Page 66 of The Anchor Holds

I didn’t know if the hand was a taunt or a test.

Or maybe he just wanted to hold my hand. Maybe it was that simple with Elliot. Maybe my reptilian brain didn’t need to operate, scan for threats.

Maybe I was safe with Elliot Shaw.

Which was the scariest thought of all.

And yet I took his hand.

Thirteen

Here Comes the Sun — SYML

Against all my better judgment—not that I had a whole lot of that—I went home with Elliot.

Why my usually unshakable tenacity turned to nothing but ash when it came to him scared me. The lack of control I felt when I was with him was like I was adrift in the middle of the ocean. And Elliot was the anchor. A pretty cheesy metaphor, especially considering his job, but I couldn’t think of any other way to explain it.

The brave, honorable person would let themselves drown in that proverbial sea instead of bringing someone else down with them. Because I would. Bring Elliot down. He couldn’t carry me. Despite his impressive physique and force of will, he wasn’t strong enough.

No one was.

All of this, I knew. Yet there I was, at his house that smelled of leather, salt and firewood.

It was small.

Cozy.

One bedroom, tucked away down a bumpy lane outside of town, nestled against trees, inland from the ocean, which surprised me. When I’d thought about where Elliot lived—something I did more than was healthy—I’d imagined some seaside shack, all white, beaten-down furniture, beanies and Birkenstocks littering the place.

And yet I couldn’t have been further from the mark. Yet again, Elliot proved he was not a man who I could predict.

I was in the living room slash kitchen area. It was all one room, the compact space somehow feeling open. Spacious. An oversized, well-worn armchair was in front of a wood burning fireplace with a bursting bookshelf spanning each side of it. The mantel was crowded with framed pictures. A quick glance told me they were all of his family—Clara, his mother. The ocean. Memories. Happiness.

A faded rug covered polished hardwood floors which were sparkling clean. As was the rest of the space, the kitchen was tidy with gleaming appliances, butcher block island, copper pots and pans dangling from hooks above it.

I looked out the window from above the kitchen sink at the dense trees that made it seem like we were in the middle of nowhere, not ten minutes from Jupiter, only a few miles from Avery and Kane’s house which was on the other side of the woods.

“Not on the ocean?” I surprised myself by asking him. The act of doing it was admitting, however subtly, that I’d been wrong. Pegged him wrong. What I’d consider to be a grave show of weakness in any other interaction I had with a man.

But Elliot was not any other man.

Arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me back into a warm, toned body. His stubble brushed against the skin of my neck, making me shiver.

Despite the intimacy of the pose and the fact that I’d never been a cuddler, I leaned back into Elliot’s embrace. We could pretend here, in his little house, with the books, the fireplace, the armchair, the photos. I could be the woman who cuddled the fisherman, who deserved to be there, who could be content somewhere so simple, with a man who was far from simple. For the night, at least.

In the morning, I promised myself. In the morning, I’d end it. For that night, I’d just enjoy it.

I was aware that I was acting like an addict, promising myself one more fix before going cold turkey. Though I’d never considered myself an addict, I’d had a healthy affinity for narcotics. Going off them abruptly had been uncomfortable but not unbearable. I’d never craved drugs the way I craved Elliot.

“I live my life on the ocean.” His rasped words tickled my cheek. “I love it. Grew up on it. But when I’m on land, I want to be on land. Solid footing.”

A simple answer from a seemingly simple man.

But if he was so simple, he wouldn’t see through me so easily. Or maybe I wasn’t as complicated as I thought I was.

My gaze centered on a photo of a smiling girl in a black tutu.

“How is Clara?” My concern was real. Her immune system was extremely compromised still, so they were being cautious. A simple cold could prove catastrophic while her body’s natural defenses recovered.

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