Page 85 of The Anchor Holds

Again, he risked a glance at me, his stormy eyes blazing with anger. But I didn’t waver. I couldn’t.

The argument between us served as a comfortable distraction from the reality of us being pursued by an armed offender with no weapon of our own. No defenses. My saliva turned to ash in my mouth as I waited for someone to burst through the door. Waited for death.

But it didn’t come.

After a very long and tense waiting period that could’ve been a handful of minutes or hours, sirens sounded. Low at first then louder as they raced down Elliot’s drive. I saw his body relax from my periphery.

But not entirely. Not until the solid knock at the door signified that help was there. He didn’t look at me, didn’t hug me in relief. Didn’t speak to me at all. He took long, purposeful strides to the door, answering it with a calm tenor before directing the paramedics to me.

Then he was lost in the fray of bodies swarming the small space, and I was manhandled by well-meaning professionals when all I wanted was the safety of Elliot’s arms.

But I gritted my teeth against instinct, thankful that he was alive and cognizant that it was probably in his best interest tostay far from me. Maybe that’s what he’d realized—that getting shot at wasn’t worth great sex with an abrasive woman.

Good. That was good.

Then why did the mere thought hurt more than being grazed by a bullet?

Sixteen

We Are Loved — The Avett Brothers

Finn, the chief, took both of our statements with a crease between his brows. He was younger than me but didn’t look it right then. The man had grown up here, and apparently, he considered the town and its inhabitants to be his responsibility. He was taking this shooting as some kind of personal failure, as if he could control all variables. As if he should’ve had some superior sense that someone in Jupiter had nefarious intent.

All well-meaning alpha males were essentially the same creature with different facial features, I decided. Since Elliot had had the same kind of self-blame etched on his face the entire time, especially while the EMT dressed my wound. I’d managed to talk him into stitching it then and there, despite whatever protocols he was supposed to follow.

The woods were scoured, and no one was found. Just some tire tracks on an old road and some shell casings. It took a while for all the investigating to be done. Finn stayed the entire time, hands-on, which I found impressive. He was handsome andstern yet kind and had a no bullshit air about him. But he was a little too perceptive as a lot of his questions had focused on me and my potential enemies in New York.

He was definitely smart enough to know that the well-liked, born and raised in Jupiter Elliot Shaw was unlikely to be the target of such an attack.

If that’s what it was. There was speculation about it being a hunting trip gone wrong. Despite it being the wrong season with not much of value to hunt in the woods. I told the well-meaning and sharp-eyed sheriff as little as possible, mindful of Elliot being damn near glued to my side, even if he didn’t look me in the eye or speak to me.

The police and ambulance eventually left, but only after a long argument with Elliot about the need for me to go to the hospital.

Finn made promises about having a patrol car posted at the end of the driveway.

“Any chance of you leaving one of those with him, who doesn’t believe in his right to bear arms?” I joked, nodding to his gun.

Finn didn’t smile. “Against regulations. But I’ll urge you to lawfully obtain a firearm, given the current situation,” he told Elliot.

Elliot merely nodded, mouth a thin line.

Finn gave both of us a curious look before leaving.

The house, once bustling with people in uniforms, fell deadly silent.

What did one say in the aftermath of such an event? My arm throbbed, so I looked at the bottle of over-the-counter painkillers the EMT had suggested I take. The only thing that had tempted me with going to the hospital was the harder drugs I’d get there. Instead, I walked over to the wine rack in Elliot’skitchen, bottles arranged neatly and more well-stocked than I expected.

I wasn’t a big wine drinker, but I’d educated myself on it out of necessity and was impressed with the label on the bottle of red.

Bumbling around the kitchen, I found the opener and two glasses. I wasn’t brave enough to look at Elliot, who hadn’t spoken nor moved from his spot in the middle of the living room.

It was incredibly unnerving, since Elliot wasn’t one for the silent treatment or to brood like my brother.

My hand shook as I poured the wine, but I blamed that on the gunshot wound, not nerves.

On unsteady legs, I walked back over to Elliot, two glasses in hand. I outstretched one to him. I cradled my own glass with my bad arm, the dull ache ever present.

“If getting shot at isn’t a reason to break open an Old World vintage, I don’t know what is.” My voice was shamefully thin.

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