Page 19 of Worth the Try
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 thanBrave, 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. Afterhewas the one working his butt off all day. “Sorry, what?”
His smile grows, and I am done for. “Let me feed you.”
Chapter 7
Ansel
ELODIE BLINKS UP at me, clearly trying to make sense of the words coming out of my mouth. I let her brain glitch, knowing that it’ll put itself back online. It’s hard not to be pleased she’s just as thrown by me as I am by her. But I won’t be doing anything about it. I can’t risk it. Can’t risk the tightrope balancing act that is my life with Rosie. And there’s no time for a relationship anyway. When would I fit that in? I’m barely hanging on as it is.
“I’m cooking anyway,” I remind Elodie. “Nothing fancy. Just stay.” I turn away before she can protest anymore, letting a grin widen across my face for the briefest of moments. Her reaction is something I’d honestly forgotten about, but was once supremely used to.
Once upon a time…for a very brief time, that is. My looks don’t make sense to me. I mean, they’re part of who I am, clearly, but as a child, I was short and chubby. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I started to grow and pack on the muscle, and even then, the girls I’d grown up with seemed determined to keep me and any ego that threatened firmly in check. None of them were interested in me, ever. My prom date was the same girl I’d oncetraded Pokémon cards with. To say there was no spark would be a drastic understatement.
My name wasn’t any sort of help. Being a huge photography buff, Mom had idolized Ansel Adams and thought giving me his name would be the highest honor she could possibly bestow on me.
Yeah.
Did I mention the horrific glasses? And braces?
I’m not sorry for any of it, though. Being raised the way I was, surrounded by the same kids all through grade school and high school who were all generallyniceto each other—a rarity, for sure—was a comfort. Something about it gave me this ridiculously wholesome sense of self that I carried into college.
College, however,…well. That’s where it all went to shit. In a manner of speaking. I joined the rugby team, and it turned out I was good. Really good. All those years of middle and high school football finally paid off, and I took the ball and ran with it. Literally. Rugger huggers were everywhere and ripe for the taking, so I took. And took and took.
It was a great four years.
But I stopped it all after college. I’d planned on using my accounting degree and figured I needed to grow up. Then Major League Rugby came calling, and it was a dream come true.
The point here is that I know what I look like, but I also know it doesn’t matter. It’s surface-level. It’s how a person acts that really matters. Some of the guys on the team say I sound like a complete douche when I talk like this, that it’s something only a good-looking guy would say, but I still believe it with my very soul.
Besides, who cares what I look like when there’s a miniature dinosaur attacking me as I walk into the kitchen?
“Rawr!” Rosie snorts as she latches onto my leg, unhinging her jaw and pretending to bite me as we move.
“Are you a Rosasaurus Rex?”
“I demand food!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I chuckle, pulling her up and smothering her soft face with kisses.
“Your beard tickles,” she giggles, but even as she says it, she leans in harder.
“Love you, Rosie girl.” I set her on the island stool and begin making dinner. Nothing too involved tonight: some pasta and turkey sausage with frozen peas thrown in for color, topped with a jarred sauce I doctor up. Some pre-made garlic bread for Rosie and Elodie—I love it, but it’s not on the approved food list—and boom, dinner.
“Wanna call Nana?” I ask Rosie, pulling my phone out and getting my mom’s number ready.
Rosie nods excitedly. When Mom’s face comes onto the screen, she’s already smiling.
“My two favorite people in the world!” she exclaims.
Rosie giggles. “What about Papa?”
