Page 45 of Anchor Point

Maybe part of it was that he just wasn’t a very skilled lover. But the other part was that I just couldn’t get out of my head long enough to enjoy sex.

And then my body had begun shutting down almost, and my doctor told me that if I didn’t use it, I’d lose it—meaning the ability to lubricate—and that just made things worse.

The last time we’d tried, Tim had made some snarky comment about my dryness and gave me an unceremonious squirt of cold lube right on my vagina without putting forth any effort to make the act even remotely romantic. Sex became a forced transaction between us, and I resented the hell out of it—and him.

I pulled the vibrator I’d purchased after the divorce from the bedside table. It was rather tame looking compared to the others in the store, but the clerk had called it the tried-and-true go-to. In the two years since the divorce, I’d tried to use it a couple times, had even proven to myself that I could at least experience sexual sensation again.

And absolutely none of that had anything to do with me packing up to go stay with Mac. Even if I felt a flutter of activity low in my belly at the thought of maybe using the vibrator in his house, in sheets that smelled like him. I dropped the vibrator back into the nondescript storage bag in my drawer. And instead, I picked up the small bullet that I’d gotten at the same time and buried it in the inside pocket of my suitcase before I could change my mind.

I zipped the bag and rolled it out to the door with Rosie’s. “Are you ready?”

“Almost.”

The front door opened, and Mac’s head and broad shoulders poked through. “This stuff ready to load?”

I hummed my assent, turning away so he couldn’t see the heat burning my cheeks.

Where was my badass attitude? My woman-in-charge mindset?

I was a horndog with zero focus, and he had really great forearm porn.

The real issue was the threats being made against me, and what that meant.

I took a fortifying breath, calling on the focus and intention that had gotten me through the last fifteen years. I could handle the threats and the way the mayor seemed to be sabotaging me. And I could handle staying with Mac for a few nights.

By the end of the third day, I could admit that I’d been lying when I convinced myself I wouldn’t be affected by pretty much constant interaction with Mac. The first night had been mildly awkward on my part, because despite my trying, I couldn’t forget about the toy hidden away in my suitcase, and watching Mac be all kinds of capable was a total turn-on. The second night had been equally as awkward, because being in Mac’s space while he was on shift just felt wrong. But the third day had been rough.

At work, it was easy to make it through the day without wondering what he and Rosie were doing after school.

Not.

If I stopped to check my phone for a message from him once, I’d done it a hundred times.

By the time I finished up my reports for administration and made it home, the sun was hanging lower, and the late-summer evening was starting to wind down.

Mac and Rosie were on the far side of the small pond in a little boat, fishing poles in the water. Rosie held hers down and out in front of her while Mac showed her how to cast. He demonstrated, and then she took a turn. Her sound of frustration echoed across the water.

I chuckled to myself because he didn’t know what he was getting into trying to teach the world’s worst sport how to do anything. My child was headstrong, just like me.

With them on the water, I had plenty of time to duck inside to change and get dinner started. I opened the door to the fragrant smell of spices and something in the kitchen. My nose led me to find a slow cooker on the counter, and I lifted the lid. Rosie’s favorite meal to make, probably the only meal that she could make—roast with potatoes and carrots—bubbled.

I checked the meat and realized we’d be ready to eat soon. They must’ve put it in right after school.

A tiny sliver of unease ran through me as I glanced at the two of them on the water.

Not even a week had gone by, and Mac was stepping up… or stepping in.

Already, he’d proven to be the one she was drawn to. They had the same contemplative look and some of the same mannerisms.

And now, he had my normally pristine, diva-ish daughter on the water, teaching her to fish, of all things. I shook my head at my own absurdity. Was I jealous of my fourteen-year-old daughter?

I pushed the troublesome thoughts aside. After changing out of my uniform, I poured a glass of wine and went out to the porch to wait for them.

Buster saw me and took off running, clearly over being left alone on the bank.

This was another thing I was getting used to. Having a dog. I could see where the draw was because he made a good companion. But it was a first for me. I’d never thrown a tennis ball more in my life.

I pitched the ball to him a couple of times and pulled out my phone to check emails. On impulse, I zoomed in and snapped a photo of the two fishermen—fisherpeople, I mentally corrected.

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