Page 8 of Hooked on Love

Danny blinks innocently. “Well, yes, but that unit needs extensive repairs. The plumbing is a disaster. Can’t rent it out in good conscience.”

Bullshit.

Peyton’s looking at Danny with narrowed eyes, clearly thinking the same thing.

“Danny—” I start.

“I really am sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry. He looks fucking delighted. “But you two seem to be managing just fine. And it’s only temporary, right? Until your boat is fixed?”

“Right,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Wonderful!” Danny claps his hands together. “I’m sure you’ll barely notice each other. The apartment’s quite spacious for a one bedroom, really. And who knows?” His smile widens. “You might even become…friends.”

Peyton and I exchange a glance. Is he serious right now?

“Well, I’ll leave you to your morning,” he finally says, already backing toward the elevator. “Enjoy the banana bread. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. Nothing brings people together like baked goods!”

He disappears around the corner before either of us can respond.

Peyton closes the door slowly and leans against it. “He’s lying.”

“Not a doubt in my mind,” I agree.

She looks down at the plate in her hands, and sighs, returning to the kitchen and setting the banana bread on the counter before reaching for her coffee. “So. Ground rules, part two.”

I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “Shoot.”

“We stay out of each other’s way as much as possible. You do your thing, I do mine. We’re roommates, not friends.”

Ouch. But fair.

“All right,” I say.

“I leave for work at six-thirty every morning. I’d appreciate it if you could…not be in the kitchen when I’m getting ready.”

“Done. What time do you get home?”

“Usually around six. Sometimes later if there’s an event at the resort.”

“The resort,” I repeat. “You work at The Tides Resort and Marina?”

“I’m the manager.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice. “I just started a few weeks ago.”

The oceanside resort. The massive, overpriced complex right next to the marina. The same place that books half my whale watching tours for their guests.

Of course she works there.

“I’ll try to be scarce in the evenings then,” I say. “Give you your space.”

She nods, taking another sip of coffee. “How long do you think the repairs will take? On your boat?”

“No idea yet. I’m heading down to the marina shortly to assess the damage. Could be a few days, could be…” I trail off, not wanting to voice the worst-case scenario.

“Weeks?” she supplies.

“I won’t know until I get eyes on it.”

She hums, but doesn’t comment. Instead, she checks the time on the coffeemaker beside her. “I need to finish getting ready.”