Page 8 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Elodie

F ALLING ASLEEP IN a new place is never easy for me.

Falling asleep in the next-level guesthouse that belongs to my new employer, who also happens to be incredibly hot…is much, much harder.

It doesn’t matter that the air conditioner works flawlessly, that the mattress is incredible, that Cleocatra has settled in perfectly, or that I’ve got my own pillows and satin pillowcases. None of it matters.

Because I can’t get him out of my head.

The easy way he was with his daughter, and how he didn’t hesitate to pick her up and shower her with love and affection?

So fluffing sexy.

The way all the other guys looked up to him, not hesitating to do whatever he asked. The smiles he delivered without hesitation. His treatment of me as an equal.

And that’s throwing me for such a loop. Because apparently, I’ve spent years not being treated like an equal at work.

Always getting the coffee and printing copies and taking notes and setting appointments, even though there were people more junior than me who should have done it.

Always doing the lowest level of work even as I pitched brilliant event idea after brilliant idea.

Never allowing myself to get too worked up over any of it, though, because that’s just the way it is .

It’s only now, lying in the dark and staring at the ceiling, that I think maybe—no, definitely— I was taken advantage of.

For years. Years that I spent being nice.

So very, very nice. Of doing whatever was asked of me, even if it wasn’t my job.

Of smiling and gritting my teeth when my boss took credit for my ideas after watering them down. Of staying in that stupid cubicle.

Getting fired was a gut punch.

Realizing that I should have walked away a long, long time ago? Devastating.

Today, none of the guys looked at me with anything but respect.

None of them made crass jokes. I never caught them looking at my body with disgust or in a way that made me feel like I existed just for them to gaze upon.

And somehow, I knew they behaved because of Ansel.

Or maybe that’s not quite it. Ansel set the example, and they followed suit.

And that…that is sexy.

Did I mention the glasses? Because he was wearing glasses. He didn’t have them on the first time, but today he did, and ugh, I don’t know why it made him so good-looking. But it did.

It’s probably bad that I think he’s hot. Actually, it’s not probably bad; it’s definitely bad. So bad. I haven’t even officially started the job—I do that tomorrow—and I’m doing the very thing to him that I was thrilled not to have done to me today.

Great.

I’m not remotely a good person.

I sigh, flip my pillow to the cool side, and finally manage to fall into a fitful sleep.

My alarm blares me awake with a jolt. It’s six, and Ansel told me that Rosalie doesn’t wake up until eight most days—a rarity among littles, as I understand it—but I thought I’d make a breakfast casserole and have it ready for when she wakes up. Start us off on the right foot and all that.

It’s a quick twenty minutes of showering and dressing, then feeding Cleocatra and filling my travel mug with a K-cup before I head to the Piggly Wiggly a couple miles down the street.

My beat-up Honda CR-V has seen better days, but Atlanta traffic is so horrible that I’d rather have a car I don’t care to get dinged up.

Which is good, because it has absolutely seen its share of dings.

But it’s safe and dependable, even if it barely held up to Ansel’s standards.

Then I reminded him that my driving record spoke for itself, and he begrudgingly admitted it was fine.

I snort a laugh to myself as I breeze through the aisles, making my way through the produce, then dry goods to stock up on my absolute favorite cereal and grab some other essentials, then into the dairy section for the rest of the ingredients.

I’m back before seven, shocked at how light the traffic was in Ansel’s neighborhood.

Guess that’s what happens when you live in one of the suburban zip codes.

Humming to myself, I press the buttons to turn the oven on and begin whisking eggs into a stainless-steel bowl, before realizing that the oven didn’t actually start.

So I peer closer—I probably need glasses, but if I could make it farther into my thirties than, well, the thirty I am before succumbing to them, that’d be amazing.

Sure enough, it isn’t turning on.

“Fluffing fluff nuts,” I mutter.

Well…surely he won’t care if I make them in the main house, right? Who says no to a breakfast casserole?

I gather everything up, tossing the ingredients into a travel grocery bag and hooking my coffee over one finger so that I can have a hand for the whisked bowl of eggs, then step outside. In no time at all, I’m making my way through the screened-in porch to knock on the door.

“Come in!” a tiny voice answers.

“It’s open,” a much, much deeper voice follows.

I try the handle with the few free fingers I have, and sure enough, the knob turns easily.

“We’re in the kitchen,” Ansel says.

How has his voice gotten deeper overnight? Is this a morning thing? Or is this an Elodie-needs-to-get-her-life-together-and-stop-fantasizing-about-her-new-boss thing?

Shaking my head, I do my best to breeze into the room like I meant to be there, then I flash a smile.

Which I nearly almost choke on.

Because there’s Rosalie, perched on the stool at the kitchen island, smiling up at me from the coloring book she’s been working on, cute as a button.

She is not the issue here.

Not even close.

No, it’s her father. Who stands behind her, wearing the same glasses he was in yesterday, with a rubber band tucked between his lips as he works one of Rosalie’s ponytails into submission.

Exactly when I became a puddle of a person at the sight of a dad braiding hair is beyond me, but to be fair: he is a hulking giant of a man, and the look of concentration on his face—he’s biting his lip and his brow is furrowed—might be the hottest thing I've ever seen.

The other side of her hair is a frizzy mess, forming a brown halo of unbrushed curls that reminds me so much of my own hair as a little girl.

My knees might shake.

Because apparently I have a thing for hot guys who take care of their daughter’s hair? Is that happening right now?

There’s a word for that, right?

Oh. Oh yes, there is.

DILF.

Dad I’d like to…ohmygosh.

“Hi, Elodie!” Rosalie singsongs.

I cough and re-paste the smile on my face, praying my cheeks aren’t as flaming red as they feel. “Good morning, sunshine!”

“What’s in the bowl?”

I look down, surprised I’m still holding anything, let alone a bowl with a half dozen eggs whisked in it. “Oh! Um. Right.”

Ansel’s eyes flick up to mine, and I freeze, a baby deer caught in the big bad wolf’s gaze. Is that a thing? Do wolves eat deer? They probably eat anything.

“Elodie?” Ansel prompts. “Are you okay?”

I spring back into life, lurching to the island before doing a one-eighty and aiming for the counter beside the sink.

“I’m fine. Um, but the oven in the guesthouse doesn’t work?

” I wince. Why am I saying it like a question?

I swallow and palm the surface, letting the coolness of the stone ground me back into the reality where I am a strong woman.

Taking a breath, and far happier to be facing away from Ansel than looking right at him, I try again.

“I wanted to make a breakfast casserole, but the oven won’t turn on. Can I use yours?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t like breakfast casserole,” Rosalie declares.

I whirl around, horrified. “Oh no. Really? Well, um, that’s okay…”

But Ansel just smiles down at her. “Rosie Posie, you don’t even know what it is.” He looks up at me. “It sounds delicious.”

My heart squeezes. There’s so much here to unpack, and I have no business unpacking it. Instead, I put my focus back on the bowl of eggs.

“Do you have a Pyrex?”

“A what?”

“A glass pan, like a casserole dish? Usually clear?” I explain, holding my hands out to show the size as I do.

“Ah. Yes. It’s…well…” He shrugs. “I can grab it as soon as I finish here.”

“Just tell me where it is; I can get it.”

With a relieved smile, he directs me to it. “Sorry if it's a little cluttered,” he apologizes. “I have a system of where things go, but it keeps getting changed.”

“It’s because every new nanny has a different spot for things, Daddy.”

A pained expression crosses his face. After a beat, he nods and gestures for the rubber band next to Rosalie’s hand. She gives it to him, and a moment later, one side of her hair is tamed into a sleek braid.

Then, with horror, I realize I've been watching him instead of doing the very thing I came in here to do.

Get it together, woman.

Dumping out the cheese, chives, and two potatoes, I prep the rest of the casserole.

Behind me, Rosalie hums and chatters about the scene she’s coloring from Brave , all while I force myself to keep my eyes on my work.

By the time I have the dish in the oven, Ansel, who’d left the kitchen after finishing Rosalie’s hair, is striding back in.

And I…I might black out.

Because it’s the first time I’m seeing Ansel up close in his workout shorts.

Um.

Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here.

This isn’t fair. In no way, on no planet, is any of this fair.

First, he had the glasses, and that’s bad enough. But now? He…he has a tattoo. On the outside of his thigh. The most intricately done roses that I have ever seen. They’re mostly deep red with shades of pink woven in as well. How did I not notice that first day? Or yesterday?

Bless those rugby shorts. Bless, bless them. So very much.

“Elodie?”

I snap out of it, jerking my gaze up to Ansel’s, my cheeks heating furiously once again. “Hmm?”

He grins, as if he knows exactly what I was looking at and is very aware of the effect it’s having on me.

Is there an escape hatch anywhere?

“I was saying that I’ll call an electrician to come look at the oven. And Rosie has been asking to go to the library, so you might need my library card.”

Is he serious right now? He takes his daughter to the library to check out books?

“Are you okay?” His mischievous smile morphs into one of genuine concern, and he begins to close the distance between us.

“I’m fine!” My voice hits a pitch I have never hit before.

“Sorry. Just, ah, lost focus there for a second. Not that it happens a lot. Me losing focus. I don’t.

I never. Well, I mean, I’ve never lost it before now.

” Really? I take a deep breath. Force myself to meet his caramel-brown eyes, full of warmth and no small amount of amusement, once more.

“I would be happy to take Rosalie to the library. I have my own card, though; we can use it with no problem.”

He adjusts the duffel on his shoulders—a duffel I had no idea he’d been carrying until this exact second, because I have been memorizing the green leaves and thorns that surround the roses on his thigh instead of talking to him like he is my boss.

He is my boss .

I can’t lose this job. Is it what I want? No. But is it perfect while I decide what my next move is going to be? Absolutely.

Which means I need to keep whatever this is under control. By a lot.

A lot a lot.

No more gawking at leg tattoos.

I can’t look.

I won’t look.

His daughter is literally in the room and he is my boss and I am making an egg casserole and therefore I can. Not. Look.

“I should be home around four,” Ansel says.

“Great!” I really, really hope that I don't look as deranged as I suspect I might.

“Bye, Daddy!” Rosalie chirps, sliding off her stool and running to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and gripping with all her might.

He scoops her into his arms. I can’t handle it. I look away, busying myself with the dishes in the sink.

After he’s left, Rosalie climbs back onto the stool, swinging her legs and studying me thoughtfully.

I run a bowl under the water, rinsing the suds and watching them swirl down the drain, feeling her attention on me. I keep to my task, knowing she’s just curious.

“What happened at your old job?” she finally asks.

“They let me go.”

She cocks her head. “What’s that mean, let you go?”

I give her a sad smile. “They fired me.”

Her eyes go round. “Were you bad? Did you get in trouble?”

Laughing, I shake my head and finish rinsing the dishes. “No. They decided they didn’t need me anymore. But you know, I’m beginning to think that it was a good thing.”

“Why?”

“Because it means I get to hang out with you this summer,” I grin. “And that means…”

“Swimming and libraries and stories and movies and fun !” Rosalie finishes.

I laugh. “Exactly.”

We eat our breakfast, and afterward, Rosie gives me a tour of “all the important places” in the house.

Meaning her room, the bathroom, the living room, and of course the outside area by the pool.

Then we start a load of her laundry, water the many plants that I’d have sworn were fake, and head to the library.

After that, it’s home, snack, half an hour on her iPad, a brutal game of checkers, lunch, meeting all her dolls and stuffed animals, dress-up, drawing, and I think my brain checked out at some point while I colored.

By the time Ansel makes it home that afternoon, I’m completely beat.

I look up from where Rosalie and I are sprawled on the couch, watching none other than Brave , and offer a weak wave.

Even the sight of him, comfortably dressed in black sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, isn’t enough to cut through the haze of exhaustion.

He laughs, a deep belly laugh that tells me he knows exactly how I feel. “Wore you out, didn’t she?”

I nod. “I didn't think?—”

“No need to explain,” he chuckles. “Been there many, many times before. I’ll make you dinner.”

My brain must be hallucinating, because I swear this man just offered to cook dinner. After he was the one working his butt off all day. “Sorry, what?”

His smile grows, and I am done for. “Let me feed you.”