Page 7 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

“Entirely acceptable for a live-in nanny,” I finish, then hold up a hand and blink away from her blue eyes.

Or hazel. Whatever. In fact, it doesn’t matter what color they are.

I shouldn’t be paying attention to their color, period.

“I promise, everything is fine. I know everyone’s favorite order, and feeding five rugby players isn’t for the faint of heart. ”

“It isn’t?”

I give up on fighting the grin. “It most certainly isn’t. Come on. I want to make sure you like the place.”

She follows me as I walk her through. “The bathroom only has a shower stall, but?—”

“Oh, that’s fine. I never, well, I rarely take baths.

I mean, look at me.” She laughs self-consciously.

“I’m huge. Not huge like you—not that you’re huge, I mean you are , but not in a bad way—not that being huge is bad.

Ugh.” She blows a breath, puffing the frizzy strands of hair around her head into motion.

“What I’m trying to say is that I don’t fit in bathtubs.

There.” She looks away, muttering something that sounds like, smooth, Elodie.

I decide to ignore the entire thing. Too many traps that Elodie’s best friend has drilled into me, ironically enough. “Never comment on someone’s size. Especially a female’s. Especially a female reporter’s.” Plus, I am not thinking about the size of her body. Or her body, period.

I’m also not going to mention that I have a master bath with a tub so big it could easily hold three of me, or that Rosalie literally began her swimming lessons in it because of how big it is, or that she takes a bath in it every night.

Because Elodie will figure that out the second she needs to take Rosalie through her nighttime routine.

“The bedroom is here.” I scoot past her and down the short hallway to open the door.

It’s modest, with a dresser on one wall and a queen-sized bed flanked by built-in corner bookshelves on another wall.

A teal-blue reading chair and stool are in the other corner.

“You’re welcome to redecorate if you want to,” I start, then stop.

Because she looks like she’s about to cry.

“Um, are you okay?”

She sniffs hard and wipes at her eyes, then looks back at me. “I’m good. Really good. Sorry. Just…holy smokes, I can’t believe I get to live here!”

Holy smokes ? She’s not only sweet; she’s adorable. “You’re welcome,” I say warmly. And I mean it.

She turns, still taking it all in. “Built-in bookshelves? Am I Belle? I’m Belle. That must be it.”

Rosalie skids through the hallway and crashes into me, wrapping her arms around my waist and looking adoringly up at Elodie. “I love Belle! She’s not my favorite, though.”

Elodie’s entire demeanor changes, going soft and fuzzy at the edges. “Yeah? Who’s your favorite? Wait—don’t tell me.”

Rosie giggles. “You’ll never guess.”

Elodie pretends not to notice the Brave T-shirt that Rosie’s in. “Hmm. It’s…Snow White!”

Rosie makes a face. “No way. She’s not self-reliant at all .”

I may or may not preen at this declaration.

With a laugh, Elodie dips her chin. “Good point. But it’s okay to rely on your friends, too. And Snow White was friends with everyone, wasn’t she?”

Rosie nods seriously. And all I can think is, well, shit. Because I should have seen that lesson in the movie, too. All I ever think about is how shrill her voice is when she sings. Am I the asshole here? Probably.

“Cinderella,” Elodie declares.

Rosie giggles again. “Nope! One more guess.”

“Hmm.” Elodie taps her lips with her finger. “I bet…it’s…Merida!”

“You got it!” Rosie says. “Daddy says I’m brave just like her. And that my hair is just as wild.”

I smile ruefully down at her. “That’s true.” But believe me, I can wield a detangling spray and brush along with the best of them. It’s why Rosie’s hair is in two slicked-back braided pigtails…and why it usually stays in those. I learned that trick pretty quickly.

“Hey, Ansel? Think the pizza’s here!” Cash calls from the front.

“Come on, Rosie Posie,” I say, picking my daughter up and relishing the sheer solidity of her. “I ordered your favorite.”

She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes, then mashes her forehead to mine. “You look funny like this.”

“You look funnier,” I counter.

“Pineapple and ham?”

“That’s still your favorite, right?” I start the walk to the front of the guesthouse, moving slowly so I don’t trip over a rogue box.

“Ooh, yay!” Elodie cheers from behind us, pumping a fist in victory.

“Let me guess: you also love the worst pizza on Earth?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Watch yourself, Ansel,” she warns. “You’re on thin ice with a statement like that.” Then her cheeks flush, as if she can’t quite believe she’s just let herself utter the words.

It might be the first real thing I’ve heard her say. Until now, she’s been in interview mode. But declare a certain type of pizza a terror, and suddenly the real person emerges.

I laugh. “Is that so?”

Rosalie cups my cheeks with her hands and pulls my attention back to her. “Be nice to her, Daddy.”

I give Rosie a zerbert on her fat little cheek, delighting in the squeal I get in response. “Or what?”

“Or we’ll both have to tickle you!” She holds her hands up like claws.

“I’ll be nice,” I promise, holding my pinkie up and glancing at Elodie, who’s watching us. Rosie loops hers with mine, and we both kiss our pinkies.

Our ritual complete, I put her down and direct everyone back outside to the screened-in area, then hustle to the front to take care of the driver’s tip. After I get the pizza set up and everyone’s getting their slices, my phone buzzes.

Figuring it’s Lennox, lamenting he’s missing us even while he’s visiting family back home in Glasgow, I don’t hesitate to pull it from my shorts pocket.

UNKNOWN

I messed up.

I stare at the text, willing it to make sense, yet terrified that I know precisely who it might be.

Before I can think too much about it, I type back.

ME

You know exactly what you did. Lose this number.