Page 16 of Worth the Try
I sigh, flip my pillow to the cool side, and finally manage to fall into a fitful sleep.
My alarm blaresme awake with a jolt. It’s six, and Ansel told me that Rosalie doesn’t wake up until eight most days—a rarityamong 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,muchdeeper 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.”
