Page 16 of Hooked on Love

She smiles. “That’s it? That’s the only reason?”

“Pretty much. Though,” I pause. “It’s also kind of true, in a sense. Being on the water has never felt like a job to me. I love it in a way it doesn’t feel like I’m working. So, in my mind, I’m Knot Working.”

“You should probably lead with that explanation over the pun,” she teases.

I can’t stop smiling. “Noted.”

We’re getting close to The Tides now. The resort looms ahead, all glass and wood and upscale coastal elegance. The marina’s just past it, boats visible in their slips.

I don’t want this walk to end.

“So, what’s on your agenda today? Engine surgery?” Peyton says as we approach the main entrance.

I chuckle. “Something like that. I’m waiting on a parts shipment, but there’s plenty I can do in the meantime.”

She stops at the base of the steps leading up to the resort entrance. “Well, thanks for walking with me.”

“Anytime,” I grunt, and I mean it. She could’ve asked for a damn piggyback ride and I would’ve happily carried her to work any way she wished. I’m also very aware of the fact that I don’t want to leave. I’d stand here all day just talking to her.

“I’ll cover dinner tonight,” I blurt out. “If you want. Since you got it last night.”

Her face lights up. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, if you’re interested. No pressure.”

“I am,” she says a little too fast, then blushes. “That sounds great. What time?”

“Six-thirty?”

“Perfect.” She’s beaming up at me now. Smiling and stunning with her loose curls blowing in the breeze and her deep ocean eyes drawing me in like a siren. My chest tightens. “I’ll see you tonight, Jake.”

I nod. “See you tonight.”

She turns and heads up the steps, and I watch her go. I can’t help it. The way she moves, confident and graceful, her hips and ass swaying. Then she glances back over her shoulder and catches me staring—and the way she smiles when she does.

My face heats even as I grin despite the looming embarrassment of being caught checking out her ass, but then she disappears through the glass doors, and I’m left standing here like an idiot.

I haven’t even had breakfast and I’m already looking forward to dinner.

By 5:45 PM, I’m showered, changed into clean clothes that don’t smell like engine oil, and standing in my apartment—our apartment? Peyton’s apartment?—with a bag of takeout from Lupita’s.

Fish tacos, carne asada, chips and guac, the works.

The apartment’s clean. I even lit one of those candles Peyton has on the coffee table. Vanilla-something. Figured it couldn’t hurt. Now I’m pacing, checking my phone every thirty seconds like a teenager waiting for prom.

This is ridiculous. It’s just dinner.

Except it’s not just dinner, and I know it.

6:02 PM the door unlocks.

Peyton steps inside, and her face lights up when she sees me.

“You’re here,” she says, slightly breathless.

“Told you I’d cover dinner.” I gesture to the spread on the coffee table. “Hope you like Mexican.”

“I love Mexican.” She drops her bag and kicks off her shoes, and I try very hard not to watch the way her blouse shifts as she moves. “Is that from Lupita’s?”