Page 12 of Anchored

I don’t make it.

I’m running back to the safety of the blankets when the door slams open and Mookie flops down on the floor, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. I spin, water sloshing out of the water glass and onto my chest. Holt stands in the doorway, frozen as his gaze settles on me.

He lost his shirt somewhere on his run, leaving his sweaty, bulked-up torso on display. Holy muscle structure. The man could play Thor and put Chris Hemsworth to shame. His lungs expand and contract rapidly, flexing and expanding his six-pack abs in a rolling motion that becomes hypnotizing the longer I stare.

Oh savasana, I’m staring.

I have to shake my head to physically rip my gaze back up to Holt’s face. He’s got the same expression I’m pretty sure I’m sporting. His golden hair appears darker, some of it sticking to his forehead from sweat.

“You okay?” Dear God, my voice is nothing but a croak.

His Adam’s apple bobs before his gaze makes its way upward. “You, uh…spilled your water.” He lifts his finger and runs it around in a circle before looking away, busying himself with putting the leash back on the hook.

I glance down and see that the water I sloshed coated my left breast, leaving my tank top plastered to my skin, nipple sharp as a thumbtack and viewable through the soaked white material.

“Fuck!” I squeak, shifting my arms to cover both breasts.

I back up in two quick steps, hit the back of my legs against the coffee table, and tumble backwards onto the tiny couch in a graceless heap of arms and legs. The water goes flying behind my head, but I manage to hold on to the glass.

Holt runs over and hovers over me like he wants to help but doesn’t know if he should touch. His gaze drops back down to my chest for a second, his face flaming redder than it was when he got back from his run.

“Good night!” I cry loudly, trying to cover my breasts with my arms while also clutching the now empty glass like it’s a lifeline.

“Want me to fill that back up?” Holt asks like a perfect gentleman.

But I’ve had all the humiliation I can handle for a day. “Good night!” I trill again.

This time, he backs away with his hands up, his gaze darting everywhere but me. “Okay, good night. I’m going to lift some weights and then head to bed.”

“Yep!” I say brightly, still cowering on the couch with my precious glass.

I hear him leave the room, whistling for Mookie to follow. I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I could dig a hole all the way back to Charlotte. It’s several minutes before I can push myself back up, abandon the glass on the coffee table, and dive back under the covers to scroll rental listings.

I’ve gotta get out of this cabin.

After a long night of weird dreams and distorted memories of summers long ago, morning comes and we make it through breakfast without any awkward moments.

Just kidding. It’s all awkward with a side of sexual tension. All I can picture is Holt’s naked, sweaty chest, and based on his own glassy stare, he can only picture my nipples poking through a white, thoroughly soaked tank top. We manage to get to Sunny Shores without actually dying of embarrassment.

Grandma Gracie’s taking another nap after we visited with her all morning. The specialist should be here before noon. Holt’s not working today, something he failed to tell me about last night. I feel bad he’s here on his day off, but he doesn’t appear to mind. Dexter would have been tapping his toe and reminding me he had better things to do than sit in a Barcalounger while I go through Grandma’s old yearbooks. Just Dexter the Dick living up to his new nickname. Holt, on the other hand, is on the floor with me, his muscular arm pressed to mine when he leans over to see a particularly funny picture.

“You keep looking at those crazy sixties hairstyles while I check out Fabio.” Holt shifts and I look away from his ass in a pair of worn jeans while he reaches over to Grandma’s bookshelf. He scoops up a paperback and hoots as he takes in the cover of the old romance novel. “Damn! I need to lift more weights.”

I hum my disagreement under my breath. The man is built like a Greek god, or that Thor character he wants to play. Not even Fabio in his heyday holds a candle to Holt’s physique.

“My sister, Jess, would love these.” Holt pulls five more romance novels off the shelf, each with a busty heroine and a bare-chested Fabio, long hair blowing in the breeze.

I busy myself reading the inscriptions in the back of Grandma’s senior yearbook so I don’t drool over Holt beginning to read a romance novel. The back of the yearbook is filled with lots of “you’re such a good friend” and “be a good girl this summer.” Then I get to one in the far corner of the last page. The writing isn’t loopy and pretty like all the rest. This one is practically chicken scratch.

“You’re a good Catholic girl, Gracie. Except for last night when you proved you have a wild side. Hope to see you this summer, xoxo Hank.”

I gasp, having read that one out loud. Holt scoots back to my side, leaning over me to read it for himself. I’m in shock. Sweet little Grandma Gracie…the one who was married for almost sixty years to my grandfather, baked cookies for the neighborhood kids, and donated her time to the children’s ministry…had a wild side? Holt finally lifts his head and we both stare at each other, wide-eyed.

“Hank’s not my grandpa,” I whisper slowly.

I’m not sure who’s around to hear me, but this kind of revelation feels like it needs to be whispered. Not once in my thirty-two years of life did I hear Grandma talk about a bloke named Hank.

Holt wags his light brown eyebrows up and down. “Looks like we have a mystery to solve, my little moonbeam.”

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