Page 9 of Hooked on Love

“Right. Yeah.”

She heads back to her room, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my coffee and Danny’s banana bread. I grab a piece and take a bite. It’s good. Damn good. Warm and sweet with just the right amount of banana flavor.

Still doesn’t change the fact the guy is a manipulative meddler.

I finish my coffee and head to the bathroom to clean up. And dammit if everything smells like her. I try not to notice, but it’s impossible. By the time I’m done, she’s already by the door, bag in hand, looking every inch of a drop-dead gorgeous, resort manager.

“I’m off,” she says, hand on the doorknob. “See you around six.”

“Have a good day at work.”

The words come out automatically, and she blinks like she’s surprised I said them. And I don’t blame her. I am, too.

She shifts on her feet. “Thanks, um, you, too. With your boat, I mean.”

“Thanks.”

She opens the door, then gives me a small smile—the first real one I’ve seen—and it does something to my pulse I refuse to acknowledge. Then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

The walk to the marina is longer than I remember, or maybe I’m just dreading what I’m going to find. The morning’s cool, fog still clinging to the water, and the smell of salt and seaweed fills my lungs.

A few early-morning joggers pass me. A couple walking their dog. The town waking up slowly, shops still closed, sidewalks mostly empty.

The marina comes into view, boats bobbing gently in their slips. Knot Working is where I left her last night, tied up at the end of dock C. In the morning light, she still looks beautiful. But I know better than to trust appearances.

I climb aboard, feeling the familiar sway beneath my feet. Home. This is home, more than any apartment, house, or town has ever been.

I head below deck and pop open the engine compartment.

And there it is.

The problem’s immediately visible in the less chaotic scene with the oil now dried. A cracked engine block, and what looks like damage to the cooling system. It’s bad. Worse than I hoped.

I sit back on my heels, running a hand through my hair. This isn’t a few days’ repair. This is parts I’ll have to order, labor I’ll have to pay for or spend weeks doing myself, and money flowing out while nothing’s coming in.

This is me, stuck on land, for at least two weeks minimum.

Which means I’ll be in that apartment…with Peyton, assuming she’ll have me. The woman whose smile this morning made something in my chest feel too tight.

I close the engine compartment and sit on the deck, staring out at the water.

“Well, shit,” I mutter to the seagulls circling overhead.

They don’t respond, but I’d venture to say they agree.

Dinner for Two

Peyton

I finally lock my office door at 6:47 PM.

Forty-seven minutes past when I should’ve left. But when Mrs. Henderson—a guest who’s been here for three days and complained about everything from the thread count of her sheets to the temperature of her morning coffee—decided the sunset view from her balcony wasn’t ‘sunset-y enough,’ I couldn’t exactly tell her to take it up with nature.

Instead, I smiled. Apologized. Offered her a complimentary dinner at our restaurant. She took it, of course. And added a complaint about the restaurant’s menu being ‘too seafood-forward for a coastal resort.’

Needless to say, it’s been a day.

I make it halfway across the lobby before my assistant manager, Chris, calls after me, “Peyton! Before you go—”