Page 45 of The Anchor Holds

He rinsed his hands, wiping them on a dish towel. “Not mine, brother. I’m smart enough to appreciate her beauty and to acknowledge that that’s a woman who would cause fucking wreckage.”

My vision tinted red at the insinuation that Calliope was somehow bad, automatically protective over her, figuring that was a lot of people’s first impressions. Calliope liked it that way. At least that was what she projected. But I asked myself whether she forced herself to like it so it didn’t hurt so much.

“I like her,” my brother shrugged, still eyeing me as if he were watching the rage boil inside of me.

“You likeher?” I felt my rage dampen some. “You don’t like anyone beyond Clara, Dad, and sometimes me.”

“I like Juan.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Juan had been serving as the temporary head chef at Shaw Shack since Clara got sick. He was the only person Beau trusted with his lobster roll recipe.

“Okay, three and a half people,” I relented, counting myself as the half. “That’s not really a good batting average in a town we grew up in full of pretty decent people.”

Though Beau had grown even more introverted with Clara’s sickness, he hadn’t been the social type to begin with. He’d always been a grumpy bastard, never one to willingly socialize. He preferred being in the kitchen, out on the water or tinkering in his garage, carving shit.

He’d had friends, though. Had been known to joke and smile on occasion. But then Naomi got her talons into him, and even before Clara was born, she distanced him from his friends. She’d tried to do the same with us, though no way in fuck did we let that happen. After losing our mother, we knew how important family was, and we’d never abandon one another.

And then Clara was born, and Beau existed, smiled, laughed, lived for that little girl.

Since then, there weren’t exactly a whole host of opportunities for him to socialize, forget romantic entanglements. Dad and I offered to look after Clara so he could get out, breathe a little, but he’d refused. First, because he was protective after Naomi left, and then Clara got sick.

We’d never pushed, both of us terrified we’d push him away completely.

“I don’t like people,” he grumbled.

“You know, that’s my motto,” I teased. “Broody fisherman who spends his days on the ocean, doesn’t like people, a permanent scowl etched onto his face.”

Beau let out a grunt that was his version of a laugh those days. “Yeah, that’s not your problem. You like too many people, one person in particular, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You don’t make it a habit to talk about my love life.” I arched a brow at him. “Want to braid each other’s hair too?”

Though I was joking, even I heard the edge in my tone that I hadn’t intended. I wasn’t secretive about anything romantic, not like my brother was. Fuck, as far as I knew, he’d been celibate for the past four years. But I also didn’t shy away from talking about women I liked. Not that I’d dated many after my failed engagement, but I certainly wasn’t celibate.

Nor had I been known to be overly protective or jealous. Wasn’t my style.

But I felt an animal inside me, one that had been awoken the moment I laid eyes on Calliope, one that I wasn’t entirely sure I had control over.

Beau wasn’t smiling. “I’m not talking about it further than this.” He pushed off from the counter, moving a step closer to me. “Calliope Derrick is a good woman. I see that. But I also hear shit. And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see she’s got trouble on her heels. And a woman like that, that powerful, is not the kind of trouble you’re trained to handle. I’d advise you to buckle up if you do choose her.”

He turned his back on me, heading for the fridge where he pulled out food he was cooking for dinner, his way of ending the conversation.

Though my instinct was to argue with him—on the account of my newly discovered fragile ego about what I could and couldn’t handle when it came to Calliope Derrick—I kept my mouth shut, staring at the black eyes of the spider cake on the counter.

My brother’s warning was not something to be taken lightly.

Neither was Calliope Derrick.

The smart thing to do was to leave it where it was, at one night together, appetites sated, having tasted the kind of ruin she’d promised, then stay far away from her.

I was known for doing the smart thing.

But no way in fuck was I ever going to be sated by just one taste of Calliope Derrick.

Ten

Like Real People Do — Hozier

CALLIOPE

The second I got the message on the burner phone only one person knew the number of, dread unfurled in my stomach. Bitter. Rancid.

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