Page 22 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Ansel

Two weeks later

I THINK ABOUT waking up with Elodie in my arms almost every single second.

The sleepy morning scent of her, the tiny squeal she made as she stretched and woke up beside me…

the way she took care of me the night before.

As if she somehow knew what I needed to hear, and actually said it to me, even if I didn’t entirely believe it.

Everything changed between us after the date two weeks ago, but to look at us, almost nothing has changed at all. We haven’t gotten to go on another date, and we sure as hell haven’t tumbled back into bed with each other.

But every morning I look at her and want to pin her against a wall to kiss her senseless.

And while I don’t get to pin her to a wall, exactly, I do find the time to kiss her, to squeeze her hand, to find some kind of way to let her know I want her.

And every night, I look at the guesthouse and want so fucking badly to haul her into my home that my chest burns with it.

But at the same time, the idea of really going down this road with her…

I can’t make it work. My life doesn’t allow it.

And when the season actually starts up? Forget it.

There’s barely any time for Rosalie, let alone someone like Elodie, who deserves one hundred percent of someone’s time and attention.

Speaking of the season. I need to make my weekly call to the preschool to see if they have an early opening.

You’d think they’d be sick of me by now, and they probably are, but all they do is tell me that they have a slot reserved for her come September.

Which is good, because no way Elodie will be interested in staying on as her nanny.

I don’t blame her; she has her new business to get up and running.

But maybe if I’m lucky, I can at least convince her to stay in the guesthouse.

I need Lennox. He’s my best friend, and I miss him.

He’s only five hours ahead, so maybe I’ll give him a call on the way home from practice.

I don’t know that he’ll have any sort of earth-shattering advice, but he’s the only one I can spill my guts to without worrying about a reaction.

Certainly can’t call my parents—Dad is hyper-traditional in many ways, and Mom would start planning a wedding the second I uttered any of the thoughts swirling in my head.

Elodie breezes into the kitchen as I’m peeling a tangerine for Rosie, giving me a heart-stopping smile and nearly bringing me to my knees in the process. Her hair is down, tumbling over her shoulders in a wave of curls. “Good morning!”

“G’morning, Elle Belle!” Rosie sing-songs, then she gasps. “Your hair !”

Elodie beams. “You like it? I thought we’d see if your hair wanted to do the same.”

Rosie’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “You think my hair could do that?” She swings her gaze to me. “Daddy, can my hair do that?”

I hold my hands up in surrender. “I don’t know, Rosie Posie. My styling prowess is limited to detangling spray and pigtail braids.”

“And those are wonderful ,” Elodie says. “We’re going to try something new today.”

I leave the girls to it, grabbing my kit and heading to practice—but not before asking Elodie to help me look at something in the foyer.

She follows, her brows scrunched in question as we exit the kitchen.

It’s not until we get to the front that I turn and yank her to me, then back her against the door to kiss her.

She melts against me, her body instantly giving in as I drag my hands up her T-shirt to cup her breasts, my thumbs scraping against the stiff peaks of her nipples.

“Ansel,” she gasps.

I push my leg between her thighs, getting off on the way she grinds against me. “Fuck yes, baby.” She’s already soaked, whimpering as I kiss her neck. “Good girl for wearing these loose shorts. Can you be quiet?”

A wordless moan that I think means yes comes out of her, and I take that as my cue. I shove my hand down the elastic waistband of her shorts and into her panties, grunting softly as my fingers slip between her wet folds.

She chokes back a noise, her hazel eyes going wide as I push into her.

“Shh,” I whisper, greedily drinking in the pleasure written all over her face. I press my thumb against her clit as I pump into her. So fucking responsive. I’ll never get over it. “Swivel those hips, baby. You’re almost there already.”

“Fffuuckkk,” she whimpers, her hands clamping onto my biceps. “Ansel, fuck, ohmygod?—”

Her walls contract as she comes, her hips jerking as the orgasm takes over.

Her eyes roll back as she lets her head fall against the door, the soft thud the only sound in the foyer.

I keep moving my fingers, pulling her through the climax until she goes limp against the door, her hands falling away from my arms.

“Look at me,” I command softly, pulling my hand out of her shorts.

She straightens and meets my eyes, her creamy skin flushed a beautiful pink from the orgasm.

I bring my fingers to my mouth, licking her arousal off and nearly losing my mind at how good she tastes. Before I can finish, she pulls my hand away, turning it and sucking those same fingers into her mouth.

My cock springs to attention, my jaw clenched as I fight to stay upright even as her hot, wet tongue circles my fingers. “Holy fuck,” I whisper, my attention rapt on her lips even as her eyes stay on me. I might come in my shorts. That’s how good this feels.

Wordlessly, her free hand presses against my cock, and I curse again. She sucks harder, and there is no stopping her as she slides her hand into my shorts and wraps around me. I press my palm against the door above her head, getting dizzy from the dual sensations. “Elle?—”

She raises an eyebrow and pumps me, her hand and mouth beginning to move in sync as she wipes her thumb across the tip of my cock.

I’m coiled tight, about to explode, and even though I know I shouldn’t let this happen—it was supposed to be about her—I can’t find it in me to make her stop. Her fucking mouth , Jesus Christ.

She hums against my fingers, her tongue sliding between them as she grips my cock. And I explode, climaxing so hard that I see stars. I grunt as I come, needing so fucking badly to roar and being utterly unable to do so, and try to stay upright through the pleasure.

As I finish, panting so hard it feels like I’ve just run a set of stadiums, she pulls my fingers out of her mouth with a pop. “Good boy,” she purrs, her eyes alight with mischief.

“Oh,” I puff out, unable to stop the grin that spreads across my face, “you are in so much trouble for that.”

She winks even as another pretty blush stains her cheeks. “Seems I’m not the one who needs cleaning up.”

I narrow my eyes playfully at her. “I’m getting you back for this.”

She shrugs. “Might need to change before you head to practice.”

Ten minutes later, my head is blissfully empty as I weave through the interstate traffic. Maybe I should start every day with an orgasm delivered by a hot woman named Elodie in my foyer.

My phone rings. I curse. It’s my lawyer. Taking a deep breath and hoping like hell I can keep this blissful mood going, I answer her call with the car’s system.

“Jennifer.” I don’t bother with pleasantries, but I don’t feel bad. I assume she’s used to it.

“I want you to remember that we have a court order that gives you full custody,” she starts.

Well, there goes my mood. “Which we’ve had pretty much from the very beginning,” I remind her. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“We’ve tracked her down,” she replies.

“And?”

“And she’s living in Atlanta.”

My knuckles blanch on the steering wheel as I focus on not ramming into the car in front of me. “What did you just say?” I growl.

“She’s in Atlanta. And before you ask, there’s nothing I can do in terms of keeping her away from Rosalie, Ansel. She’s not done anything.”

“That’s the fucking point ,” I yell.

Jennifer stays silent.

On a deep inhale, I try again. “I apologize. But are you sure?”

“I am,” she confirms. “Have you heard anything else from her?”

“No.”

“Looks like she’s new to the area. She’s been pretty itinerant, and that works in our favor.”

I nearly freeze with rage. “What are you implying, Jennifer?”

“I’m implying that you should prepare yourself—and Rosalie—for the worst.”

“She’s five.” I have to force my eyes to focus on what’s in front of me. I’m on a seven-lane stretch of interstate. I should not have answered this call.

Jennifer continues, her voice clipped, “It doesn’t matter how young she is, Ansel. She needs to be prepared if a judge determines that her mother has a right to see her. Or more.”

This can’t be happening. This entire conversation is a joke. It has to be. “That woman has no right to be called her mother. None.”

“Should I refer to her as the dragon lady instead, Ansel?” Her sarcasm comes through easily.

I ignore that. “Do you really think a judge would agree to that?”

She sighs. “Hard to tell. But seriously, if you haven’t talked with Rosalie?—”

“That’s my business,” I snap, my nerves frayed.

“It is,” Jennifer concedes.

“Anything else?”

“No. There’s nothing more for us to do until or unless she makes a move.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I bite out.

It’s only after she ends the call that I yell, over and over in the safety of my Land Rover, until I’m nearly hoarse. It’s my fucking luck that I’d go from one of the best mornings of my life to this.

I screech into the parking lot and stomp into the building.

After tossing my kit into the locker, I stalk to the weight room, desperately wishing we were running drills on the pitch instead.

As usual, the forwards are the ones with the heavier weights, and the backs are practically playing patty-cake with how much lighter theirs are.

My role as a fly-half would typically mean I’m lifting lighter weights with the backs, but I’ve found I perform better if I’m a bit bulkier.

Not as bulky as some of our guys, but just a little.

Today, however, I’m going to pretend that I’m one of our locks, so I throw as much weight on as I possibly can. I need to get out of my fucking head. It’s not until I’ve loaded well over my usual weight for hip thrusts that Carter saunters over.

“You trying to break something, Captain?” he teases.

“Just that pretty face of yours if you keep gabbing,” I toss back, then grunt as I thrust up.

“Don’t be jealous, man, it doesn’t suit you.” He winks and adjusts the machine next to mine, then settles in. “Do we need to talk about it?”

“No,” I growl.

He raises his hands. “Okay, okay, just checking.”

The only person I’d talk to about all of this isn’t even in the damn country.

Carter may be a great teammate on the field, but off?

He’s not even remotely someone I’d trust with this kind of conversation.

He’s young and still enjoying all the perks of being a rugger. And good for him—no judgment here.

I hit station after station, grunting and growling my way through, pushing myself to the brink every time.

When Coach walks in and tells us we’re running drills to give the social media team some content, I couldn’t be happier.

I need exhaustion. I need to not think. Because if I think, bad things will happen.

An hour later, Coach has run us into the ground. Stadiums, suicide runs, passing drills, lunges up and back, and a ton of other exercises. I’m dripping with sweat and my legs are one drill away from simply detaching from me, but I still can’t shake my foul mood.

“The fuck is wrong with you, running down the field like you’re going to kill someone?” A familiar Scottish burr growls behind me.

I turn, disbelief at the redheaded man standing in front of me. But even though the tiniest bit of weight lifts at the sight of this asshole, it’s not relief I feel. Not yet. “You,” I say.

“Aye. Me,” he says, then opens his arms.

I rush him.

A feral grin splits his face as he squats, ready to take me.

I tackle him, but the fucker doesn’t go down. He never does. Could I try harder? Probably. Would one of us get hurt? Definitely.

He grips my shirt and swings me off him, and I yell in frustration.

“Ah, yer a feisty little twat when Daddy’s not around to keep you in check, aren’t ya?” he teases.

“Fuck. You ,” I grunt, leaping at his waist, wrapping my arms around him in another futile effort.

He laughs. This asshole just laughs. “I missed you, too, Ans.” He tosses me off again.

I run at him a third time, juking him and managing to wrap my arms around his waist. He steps back with my weight, letting me feel like I’ve actually done something before removing my hands and spreading them up and above my head.

Without any effort whatsoever, he tucks both my wrists into one meaty palm before pointing a finger at me.

“Now say yer sorry and I won’t tickle your pits. ”

I spit on the ground. “No.”

“Seriously, what the fuck?” he asks, still holding my wrists above me. While I continue struggling to get free, mind you. Anytime I think I’m strong, all I have to do is go up against Lennox and I’m put right back in my place.

He squeezes my wrists, my bones twisting painfully in his grip, and I fold. “Fine! Fine. I’m sorry,” I growl. “Let me go.”

His eyes narrow. “Are you going to behave?”

“Yes,” I promise. Immediately, relief hits as he lets me go. I rub one wrist and the next, scowling at his cheery face.

Something in my expression must finally hit him, though, because his smile drops. “Ans?”

I sigh. “It’s Lauren. She’s here.” My voice hitches on the last word, nearly turning into a sob.

“Fuck.” His face darkens. “Tell me everything.”