Page 29 of Anchored

I stare up at the wood ceiling of the cabin, snuggled into the blankets on the floor, even though I’m sure the temperature outside will be rising the second the sun makes it high in the sky today. Summer is definitely here. Although I can’t blame the sunshine for the heat that’s flooded my body reliving that kiss last night.

Shitting shiva, that man can kiss!

It was nothing like our first kiss, except for the complete warmth that seeped into my soul the second our lips pressed together. We’d finally broken apart when Mookie started barking at some people kayaking on the river by the cabin. Holt’s mouth had immediately hooked into a smile that was hotter than the bonfire next to us. The rest of our conversation last night around the fire had been laced with electricity. I’d been so hot and bothered, I had a hard time falling asleep.

Remembering what I have planned today, I roll out of the blankets and fold them up on the couch before getting dressed in today’s cutoff shorts and tank top. I have to remember to ask Holt if I can use the washing machine. I’m officially out of clean clothes.

“You sure you don’t want me to make up the guest room for you so you don’t have to sleep on the floor?” Holt’s voice comes from the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.

I spin around and immediately experience a hot flash seeing him in workout shorts that hug his tree trunk thighs and no shirt. His hair’s a mess and there’s a pillow crease across his cheek. He looks good enough to eat. Knowing I had all those muscles under my hands last night as we kissed is making my insides leap. Not that I felt him up. I kept my hands strictly waist up.

But I sure did wish they could go exploring.

“I prefer the floor. Honestly.”

He shrugs, but seems to accept my answer. I know it’s weird, but trauma does weird things to one’s brain. Lying in a bed just brought up memories that made sleep impossible. Holt walks by me to get to the kitchen, pausing briefly to put his hand on my hip and kiss my cheek, before he keeps going. It’s such a sweet gesture. Exactly what you’d expect from a real fiancé. What does this say about my choices that my fake fiancé is fiancéing better than my actual fiancé ever did?

After a quick breakfast of yogurt and fruit—an additional protein smoothie for Holt—we’re out the door and on our way to High Tide Vintage, the secondhand clothing shop on Main Street that I remember from my youth. Lottie, the owner, is still there, proving that sometimes the best things in life really don’t change.

“Welcome to High Tide Vintage, darlings,” Lottie trills as the little bell over the door rings out our arrival. She’s helping a customer at the register, her short snow-white hair teased within an inch of its life and hair-sprayed enough to never move, not even in a stiff breeze.

“Good morning,” I call right back. Holt looks around at the racks and racks of clothing, his nose wrinkling. “Whatsa matter? You don’t like clothes shopping?”

“I pretty much only wear scrubs and workout clothes.”

I glance down at the T-shirt he threw on right before we left the cabin, grumbling something about shirts being required in downtown Anchor Lake. “I noticed, but it won’t hurt you to dress up this one time. The chili cook-off will be so much fun and I want to be dressed for the part when I win with Grandma Gracie’s recipe!”

Pulling a black leather vest with fringe and a biker’s logo off the rack, I hold it up to him. He immediately pushes it back. “Absolutely not.”

I smirk and grab what’s on the hanger next to the vest. “Then how about this?” I hold up a pair of leather chaps to his hips and he jumps back with a yelp. I’m laughing, but secretly think seeing him in these wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. Pants optional.

“The older ladies can get handsy enough when I wear scrubs. I don’t need to add chaps,” Holt mutters, scraping hangers across the rod as he searches for something suitable. He holds up a navy-blue plaid button-down, and while it’ll make his eyes pop, it’s a little boring.

Lottie comes over, looking exactly as I remember her. She’s rail thin with more layers of necklaces than me and a flair for clothing not seen on people except for Halloween parties. Today she looks like a sexy geriatric pirate lass, complete with an eye patch she’s shoved to her forehead.

“What can I help you with?” She directs the question at me, then turns to wink at Holt. “If it’s for this cutie, I think we’re going to need him to try it on for us. Try itallon.”

Holt gives me a look that says, “See? Handsy old ladies!”

“Hi, Lottie. I’m Maple Thatcher, Gracie Thatcher’s granddaughter.”

The wrinkles on Lottie’s face stack up as she smiles broadly. “Oh my goodness gracious! It’s so nice to see you again! Gosh, you’ve grown some nice…” She makes a gesture at her own chest like she’s squeezing watermelons. “…since I saw you last.” She turns to Holt. “Bet you love those, don’t you, Holtie?”

My face flames red from her implication about my large breasts. My eyes pop open at her nickname for Holt. Now his cheeks match mine.

Lottie carries on like she hasn’t just embarrassed the crap out of both of us. “Thank goodness you traded up for your second wife. That last one had a bit of the she-devil in her. What can I help you find, Maple?”

Holt looks like he’s ready to run right out of here and never come back. Maybe getting a costume for the chili cook-off isn’t my best idea, but since I’m here, I need to quiz Lottie about Grandma’s old beau.

“We’re going to find some western outfits, but first I was wondering if you remember a boy named Hank that may have graduated with you and Gracie?”

Lottie runs a gnarled finger back and forth over the blonde chin hairs she probably can’t see in the mirror anymore. “Oh, yes, I remember Hank. He sure had a thing for your grandma. Used to follow her around like a puppy dog. All us girls were jealous. Hank was a real looker. New in town too. Wasn’t even here a full year before his family moved again. Poor Gracie was heartbroken when he moved away.”

My heart starts pounding. I’m actually getting somewhere in this search for the mysterious Hank. “Do you remember his last name?”

Lottie’s lips purse before she smacks them. “Nope! Can’t remember a darn tootin’ thing about his name. That was a long time ago, Maple. I remember how strong he was though.” She winks, eyeing Holt up and down.

He shifts uncomfortably in his sneakers and grabs the first plaid shirt off the rack he can find. “Better try these on, moonbeam!” He grabs my hand and about runs to the fitting rooms at the back of the shop.

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