Page 24 of Worth the Try
He whips the hair out of his face in that distinct move that, God help me, every good-looking man seems to be born knowing how to do, then focuses on me.
I might be hyperventilating. That’s not normal, right? Right.
“Are you okay?” There’s legitimate concern in his eyes.
Reality slams into me with the question. I amthe nanny.Whatever brief moment of insanity that I had a few minutes ago, where I considered that maybe he might have, I don’t know, thought of me as anything other than the help, burns away. Beneath his searing looks, he’s a legitimately kind man. And apparently, I’m so starved for the male gaze that I’m willfully creating fantasies in my head now?
I need to get laid. Not by Ansel.
I blink, hoping against all hope that my very expressive face didn’t just convey that particular thought. “I’m fine!” I chirp. I’ve waited too long to answer, and I hold my breath as he studies me, his gaze roaming over my face and dipping to my shoulders before flicking to my lips and back to my eyes.
He must come to some kind of conclusion, because he nods and says, “Okay.”
I exhale. Flash the pageant smile.
Without another word, he takes a breath and ducks beneath the water, pushing off the side with those powerful legs of his.
Chapter 9
Ansel
FUCK. ME.
Two weeks. Two weeks was all it took. I went from thinkingI could totally manage my attraction to her to suddenly jumping in the pool at the slightest suggestion from my daughter in an attempt to, what, be close to Elodie? Touch her?
I don’t really know how it happened. It was slow, a frog boiling in water, because I was completely and totally fine until this morning. Truly.
I’ve known the effect I have on her. It’s impossible not to, with the way she blushes the second her eyes land on me. She’s gotten better at it, and this morning, there wasn’t a hint of red to be found. Not even the tips of her ears were pink.
I should have been grateful. Relieved. But no. No, instead I was disappointed. Which makes no sense, for all the reasons I’ve gone over in my head. Over and over. Chief among them? My daughter. Rosie needs her. Hell,Ineed her. The little things she does around the house that no other nanny ever bothered to do and I sure as fuck never find time to do? Jesus, I’m damn near tempted to beg her to stay forever based on that alone. I’m talking about organizing junk drawers and sorting clothes and toys that Rosie’s outgrown type of stuff. Little stuff that piles up.Bigger stuff that’s a huge mental load that I know I need to deal with, but can’t manage to find time in the day. Stuff that I can’t possibly keep track of on top of everything else. I’m over here fighting for my life to keep Rosie and me fed, watered, clothed, and up to date on all our shots, never mind dentist appointments and haircuts, and here comes Elodie, who’s done some kind of Mary Poppins voodoo on me.
But if I’m grateful for her, then I’m pretty sure Rosie is obsessed with her. God knows I’ve heard all about Elodie these past two weeks. In fact, I probably know way more about her than she’s comfortable with. But that’s what happens when you have an inquisitive daughter who doesn’t think twice about sharing what she’s learned at the dinner table.
Then I come home and see them through the kitchen window, Elodie’s plush body laid out on the He-Man float as though it were made specifically to display her every dip and curve. Of which she has plenty. Never mind the blue bikini she was in, wrapped around her like a modern-day pin-up. As I watched, she laughed at something Rosie said. There was nothing but pure joy on her face, and I saw how carefree she was when I wasn’t around. How fucking gorgeous and kind she was. How she treated Rosie with respect and love. And suddenly…suddenly a switch flipped.
So now I’m here, treading water in the pool and trying desperately to make the switch go off.
It’s not working.
She’s keeping her distance, and I don’t know if it’s because I make her uncomfortable or if it’s something else entirely. All I know is that Rosie’s not having it, and it’s not long before she’s cajoled Elodie to join us for a game of Marco Polo.
And Elodie chooses to be the one to try to find us.
Again: Fuck. Me.
Because now her eyes are closed and she’s standing fully upright in the shallow end, her torso out of the water andright fucking therefor me to look at. I shouldn’t look at her like this. I know that. Even so, there’s absolutely nothing in this world can keep me from feasting on her. I repress a groan. She smiles, turning toward the squeals and giggles of my daughter, and before I can stop myself, I call out. I need her to face me. To come close.
She turns, eyes still clenched, but her smile seems to stutter. She calls again, “Marco!”
“Polo!” Rosie answers.
“Polo.” I’m breathless in the face of her. Her skin is apparently resistant to the sun, resolutely pale except for the faintest tinge of pink on her shoulders. Shoulders that are, God help me, recklessly painted with freckles and dotted with water falling from her hair. Even wet, her hair is thick and wild, the curls springing up and around her face like curlicues.
I step toward her.
“Marco!” she calls.
The blue bikini top crisscrosses her chest, drawing my attention to yet another series of freckles, these beginning at the dip of her collarbone and snaking down to disappear into the top. A line leading to heaven, I’m certain of it.
