CHAPTER 4: The Anchor
1463 Words
The interior of the Weller family yacht didn't look like a boat; it looked like a floating penthouse. It had plush leather seating, polished mahogany walls, and a scent of expensive vanilla and ozone that made my damp, thrifted hoodie feel like a biohazard.
I stood shivering near the companionway, clutching the waterproof legal folder to my chest like a shield. Outside, the summer storm had officially upgraded from a heavy downpour to a violent, window-rattling gale.
Mike emerged from the lower cabin, holding two dry, white monogrammed towels. He tossed one directly at my head.
"Dry off, ginger. You’re dripping on the custom Italian leather," he said, though his tone lacked its usual bite. He used the second towel to aggressively rub his own wet blonde hair, pulling the damp strands away from his forehead. Without the varsity jacket, wearing just a wet white t-shirt that clung to his shoulders, he looked entirely too big for the enclosed space. And entirely too attractive.
"Thanks for the hospitality, Captain Hook," I muttered, pulling the towel around my shoulders. The warmth was instant, but it didn’t stop my teeth from chattering.
"We’re stuck here for a bit," Mike said carelessly, tossing his towel onto a counter and looking out the dark, rain-swept porthole. "The tide is pulling too hard against the bay, and the dinghy’s motor will flood if I try to push it back through this surf. We have to wait out the worst of it."
My inner drama queen immediately began drafting my obituary. "Great. Trapped at sea with an elite dictator. If I pass away from boredom, promise to feed Barnaby for me."
Mike let out a low, huffed laugh, walking over to the leather wrap-around couch and dropping into it with total ease. He extended his long legs, crossing his ankles, and watched me with a lazy, calculating gaze. "Sit down, Eloise. I don't bite unless you scratch my property again."
Hearing him use my actual name felt like a sudden shift in the air. I cautiously walked over, choosing the absolute furthest edge of the opposite sofa, pulling my knees up into my green hoodie to keep warm.
For a few minutes, the only sound was the rhythmic thump of the waves against the hull. The silence was heavy, charged with the lingering memory of his hands on my waist out on the dock.
"So," Mike started, leaning his head back against the cushion, his blue eyes locking onto mine. "Jake told me you’re a senior this year. Which means you’ve been roaming the hallways of Oakridge High for three years, yet I’ve never seen you once. How do you manage that?"
"I told you, I'm a ghost," I said, leaning my chin on my knees, staring back at him with my usual cynical defense mechanism. "I don't belong to the country club, my mom doesn't host charity galas, and I don't give a crap about basketball. In your world, that makes me completely transparent. And honestly? I like it that way."
"Transparent, huh?" Mike murmured, tilting his head.
Before I could fire back another sarcastic line, my damp hoodie pocket buzzed violently. I reached in and pulled out my cracked phone, but my clumsy hands failed me again. The phone slipped from my fingers, sliding straight across the polished floorboards and landing right against the toe of Mike’s expensive sneaker.
The screen lit up brightly in the dim cabin. It was an automated calendar reminder I’d set weeks ago, flashing in bold letters: ETHAN’S GUITAR SOLO (DO NOT MISS CREATIVE ARTS ROOM!!)
Mike leaned down, his large hand casually scooping up my phone before I could scramble off the couch to grab it. He glanced at the screen, and a slow, thoroughly wicked smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.
"Ethan's guitar solo?" Mike read aloud, his blue eyes lifting to meet mine, dripping with pure amusement. "With two exclamation points, ginger? Really?"
My face instantly flared a brilliant crimson that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold. I lunged forward, snatching the phone out of his hand and shoving it deep into my pocket. "Give me that! It’s a... a school schedule reminder. For educational purposes."
"Right. Educational purposes," Mike mocked smoothly, leaning back into the leather cushions, looking incredibly satisfied that he’d just stumbled upon my deepest, most embarrassing secret. "You're pining after Ethan Grey. The soft boy who runs the music department and writes sad acoustic songs for girls who want to cry."
"Ethan is brilliant," I fired back defensively, my inner Millie raging to cover up the sheer mortification. "He actually notices people. He’s nice, he’s talented, and he doesn't use extortion to get girls to carry his gym bag."
"He's a fraud," Mike sneered lightly, though there was a sudden, sharp edge to his voice that hadn't been there a second ago. He looked away, staring at the mahogany ceiling. "Trust me. The 'nice' guys in that school are usually the biggest actors."
I watched him closely, the heavy sarcasm fading from my tongue. "And what about you, varsity? Are you a fraud? Because the whole school thinks you and Allie Grace are the blueprint for the perfect high-society romance, but you look like you’d rather swallow glass than talk about her."
The amusement vanished from Mike’s face. His jaw clenched, a familiar, hard shadow falling over his features. He didn't yell. Instead, his voice dropped into something quiet, distant, and incredibly bitter.
"Allie likes the version of me that sits on a pedestal," he said carelessly, though the words felt heavy. "She likes the varsity jacket, the car, and the picture-perfect couple photo for her feed. The second you step off the pedestal in this town, people realize they don't actually know you. And they don't want to."
He didn't drop specific details, but the hint was loud and clear. His perfect, elite life was a golden cage, locked together by expectations and public relations.
I looked at him—really looked at him—shorn of his popular entourage and his arrogant smirk. "Must be exhausting. Being public property."
Mike’s eyes snapped back to mine. The raw honesty in my voice seemed to catch him off guard. He stared at me for a long, quiet beat, the space between us suddenly feeling incredibly small again.
"Sometimes," he admitted quietly, his voice rough. Then, as if realizing he’d let his guard down too much, he shook his head, the familiar, arrogant smirk sliding effortlessly back into place. "But hey, at least I don't dress like a walking lettuce leaf."
"It's sage green, you uncultured swine," I snapped, letting out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, secretly relieved the heavy tension had broken.
By two in the morning, the rain finally slowed to a gentle drizzle. Mike stood up, checking his phone, before looking back down at me.
"The surf’s down. Let's get Jake before he suffocates under that jacket," Mike said, grabbing the waterproof folder.
We took the dinghy back to the marina in a comfortable, low-key silence. The electric friction from before hadn't disappeared; it had just settled into something steady, a mutual understanding that neither of us was going to talk about.
When he pulled his luxury car up to my rusted front gate, the sky was just beginning to turn a pale, early-morning gray. I grabbed the door handle, ready to escape to my bed, when Mike’s voice stopped me.
"Hey, ginger."
I paused, looking back over my shoulder. Mike was leaning back in his seat, one hand on the steering wheel, his blue eyes fixed on me with a lazy, unreadable expression.
"There’s an exhibition game tomorrow night. Five o'clock. At the community courts near the old warehouse district, not the school," he said carelessly, his tone thoroughly effortless. "Jake and I are playing. You should bring your sarcastic ass down there. I need someone to hold my water bottle."
I blinked, my hand tightening on the handle. He wasn't ordering me this time; it wasn't a chore. It was an invitation disguised as a demand. A mutual acknowledgment that we weren't just a predator and prey anymore—but we definitely weren't friends either.
I offered him a tiny, deadpan smirk.
"Don't count on it, varsity. I have a date with a very glamorous bucket of horse feed."
Mike huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes dropping to my mouth for a split second before rising back up. "Five o'clock, Eloise. Don't be late."
- Writer
