Page 114 of The Anchor Holds

“Your percentage,” he cleared his throat. “It’s too low.” He grasped my hips and pulled me to sit on his lap.

I was so surprised, I moved on autopilot, relief flooding through me at the contact, at the pressure on my hips from his hands. I was supposed to be preparing myself to push him away and I’d been a wreck for the minute he didn’t touch me. I was screwed.

“My percentage is not too low,” I scoffed. “I’m not taking an ounce of ownership away from your family. I didn’t build it. It’s not mine.”

That was important to me. For legal reasons, and in the act of protecting all egos involved in the transaction, I’d given myself a percentage so on paper, it would be an investment instead of charity.

But there was no way I’d keep even a decimal point of something that had been in their family, a legacy I hoped would last long after I was gone.

Elliot’s eyes turned stormy. He reached out to grasp my neck, clutching it tightly.

“Yourfamily,” he corrected in a stern voice. “It’s yours now too. If it’s time for proposals, I’d like to make one too, though I doubt I could afford the type of diamond that you’d be worthy of.”

I wasn’t breathing. Couldn’t be.

“And there’s the matter that I doubt you’d be amenable to engaging in any kind of mainstream ceremony rooted in women being used as pawns to solidify business deals and property arrangements.” He stroked my jaw, the steeliness in his voice gone.

I knew I was breathing because I didn’t pass out, but my lungs still burned from lack of oxygen.

I didn’t speak because if I did, I was terrified that I’d do something like say yes to his almost, kind of proposal.

“But…” he added after an indeterminate amount of time. “I’m not going to try to scare you away by pushing the issue.” Hetenderly smoothed a knuckle down my neck, not knowing that the thought of a proposal wasn’t scaring me away. It was doing something worse, pulling me closer.

“I do have a request, though. Or rather it’s a condition to me signing the papers.” He tipped his head toward the documents. “You have to get on the boat that you’re buying a stake in.”

“A small stake, adecimalstake. And I’m asilentinvestor,” I reminded him.

Elliot smirked. “Calliope, you are a lot of things. Silent is never going to be one of them. You’re getting on that fucking boat.”

I hardened my gaze. “I’m not getting on that fucking boat.”

The very next day, under Maine’s late summer sunshine, I was standing on the very dock I’d met Elliot, staring at the boat I would own a small stake in.

I was as inappropriately dressed as I had been the first time. The heels were not as high, but I was wearing a similar pair of linen pants and a matching blouse. With a large straw hat because no way did I expose my skin to the sun. I was approaching forty and trying to age gracefully–ish.

Large Gucci sunglasses finished the outfit, along with the leather tote that I’d packed a flask of vodka in. For emergencies.

It was about as nautical as I got.

And although Elliot had given my outfit a long once-over before we left, he said nothing. He was wearing his usual casual clothing—backward cap, faded band tee—except he wore boat shoes this time instead of Birkenstocks.

He’d walked down the wharf, hand tangled in mine, the place quiet since no one was scheduled to come in or out. Elliot hadjumped onto the boat with practiced ease and grace, waiting for me to follow with an extended hand.

I didn’t take it.

This was a mistake. Me continuing to take things further, getting deeper with Elliot. Buying his debt for a small stake in the business was one thing, but staying with him when he spoke of things like marriage… I was fucking up royally. But I couldn’t get myself to stop. Couldn’t wrench myself away from Elliot.

Elliot watched me carefully as I stood in front of the boat like it was a foe. It was. The rugged structure was completely foreign to me. Not something I knew how to operate, a vessel that bowed to the whim of the ocean, something that no one could control.

When my eyes found Elliot’s, it was clear that he’d been watching me for a while.

“I hosed it down, cleaned all the dead fish guts off while you were getting ready this morning,” he tried to assure me. “It’s sparkling clean. Won’t ruin your shoes.”

Though I hadn’t been worried about my shoes at that moment, the gesture was incredibly cute. Yes, the boat was a little worn, but it did indeed look immaculate. Nets and various fishing paraphernalia were stacked neatly. The wooden deck was clean. No dead fish to be seen.

“You gonna get on?” Elliot shook his extended hand.

I inspected the hand, eyeing the large lines and calluses that I’d memorized, the ones that had touched every inch of my skin. Muscular, strong, capable forearms. Tanned and sculpted while working on this very boat. Which he was master of. To a point.

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