Page 158 of The Anchor Holds

“I do,” I whispered.

ELLIOT

“She wore white.” Beau sucked at the cigar we were sharing on the balcony.

Below us, the party raged on, music thumping, children running around, Clara hand in hand with Calliope—my wife—both grinning from ear to ear.

Calliope would not even schedule the wedding until she was sure Clara’s immune system was strong enough to handle being out and around so many people.

Then she’d got second and third opinions on that, offending countless Ivy League-educated doctors. I’d waited for Beau to get annoyed at Calliope—my fuckingwife—for interfering with Clara’s care. But to my immense surprise, he’d let Calliope make the calls. He’d even gone to the appointments, letting Calliope foot the bills.

Though I shouldn’t have been surprised, Beau’s main priority was his daughter’s health. And to my immense surprise, my brother and my wife had almost become … friends?

“It’s a wedding,” I reminded my brother. “It’sherwedding. Why wouldn’t she wear white?”

My brother took a long inhale of his cigar before turning to give me a pointed look.

I laughed. Maybe it surprised my brother and everyone else at the ceremony that Calliope wore white, that she was even getting fucking married, but not me.

Nothing surprised me when it came to Calliope because I knew she was capable of anything.

My eyes found her again, unable to leave her for more than a few moments. Even being up here, out of touching distance, was causing my fingers to itch. But a cigar with my brother was something I could manage on my wedding day. My father would’ve joined us had he not been on the dance floor.

That man loved to dance.

And he was currently doing it with my wife, twirling her around as she threw her head back in laughter.

Her chocolate hair falling in wild curls.

I’d had one request for my bride on our wedding day: that she wear her hair down. I’d been expecting an argument about that since the one and only place Calliope obeyed me was the bedroom.

But she just tilted her head and said, “Okay.”

And she’d walked down the aisle, forgoing a bouquet, her father’s arm around hers with her hair spilling over her exposed shoulders, framing and softening her face, wearing a white dress.

It was simple, hugging every one of her curves and ending below the knee. I didn’t know shit about dresses except that she looked fucking mesmerizing in it.

Her heels made her stand almost at the same height as her father, who was tall, a replica of his son except a little less scary. He hadn’t given me any of the fatherly threats when I’d asked to marry his daughter. He’d clapped me on the shoulder, laughing and promising not to tell Calliope I’d asked him for his permission to marry her.

“For what it’s worth, though, I’ve never seen my daughter smile like she has when she’s with you,” he said. “Thought she’d be robbed of life’s simple happiness because she’s so wonderfully complicated. I’m glad the right man came along who’s worthy of her and understands what a treasure she is,” he’d added with glassy eyes.

“I’m well aware of what a treasure your daughter is,” I nodded, speaking sincerely. “As much as she’d dress me down for referring to her as such.”

And she would. Calliope didn’t consider herself a treasure because she didn’t think she was something to be claimed or owned. And because she didn’t consider herself worthy, valuable.

That was something I’d spend the rest of my life proving to her.

I didn’t realize that my brother hadn’t answered my question, even if it was vaguely rhetorical because I was lost in thought about my wife.

It wasn’t until I’d stubbed out my cigar and looked at him that I found him gazing with a frown at the dance floor, something akin to longing in his eyes.

My gaze followed his to where Hannah had Clara on her hip and was spinning her around in a circle, both of them laughing.

I hadn’t missed the way my brother had looked at the nanny when he thought no one was watching. To the untrained eye, it would look like distaste, but I knew my brother a little bit better than that.

“She’s pretty,” I observed.

Beau jolted, realizing I was looking in the same direction. “It’s your fucking wedding day,” he chastised harshly.

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