Page 26 of Hooked on Love

Something in my chest cracks open. Wide enough for her, and only her.

“Tell me more about her,” I say quietly, drawing her flush against me.

She does.

She talks until her words get slow, and at some point, she stops entirely. Her breathing evens out and her hand goes slack against my chest.

I lie in the dark, listening to her sleep.

The compass rose over my heart rises and falls with every breath. I got it originally as a reminder to always find my way back to the ones who matter. Home. And right now, in this moment, I know I have.

She is home.

Don’t Rock the Boat

Peyton

The last week has been a dream.

Jake and I have fallen into a rhythm that feels brand new and impossibly familiar at the same time. He walks me to work every morning, coffee in hand, our shoulders bumping on the narrow stretch of Harbor Street where the sidewalk dips. He or I grab dinner on the way home, or we figure it out together in the kitchen with bad 80s rock music playing from his phone. We talk for hours until we don’t talk at all. We’ve enjoyed simply existing in the same space, together. And I didn’t realize how desperately I’d been missing that until I had it again.

And the nights…

I don’t have words for the nights. Only the memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice low at my ear saying things that make my body flush at the memory of them. The way he holds me after…

I haven’t let myself think too hard about what comes next.

Until today.

His text comes in at 5:52 PM, just as I’m finishing my last walkthrough of the event space for tomorrow’s Fourth of July themed wedding setup.

Meet me at Dock C when you get off. - J

I read it twice, smiling at the J like he thinks I don’t have his number saved. I type back a quick: See you soon, and spend the remaining ten minutes of my shift trying not to watch the clock.

The marina’s busy in the early evening, charter boats coming in, day-trippers heading home sunburned and satisfied. I follow the dock signs toward C, my steps careful over the weathered wood, the smell of sea salt—and garlic?—drift on the breeze.

I spot him before he spots me.

He’s standing on the deck of Knot Working—gleaming and whole in the evening light, not a hint of the battered, broken vessel I envisioned—and he’s grinning. Not his usual restrained almost-smile. A full, unguarded, ear-to-ear grin aimed at nothing in particular, just the boat beneath his feet and the water around him.

My chest squeezes.

He turns and sees me, and his grin redirects at me. “You’re here.”

I take his offered hand and step aboard, the deck swaying gently under my feet. “The boat looks incredible, Jake.”

He runs a hand along the chrome railing. “We got the engine block replaced, cooling system is completely rebuilt, new gaskets throughout. Luke helped with the electrical—there was a secondary issue I hadn’t even found yet, which explains some of the power fluctuations I’d been ignoring all season.” He’s moving as he talks, his hands animated in a way I haven’t seen. He’s so…happy. “And I got her all cleaned up, obviously. Even a new coat of wax on the hull. She’s running better than she has in two years.”

I smile. “She’s beautiful.”

“She really is,” he beams, patting the rail once before turning back to me. “Come on. I got us dinner.”

The stern deck is set up with a folding table and two chairs facing the ocean. The to-go bags from the Italian restaurant sit open on the table, the scent of garlic and rosemary making my stomach rumble. The two white candles in little glass holders, however, have my brow furrowing.

“You bought candles?” I ask, settling into a chair.

“Borrowed.” He drops into the seat across from me and starts pulling containers from the bag. “I got to chatting with Danny earlier, told him my plan for us tonight, and he offered to help set the mood.”