender. “No need to feel weird about it. It’s totally fine.”

He exhales loudly, his shoulders visibly drooping. “Thanks.”

Be patient with me. He said that last night. Well, this definitely counts as being patient.

“I’m going to go,” I say, hitching my thumb up and over my shoulder. “Curl up with my laptop and do some research.”

His brow furrows. “Research?”

“Yeah. For my business.”

He brightens, clearly relieved at the topic change. “Of course. How is that coming?”

“Good. Turns out all those years of internet dives and Pinterest boards are really coming in handy,” I joke. But they really were. I have entire digital folders full of ideas based on country, city, vibe, activities… Honestly, I’m proud of myself.

“That’s really wonderful,” he says earnestly. Then he closes the distance between us in three long strides and reaches for my hand, threading his fingers into mine. He smiles down at me, the worry I’d seen moments ago nowhere to be found. “Let me walk you home?”

I nod. “That’d be nice, thank you.”

The walk is two minutes, and he holds my hand the entire time. At the door, he stops, studying me in the near-dark. “Did you like the tub?”

I laugh, totally caught off guard by the question. “Yeah,” I answer. “It’s nice. Big.”

His lips quirk up. “That it is.” Then he lifts his hand and cradles my face, his thumb caressing my jaw. “Can I kiss you again?”

With a smile, I wrap my hands around his neck. “You don’t have to ask, you know.”

He winces. “I do. It’s been drilled into me.”

“Because you’re a fancy pro athlete?” I tease.

His lips quirk up. “Because my mom wasn’t about to have her boy be an asshole. Her words, not mine.”

I laugh. “Sounds like an amazing woman.”

His eyes are warm as they study me. “She is.”

I hum and tap my lips with my finger, delighting in the way his gaze tracks the move. “How about this: you have permission to kiss me from here on out. Does that help?”

His voice is deep when he answers. “It does.”

And with that, he leans down as I tip up on my toes. My body lights up as our lips touch, and I can’t help the sigh that escapes.

His hand moves down, fingers caressing my neck and making me shiver in delight. “So responsive,” he murmurs.

You have no idea , I think, tugging him closer. His mouth opens, and our tongues meet. God, he’s such a good kisser, attentive, deepening and easing back, exploring and tasting, then pulling away to kiss my neck, nipping my bare shoulder and following it with a lick.

My hands clench at his waist, and he walks us to the door, pushing my back against the wood and lifting me a second later. My legs wrap around him instinctively, and his cock presses against my core. Ohmygod.

I whimper, and he growls. “Fuck, Elle, you…” He trails off, exhaling roughly before taking my mouth again. There’s no more hesitation as he plunders it, claiming it as his with every stroke and nip.

I writhe against him, and he groans, his hands digging into my bottom so hard that I think they’ll leave bruises.

God, I hope they do.

My core pulses with need, and I swirl my hips. I need…I need .

“Elle,” he murmurs again, kissing down my neck and sucking softly at the delicate skin. “You taste so good.” He eases the pressure of his hands on me, and I slow my rocking. I don’t want to stop, but he’s not ready. That much is clear.

He lowers me to the ground, then cages me with his arms, his eyes blown with lust.

Well, at least it’s not just me.

“Let me take you on a date,” he says.

I stare. “A…date?”

“On Friday. I’ll get Sharon to watch Rosie overnight. She’s been asking to see her anyway, so this would be perfect.” He clears his throat. “I mean. Not—not that I’m expecting anything by saying she’ll watch her overnight. I just?—”

I press a finger to his lips. “Yes.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Yes?”

Removing it, I give him a kiss. “Yes.”

He smiles. “Good.” Then he starts to back away. “See you in the morning?”

I laugh. “Sure hope so.”

His smile grows. “Great. Excellent. I’ll—see you tomorrow.”

And then this ridiculously hot man, who is, in all likelihood, a total beast on the rugby pitch, turns and trips over his own two feet.

I stifle a giggle as he stabilizes, watching as he walks away.