Page 15 of The Anchor Holds

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, this is about how you, Rowan Derrick, are a good and noble man.” There might’ve been an edge of bitterness to my tone that time.

Rowan’s gaze was still steely, but the edges of his mouth softened somewhat. “You, Calliope Derrick, are good and noble too. But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” He tapped his finger on the check. “As long as you return this. And your niece wants to extend the invitation to a tea party tomorrow afternoon.”

I stared at the check on the counter, not answering my brother, digesting what I’d done and how Rowan must’ve been rusty if he didn’t notice he was staring a villain right in the face. Or maybe he was a really good liar.

Rowan hadn’t moved. I could feel the heaviness of his gaze even when I wasn’t looking directly at him. “Can I tell her you’ll be there?”

Although I was mildly pissed, no way in hell would I do anything to offend my favorite person in the world—or one of them, at least.

“You can RSVP me yes,” I snapped.

“Good.” I could hear the smile in Rowan’s voice.

Then he walked out, leaving me with the check and a heavy conscience.

The next day, before my tea party, I pulled into the parking lot of Shaw Shack.

I’d tried to go back to the docks, but a friendly fisherman—one who looked a lot more like I’d envisioned, with stringy, gray hair and a weathered face that could’ve put him at fifty or seventy—informed me Elliot was working at the Shack today.

It was only a mile or so from the docks. I could’ve walked if I wasn’t wearing six-inch heels and didn’t have to traverse over sandy beaches.

It might’ve been endearing for some woman to take off her heels and wistfully enjoy the ocean and nature, picturing herself as a main character in a Nancy Meyers movie.

Not me, though.

I didn’t wistfully enjoy anything. Only empty-headed idiots did that. And I didn’t like the things that rattled around in mymind when I stopped to smell the proverbial flowers. I preferred the low hum of my car and the thump of bass in the heavy rock that was always playing when I was driving. Plus, Iwasthe main character in my own movie.

The parking lot was empty since the restaurant wasn’t open yet. It looked kitschy enough from the outside. Exactly what you’d expect from a restaurant with the name Shack in the title. Fisherman themed. But not one 100 percent tacky. The outside was weathered but well maintained, blue shutters on the windows, the sign itself blazing red script written on an old surfboard, fishing nets hanging from the door in a way that wouldn’t draw me in, but a tourist might’ve deemed charming. Flowers adorned the small walk, and the door handle was fashioned out of a large anchor. It was perched on the rugged beach, a small pier stretching into the ocean, likely for photo ops more than anything.

Not bad.

Still, I wouldn’t have walked in there in one thousand years if that check wasn’t burning a hole in my Birkin.

As much as I was an asshole—and proud of that title—I wasn’t about to go back on my word. Wasn’t about to fuck over my brother on something that was important to him.

Yet every Machiavellian cell in my body—of which there were many—was screaming at me to rip up the check, throw it in the ocean then go about my day.

A smaller amount of those cells were telling me not just to do that but to pack up my shit and go back to where I belonged—New York—back to Jasper and the misdeeds I was running from under the mistaken assumption that I was a good person deep down.

I almost did it too. My fingers put pressure on the envelope, a second away from tearing. Yet I didn’t.

Instead, I got out of the car and walked on the cobbled walkway—which wreaked havoc on my heels—blood-red nails clutching the anchor on the handle of the door and yanking it open.

I’d expected it to be dark and dingy inside, as most American restaurants were. Like casinos, the lack of windows encouraged patrons to stop checking the time, get one more drink, one more plate of deep-fried food while staring at one of the ten TVs mounted on the walls while not having an original thought.

Light streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling windows that encompassed the entire back of the restaurant, giving an unobstructed and frankly stunning view of the ocean and the rugged Maine coastline.

There was no need to trick people into staying here. In another life, I might’ve been a person to find myself in a similar place, enjoying some fruity drink and watching the sun set over the ocean while Jimmy Buffett played over the speakers.

No, who was I kidding? There wasnolife in which that was me. Unless I’d been lobotomized.

Give me a lounge that smelled of expensive cigars with plenty of dark corners to disappear into while enjoying an expensive glass of scotch.

My eyes scanned over the tables. Again, they were tasteful yet stuck to the theme.

They were all white with white wicker chairs. The light shades were a tan wicker, hanging over the tables inside and outside on the covered terrace.

Inside, the bar was painted a light blue and white, had a polished, wooden top, and open shelves were mounted on the wall with bottles neatly lined up on top of them.

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