I finish my coffee and head back inside the house. The A-frame cabin is lovely. That's not a word I use all too often. But it is. Whoever renovated it had real high-end taste—we're talking granite, stainless steel, wide-plank pine wood floors, and whitewashed walls. New sliding glass doors leading to the large front deck, and tons of natural lighting.
I'm not complaining, but it's way fancier than I need. Hell, give me a cot and a tent, or just a sleeping bag in a strip of grass and I’d be fine out here.
But this place? It's got three bedrooms and a master loft, skylights that stream the stars. Never imagined owning something so beautiful, but even with the high price tag, nothing about it is showy. It’s all muted colors, natural tones, soft. And after a lifetime of fighting my own demons, it’s nice to rest.
I change into some board shorts, streak some sunscreen across my nose and run a hand through my dark hair. With a blue button-down shirt on, I head outside, grabbing the paddleboard and an oar on my way down to the dock that I apparently share with my neighbor.
I look over at that house, which is equally beautiful—though at least twice as large.
In fact, the style and the architecture is so incredibly complementary to my house that when I first saw the listing, I thought they were being listed together. But the agent told me that the remodel project had been done by the owners of the neighboring property.
I guess they own some construction company who does renovations. The agent says they are some outfit over in Home, Washington, about 90 minutes away past the Burly Mountains.
Regardless, the house is empty now.
So I've got the dock to myself and I take advantage of it.
I step out of my flip-flops and drop the paddleboard into the still lake water.
There are a few boats out now, I see, but I’m gonna just mind my own business.
On the paddleboard, I begin to maneuver over the water, enjoying myself, taking in the big lake and working up a sweat, relaxed in ways I often am not—the water is the closest I feel to family.
People wonder why I’m always in a boat or on a board—after the hell I went through in losing my entire family—but I figure being on the water is a way I can stay connected to them. It’s why I have a houseboat on Lake Washington, over in Seattle. Why I make kayaks and surf over in Westport—the water is where I lost everyone I love. So staying close to it makes me feel less alone.
I’m out there for over an hour, maybe longer. And by the time I’m headed back toward the house, I’m starved.
When I get back to my dock, though, I'm surprised to see a woman standing there with her arms crossed, scowling at me.
And not just any woman.
The woman of my fucking dreams.
With my oar in the water, I move closer toward the dock. The last thing I want to do is scare her away.
As I inch closer, I watch her watching me. I call out, “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yeah,” she says. “I was wondering why you're at my dock, and why your stuff, your shoes and your phone—what’s it doing here?”
“I live here,” I say, “in that house.” I nod to my new lakefront property. “I just moved in a few days ago.”
“You moved in a few days ago?” she repeats. If she'd smile she'd be fucking gorgeous. She's got this curly brown hair and delicate features; a perfect body that is so sexy she’d look fucking indecent if she stripped out of that sundress and put on a bikini.
Hell, she could get on this paddleboard with me and I’d take us out to the center of the lake. We could sit there all damn day.
But she's not interested in that. Not right now. Her hands are on her hips. She's glaring.
“Well,” she scoffs. “I don't understand what you're doing on my dock.”
“It's our dock,” I say. “It was in the listing. The lady who sold me the house told me we share it. How did it work with the last people who owned this property?”
“No one's lived here for like 15 years. It was the Nelsons’ place but they let it go. They just had it renovated to put up for sale; they all moved to Vermont a decade ago.”
“Okay,” I say. “Well, I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that.”
“Well, I don't either,” she says, frowning. “Honestly, the Nelsons were never here so if it was a shared dock, I never would have known.” She sighs, giving in to the reality that I’m right. “Who are you, anyways?”
“I'm Anchor,” I tell her.
She presses her lips together, pushing them forward. They're cute. Pink. Fucking kissable, and I realize I'm really fucking horny. I’ve been waiting my whole life to be turned on like this.