Chapter 3
Damage Control
Jake
This couch is a liar.
It looks comfortable—plush cushions, decent length, a cozy throw over the back of said couch. But I’ve been lying here for three hours, and I’m convinced it was designed by someone who hates the human spine.
Why the hell would Luke toss his old couch? Yeah, it had some lumps and valleys, but it was damn comfortable.
I shift again, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my lower back scream.
I haven’t slept more than twenty minutes at a time since I stretched out around midnight.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Standing in front of that mirror, water droplets trailing down her back and shoulders, that damn tiny towel…
I throw an arm over my face and groan quietly. This is exactly what I don’t need to be thinking about. I need to be worrying about my livelihood, my boat, my business. Not the too-pretty-for-me woman down the hall with ocean blue eyes I could get lost in and full, mouthwatering lips worth craving.
The apartment’s quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the building settling. Early morning light filters through the curtains, painting everything in shades of grey and gold.
I check my phone. 5:47 AM.
Might as well get up. I need to get down to the marina anyway, assess the damage to Knot Working, figure out how long I’m going to be stranded on land without income, and where the hell I’m going to stay.
I sit up slowly, my back protesting the movement. The throw blanket pools around my waist over grey sweatpants. I chance a glance down the hall and stare at the open bathroom door, remembering the chaos of last night.
Coffee. I need coffee.
I head to the kitchen, trying to be quiet. The last thing I need is to wake her up and give her another reason to want me gone.
After Peyton went to her room, I debated going to the local motel, but when I called, they had no vacancies. And I refuse to pay those overpriced resort fees at The Tides near the marina.
Luke’s coffee maker—or Peyton’s now, I guess—sits on the counter next to a ceramic mug with a sun painted on it. Cheerful. Optimistic. Everything I’m not feeling right now.
I grab a different mug.
I find the coffee in the cupboard and get to work, the familiar ritual soothing despite everything. Measure the grounds, add the water, press the button. The machine gurgles to life. While it brews, I lean against the counter and survey the apartment in the growing light.
It’s different than the last time I was here. More lived-in. There’s a stack of books on the coffee table—thrillers and romance novels with colorful spines. A laptop sits beside them, closed. A sweater draped over the armchair, soft, cream with wooden buttons up the front.
Her things.
She’s only been here two weeks, Luke said. But she’s already made the place feel less like my brother’s bachelor pad and more like a home. The coffee maker whines and I pour myself a cup, inhaling the bitter, familiar scent, and take a sip. The burn down my throat has me sighing to myself.
A sound from down the hall makes me freeze.
An alarm. Muffled but distinct, playing something upbeat and melodic. It cuts off after a few seconds, and then I hear movement. Footsteps. One door opens, then another closes.
The bathroom sink turns on.
I close my eyes and take another long sip of coffee.
I set my mug down harder than necessary and grab my phone, scrolling through emails I’ve been ignoring. Booking inquiries I’ll have to turn down. A message from my parts supplier about a delayed shipment from last month.
What a fuckin’ mess.
After maybe ten minutes, I hear the bathroom door open again, then the bedroom door close. She’s getting ready for work.
I should…what? Make myself scarce? Pretend I’m not here? We’re going to have to face each other eventually.
I’m refilling my coffee when her bedroom door opens. She appears in the hallway, and I go very still.
She’s wearing a white blouse tucked into navy slacks, her dark hair pulled back in a low bun. Professional. Put-together. So different from the terrified woman in a towel, that it takes me a second to reconcile they’re the same person.
She’s also beautiful.
The thought hits me like a rogue wave, unexpected and hard. In the morning light streaming through the windows, she looks… Hell, she looks like trouble I don’t need.
She stops when she sees me, her hand still on the bedroom doorknob.
“Morning,” I say, because one of us has to break the silence.
“Morning.” Her voice is careful, neutral. She moves toward the kitchen, giving me a wide berth. “Is that coffee?”
“Yeah. Made a full pot.” I gesture to the machine. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
She reaches for the mug with the sun on it and pours herself a cup. I watch her add cream and sugar, more of both than I’d expect. She takes a sip and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
We stand there in awkward silence, both holding our coffee like it’s a shield.
“So,” she says finally. “About last night—”
A sharp knock on the door interrupts her.
We both turn toward the sound. It’s six in the morning. Who the hell—?
“That’s probably Danny,” Peyton says with a sigh.
My brow furrows. “The landlord?”
“Yeah. I had a text from him this morning that he’d be stopping by.”
Another knock, more insistent this time. “Hello? Peyton? Jake? I know you’re both in there.”
Peyton sets down her mug and moves to the door. I follow, curious despite myself.
She opens it to reveal Danny in a burgundy cardigan and khakis, his silver hair neatly combed, a plate of what looks like banana bread in his hands. And for some reason, he’s beaming like it’s Christmas morning.
“Good morning.” He peers past Peyton to me. “Jake. So wonderful to see you again. I heard there was a bit of a commotion last night.”
“You could say that,” I mutter.
“Well, I wanted to come by and make sure everything was sorted out.” He holds up the banana bread. “And bring a peace offering. Fresh baked this morning.”
This morning? Does the guy ever sleep?
Peyton takes the plate automatically. “That’s very kind, Danny, but—”
“I assume you two have come to an arrangement?” Danny’s eyes sparkle with something…suspicious. “About the living situation?”
“Actually,” I say, “I was hoping you might have another apartment available. Just until I can get my boat repaired.”
“Oh, I’m afraid not.” Danny shakes his head sadly.
I frown. “What about 206? It’s been vacant for months.”
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.”
“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.