Hooked on Love (Love is in the Building #3)

Chapter 1

Knot Working

Jake

The harbor master’s voice crackles through the radio, “We’ll have you back to dock in forty minutes, Captain Harrison.”

Great. Forty minutes of floating dead in the water while my livelihood gets towed back to shore like a goddamn tourist who forgot to check his fuel gauge.

I lean against the chrome rail of Knot Working, watching the tow boat’s wake spread across the ocean. The sun’s already dipping toward the horizon, painting everything gold and orange. A perfect summer evening that should have ended with happy customers, fat tips, and a cold beer.

Instead, I’m watching a family of four film the whole humiliating ordeal on their phones.

“This is actually kind of exciting,” the dad says, like we’re on some adventure instead of me losing an entire day’s revenue plus whatever the hell is wrong with my engine.

“It’s like we’re in that show Deadliest Catch. ”

I force a smile, biting back the sarcasm wanting to seep into my tone. “Glad you’re enjoying yourselves.”

The mom looks concerned, however. “Will we get a refund?”

I grind my teeth, but nod. “Of course. I’ll process it as soon as we dock.”

There goes eight hundred dollars.

The engine trouble started two hours into what should’ve been a four-hour whale watching tour. One minute we’re tracking a pod of orcas, everyone’s phones out, kids squealing with excitement. The next, the engine’s making a sound like a dying sea lion and we’re losing power.

I managed to get us far enough from the shipping lanes before everything quit completely, which is something. It could’ve been worse. We could’ve been in the middle of a squall, or the engine could’ve caught fire…

I stop myself. No point in cataloging all the ways this day could have gone. It’s bad enough.

By the time the tow boat deposits us at the marina, the sun’s almost gone. The family hurries off like the day’s bad luck might be contagious, and I’m left standing on the dock watching my boat bob gently against the bumpers.

She looks fine from here. Beautiful, even, in the fading light.

Thirty-two feet of gorgeous classic lines, white hull gleaming, chrome fittings catching the last rays of sun.

But she’s broken. And with the summer season rapidly approaching, broken means bleeding money every single day she sits at dock instead of out on the water.

I run a hand through my salt-stiff hair and pull out my phone. Three missed calls from potential customers, two texts asking about availability for the Fourth of July, and one from Luke that just says: You alive?

I text back: Engine died. At the marina. Staying at your place tonight.

I don’t always stay at my brother’s place when I’m docked at Hemlock Point, but I try to visit him as often as my schedule allows. And it helps the oceanside peninsula is well stocked and easily walkable for provisions. Of which, I’ve got none of.

Even my first aid kit is near empty after my last all day fishing tour off Vancouver Island. Needless to say, the group father-daughter trip didn’t go so hot for a few hopeful fathers.

And I’m out of coffee and my favorite coconut shampoo. Two necessities this captain refuses to travel without.

I grab my duffel from below deck—clothes and toiletries, enough for a few days while I figure out what’s wrong. The harbormaster’s already gone home for the night, so the repair assessment will have to wait until morning, which is fine by me.

The walk from the marina to Luke’s apartment building takes fifteen minutes. Usually, I enjoy it—the tourist shops giving way to residential streets, the sound of the ocean fading behind me, the smell of someone grilling a late dinner drifting from a backyard.

Tonight, I barely notice.

My shirt’s stiff with sweat and salt and there’s dried engine oil up to my elbows.

My shoulders ache from fighting the wheel when the engine first started acting up.

There’s a sunburn forming across the back of my neck from running out of my favorite organic sunscreen that’s going to hurt like hell tomorrow.

All I want is a hot shower, Luke’s old bed, and maybe some of whatever Molly’s been baking lately. The woman’s a saint, putting up with my brother and keeping him fed and happy.

I try calling Luke as I round the corner onto his street. It rings four times before going to voicemail. Fair enough, I think. It is 10:57 PM.

Thankfully, I’ve got a key.

The apartment building appears the same as always—white brick, neat landscaping. Danny, the building super, keeps it up well. I’ve been back to port maybe twice in the last few weeks, and both times I crashed on the boat instead of bothering Luke.

I don’t mind seeing my brother happy most days, but hell if I see some fuckin’ happy-relationship-sex-glow on his smug face in my current mood, I may take a swing.

I scan my fob and walk through the empty lobby before heading straight for the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, even though my legs are protesting. Four flights up, and I’m feeling every hour I spent on my feet today.

The fourth-floor hallway’s quiet as I flip to the door key on my keychain that opens apartment 402. The key slides into the lock like always and I push open the weighted door. Stepping inside, I pause.

Something’s different.

There’s a purse on the entry table. Small, beige, definitely not Luke’s style. Or Molly’s. She’s more of a bright colors and excessive patterns kind of woman.

I kick off my boots, frowning. Women’s shoes line up by the door. Sandals. Expensive-looking ones with little straps. And the air smells…floral. Not Molly’s usual vanilla-and-sugar scent from the bakery. Jasmine, maybe?

Maybe Molly’s started leaving more stuff here. They’ve been talking about making things more permanent. This could be her moving in, finally. Though, I could have sworn Luke mentioned they were considering making her apartment home…?

I shake my head, clearing my confusion and drop my duffel by the couch. I peel off my shirt as I head down the hallway. God, I reek. I need to get in the shower before I stink up the place.

The bathroom door is closed, however, with light coming from underneath it. Is the water running? No, wait. Not running. The shower just turned off.

Luke must be here.

I should just wait. Use the kitchen sink to wash my hands and face, let him finish up, but my hand is already on the doorknob. I’m not thinking, too damn tired to think. I move on autopilot toward the promise of hot water and soap.

I push open the door.

And freeze.

A woman stands in front of the mirror by the vanity. Appearing as though she just stepped out of the shower. Her sun-kissed skin flushed pink from the heat, water droplets trailing down her shoulders. Dark, wavy hair, wet and dripping. A white towel wrapped around her body.

A small, white towel.

Our eyes meet in the mirror and she stiffens.

She’s gorgeous. That’s the first thought that crosses my mind.

Delicate features, wide eyes, full lips parted in surprise.

She’s young. That’s the second thought. Mid-twenties, maybe.

Younger than me by at least a decade. She’s naked.

That’s the final thought, the one that has me jerking my gaze away from the mirror and the towel that barely covers the smooth curve of her—

Her ear-piercing scream tears through the apartment, and chaos erupts.