Page 25 of Worth the Try
She’s closer now, and I should move, keep playing the game, but I stay in position.
When her fingers brush against my chest, her eyes fly open.
For a split second, the world stills. She’s motionless, the tips of her fingers touching me, branding me. Dark lashes, wet from the pool, frame wide hazel eyes that meet mine. And I see it—the raw, clear need that flashes across her face.
Then the world spins forward, the expression gone, her touch a memory.
“Caught me.” My voice is hoarse.
Red stains her cheeks as she dips her body into the water and pushes away. But she holds my gaze, tipping her chin up slightly.Brave girl. It takes everything in me not to say the words out loud, to offer the praise. Need coils within me. There’s so much more I want to know about her.
I shouldn’t. Obviously. I come with a pretty big set of complications and restrictions.
I duck underwater, my daughter’s squeals of laughter audible even from down here. When I surface, I tell myself that my momentary blip needs to be just that—momentary. A passing phase.
I tag my daughter easily, and then she’s the one with her eyes closed while Elodie and I have nothing to do but look at each other. She keeps her gaze firmly planted on Rosie, but I don’t bother. And every time she glances my way, I meet her eyes. She grows more and more flustered, her cheeks blazing red by the time I launch in front of Rosie to get caught.
I need to stop. Tossing Rosie into the air and catching her, her delighted squeals following as I tickle her and she wiggles in my arms, I say, “I’m going to start dinner. Maybe you and Elodie can make dessert?”
Her eyes light up. “Strawberry shortcake?”
I nod, confirming one of her favorite summer treats. “You know it.”
I force myself to get out of the pool, taking the steps and grabbing the towel I’d brought out. I dry off, and it’s only when I’m heading inside that I allow myself a backward glance at Elodie.
She’s turned away, gathering up the pool noodles.
Dinner is straightforward: citrus grilled chicken, baked potatoes, grilled asparagus and tomatoes, and for Rosie and Elodie, a side of mac and cheese. I busy myself with the food on the outside grill while Rosie takes Elodie through the strawberryshortcake process. It’s safe enough: I let Rosie use a plastic knife to cut the strawberries, and then it’s a simple matter of washing them and mixing a bit of sugar in. I’ve got some cantaloupe set aside for me.
We eat out on the screened-in porch, and just like our first meal, conversation flows easily. It’s impossible to keep my eyes off Elodie, impossible not to notice how the white T-shirt she’s thrown on highlights the faint pink of her skin, a bit burned from a full day in the sun. Or notice the smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and how bright her eyes seem in contrast to the flush of her skin.
I can’t remember a time I’ve been so affected by anyone. And to have it happen in what feels like the blink of an eye.
“This is delicious, Ansel,” she says, finally meeting my eyes again. “Thank you.”
God damn. Her sincerity might be the very thing that tosses me into the deep end. I clear my throat and throw on a teasing smile. “See what you’ve been missing by not accepting our dinner invitations?”
She smiles a bit, averting her gaze and reaching for her water glass, not answering me but humming noncommittally in response.
Needing a topic change, I ask, “Any ideas for what you plan to do after the summer?”
Her gaze flicks to mine, widening almost imperceptibly but delivering a punch, nonetheless.
“Not trying to kick you out,” I grin. “Promise. I’m just…interested.” And that’s true.
She fiddles with her napkin before answering. “I’m working on a business plan at night. It’s an idea I’ve been mulling over for a couple of years now, but it wasn’t until, well.” She takes a deep breath. “It wasn’t until I got fired that I realized the only guarantee of safety was to do something myself.”
Safety? Interesting word choice. “What’s the idea?”
Elodie takes a bite of chicken and swallows before answering. “It’s not fully baked yet,” she hedges.
I hold my hands up. “No judgment here, I promise. You’re talking to a professional rugger, for goodness’ sake.”
She grins. “Good point. How many knocks to the head have you had, anyway?”
My own smile widens. “Too many to count.”
A breath huffs out of her. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but you can’t laugh at me.”
