Page 22 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

“Sounds like how I feel about the lake,” he found himself saying. “Been talking to these waters since I was a kid. Always listens. Never talks back unless you know how to hear it.”

“That’s exactly it.” Sophie nodded, leaning closer. “It’s finding something—a place, a book—where everything makes sense, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Like coming home.”

For a moment, everything went still. Just the lake breathing and Sophie looking at him with those eyes—warm brown with gold hiding in them like sun through whiskey. Her hair caught the breeze, and Luke found himself frozen. Too damn aware of how close she was sitting, their shoulders nearly touching on that weathered log. The way her lips parted when she was thinking made something low in his gut tighten. Hell, he could see the flutter of her pulse at her throat, right where her sweater dipped. And that scent of hers—clean, with something floral—made his hands want to do things they had no business doing.

“So what’s your favorite spot?” she asked, breaking the spell. “If the lake is your book, which chapter do you read most?”

Luke felt himself smile—actually smile—and pointed to a distant shoreline. “There’s this hidden inlet where the morning light hits just right. Makes the water look like it’s on fire.”

“I like the sound of that place.”

“I’ll have to take you there sometime.”

Damn. He shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have let his guard down, even for a second. He’d spent too many years building walls stone by stone, weatherproofing himself against repeating history. His history. His father’s. This woman would be gone by the time the year was out, just like all the others who thought they wanted lake life until the first real winter hit. Better to remember that now before the ice set in.

He pushed off the log, dusting off his hands. “Come on. If we don’t load this stuff up now, you’re gonna be rowing yourself back.”

Sophie hesitated then nodded, standing to help.

He needed to get this trip wrapped up and haul Sophie back to shore. Back to where her being anywhere near him wouldn’t feel like taking on water. She was too full of ideas and dreams and damn conversations about making a life that mattered.

He wasn’t going to fall for that. For her.

But then, as she laughed at something, the sound so warm and easy, Luke felt it—

A crack.

A tiny, barely there fissure in the walls he’d built.

And that…that was a problem.

Nine

Sophie

Sophie sat cross-legged on the uneven floorboards of her boathouse, surrounded by a colorful moat of paint swatches, fabric samples, and renovation books. Spring sunshine streamed through the windows she’d managed to clean, a herculean task that had required three old T-shirts, half a bottle of vinegar, and language that would make her grandmother blush. The light cast golden squares across her makeshift workspace, highlighting the alarming amount of Post-it notes she’d gone through that afternoon.

Outside, the pile of driftwood she and Luke had collected that morning leaned against the wall, worn and beautiful, waiting to become something more useful than “items Sophie stares at while daydreaming about a certain boat captain.”

She tried to focus on the sketch in front of her, but her mind kept drifting back to the morning she’d spent with Luke on Maple Island. To Luke’s hands as he’d shown her how to test wood for stability. To the way his voice had softened when he’d talked about his grandfather and the lake. To that moment when something had shifted between them, electric and impossible to ignore.

“Focus, Sophie,” she muttered, tapping her pencil against her notebook with enough force to leave tiny dents in the paper. “Four thousand people are counting on you to create a bookshop, not daydream about your hot neighbor.”

She glanced at her to-do list, which somehow kept growing despite her crossing items off. At this rate, she’d need to start using the backs of the Post-its, which was clearly a sign of impending doom.

“At least if the renovation fails, I can create an art installation out of all these sticky notes,” she said to the empty room. “Call it Monument to Questionable Life Choices or What Happens When You Let Wine Make Financial Decisions.”

A knock at the door saved her from her spiraling thoughts.

“Hello?” a voice called from outside. “Are you decent, or have you already succumbed to lake madness and started performing interpretive dance in your underwear?”

She peered out to see it was Grace from the café. Sophie laughed. “The underwear dancing is scheduled for tomorrow. Today is ‘Stare at Plans Until They Start Making Sense Day.’ Come in!”

Grace entered, navigating her way through Sophie’s renovation supplies. Her pink-tipped hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she carried two takeout cups and a paper bag that smelled gloriously of cinnamon.

“I come bearing gifts,” she announced, carefully stepping over a stack of design magazines that Sophie had arranged by color rather than content. “Mom’s special cherry blossom lattes and her maple cinnamon rolls. Figured you might need sustenance after your sunrise adventure with Captain Broody.”