Page 22 of Worth the Try
I’m winning.
“Stay for dinner tonight?” he asks. It’s casual, delivered with the same nonchalance as asking if it’s one hundred percent humidity outside.
It’s not the first time he’s asked. And every time, except for that first night, the one where he said, and I quote,“Let me feed you,”I’ve turned him down. I’ve either gone out with Kari for our weekly girls’ night or—once the oven got fixed—made something myself in the guesthouse’s tiny kitchen. Which has been incredibly strategic. Because, for one thing, he’s my employer. For another, he’s my landlord. Never mind his aforementioned gorgeousness. And I don’t want Rosalie to get used to having me around constantly, because I’m only going to be here for three months.
That’s the plan, anyway. I should probably be looking for another place to live after this, but any free time I’ve had has been devoted to working on my business plan. I’m done working my butt off for other people. It’s time to focus on myself.
Which is a lot harder than it looks. I was strong enough to stop talking to my mother after my break-up with Jeremy, but there’s no erasing her voice from my head. It’s infuriating. The longer I’ve been away from Fore Gone, the more I realize just how poisonous the place was for me. How I never stood up for myself. And for a long time, I think I stayed because I had Jeremy. We were happy, or so I thought, and when we got engaged, I was the happiest I’d ever been. It wasn’t until we started trying for a baby that things went sideways. And I was so numb in the aftermath of our break-up that it’s a wonder they didn’t “let me go” at that point.
Who knows? Maybe the universe decided to throw me a bone after all these years, because somehow I’ve landed here: nannying for the most genuine and brain-meltingly hot man in the world, and he’s asking me to stay for dinner.
I may be working to put myself first, but I can’t be rude, and saying no to his repeated offers is starting to feel, well, rude. Besides, I’ve successfully managed to keep my body in check for five whole minutes this morning. I can do a dinner. I’m positive. I believe in myself.
“Sure,” I answer, being certain to sound just as nonchalant as him.
Then I make the mistake of looking up. And his expression—he’sbeaming—is enough to send heat right to my cheeks. Drats.
“Perfect,” he says. “I didn’t ask the first time, and I’m sorry for that, but do you have any allergies? Preferences? Intolerances?”
I swallow, forcing myself not to be affected by his consideration, then smile brightly. “Nope! None at all.”
Relief washes over his face. “Perfect,” he repeats. “I mean, great. I’ll see you a little later than usual, then. I’ve got to run by the store?—”
“We can go,” I interrupt. “Just tell me what you want us to get.”
“No,” he answers, his brows knitting in a scowl so brief that I can’t decide if he’s irritated or if it’s just an extension of him being considerate. “I’ll take care of it.” Then he swivels away, the duffel I once again failed to notice swinging off his shoulder. “Tell Rosie Posie I said goodbye. And—” he turns back, his expression so totally parental it can’t possibly be confused with anything other than that, “Fresh sunblock is in the bin with the towels outside.”
I press my lips together, wondering if he’s telling me that because he thinks I’ve not been applying it to Rosalie every time we’ve been outside for longer than half an hour. “Of course. Thanks.”
He leaves, and I nearly puddle from the five-minute interaction. It’s my own fault, this ping-ponging of feelings.
But I don’t get to think any more about it, because Rosalie chooses that moment to bound into the kitchen, excited to show off the new suit that arrived yesterday from her grandmother. It’s adorable, pink with little red strawberries and white piping.
“And she sent a matching suit for Violet!” Rosalie exclaims, holding her doll in the air with both hands.
“Beautiful!” I agree. “Let’s get the two of you breakfast, and then we can go play.”
“May I have French toast with that yummy white powder again?” she asks, clasping her palms beneath her chin and blinking up at me.
I laugh. “It’s called ‘powdered sugar,’ and sure. But only if you help.”
“Yay!”
The day passes lazily, with multiple trips from the pool to the shade and back again. Around three, when the sun has baked me within an inch of my life, I finally give in to Rosalie’s demands and agree to join her in the pool. But I’m not in my suit, so first I get her safely inside the screened-in porch. Then, I extract a pinky promise that she’ll stay there while I change and hustle to the guesthouse.
I grab the first suit I come to, a royal-blue two-piece that would have been perfectly at home in the fifties, and throw it on. The bottoms are high-rise and the top holds me in tight, ensuring the girls don’t go anywhere. It’s perfect for playing in the pool with Rosalie.
Back outside, I call to Rosie, who squeals at the prospect of me finally joining her. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to get in, it’s just that somehow, it’s felt like a boundary I don’t need to cross. As though by doing so, I’m taking one more step toward a relationship with her that I shouldn’t. But maybe that’s silly. Maybe I’m overthinking the whole thing and Rosie just wants someone to play with. Besides, she’s dug herself so firmly intomy heart already that I can’t fathom not doing just about anything for her. Getting in the pool is an easy decision.
Once my eyes are on her, she climbs up the ladder to the slide and situates herself at the top. “Ready?” she calls. When I nod, she scoots off, throwing her hands in the air and sliding down the hard plastic into the deep end of the pool. She emerges with a gasp and grins while she doggie paddles to the shallow end, strands of hair plastered to her forehead. “Your turn!”
I open my mouth in mock surprise. “You want me to go down the slide? Me?”
She giggles. “Yes, you!”
I don’t hesitate. To be honest, the slide’s been one of the more tempting aspects of the entire thing. It’s tall, rising easily fifteen feet into the air, curving twice before emptying into the pool. Strategically placed jets keep water flowing down the slide. Ansel undoubtedly installed it once Rosalie learned to swim, because it doesn’t really match the aesthetic of the rest of the pool at all.
I climb the stairs and find Rosalie. She’s grabbed a pool noodle and has her arms hooked over it, her little body stretched out in the water behind her. “Ready?” I ask her.
