Page 26 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

Luke bit back a sigh. “Next time, wait for me.”

“I don’t need to wait for you to move a bookshelf six inches to the right,” Sophie replied, her British accent becoming more pronounced as she got more irritated.

“No, you need to wait for me so you don’t end up pinned under it when the rotten floorboard you’re standing on gives way,” Luke said, moving to the spot in question and stomping his boot down. The wood creaked ominously. “See that? This whole section needs to be replaced.”

Sophie’s eyes widened. “But I’ve already measured everything based on—”

“Reality trumps plans,” Luke said flatly, crouching to examine the damage. “This part of the floor won’t hold a heavy bookcase like that, no matter how neatly you’ve color-coded them.”

“I’m not changing my layout.”

“Then you’re welcome to redesign it from a hospital bed after the floor collapses.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic,” Luke countered, crossing his arms and noticing the way Sophie’s eyes tracked his muscles. Good, the distraction tactic’s working. Will help with this argument. “This boathouse stood for over a century before you started taping your little colored squares all over it. Show some respect for the structure. And what’s this?” he said, noticing a sage-green paint on the wood panels. “Don’t tell me you’re painting over the panels. I thought you wanted to maintain the character?”

“It’s dark and depressing,” Sophie said. “This green will brighten the space without sacrificing the rustic feel.”

“You newcomers are all the same. Can’t leave well enough alone.”

Sophie’s eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I definitely heard you. I just wanted to give you a chance to retract that incredibly condescending statement before I decide to test how well these paint samples blend with your flannel shirt.”

Luke stepped closer, towering over her. “All I’m saying is, this is a lakeside boathouse, not some trendy London café. It doesn’t need to be brightened.”

“And there it is again,” Sophie said, stepping even closer until they were nearly chest to chest. “The assumption that because I’m from a city, my ideas are somehow less valid than yours. That I couldn’t possibly understand what this place needs.”

“That’s not—”

“It is exactly what you’re saying,” she interrupted, jabbing a finger into his chest, which somehow turned him on. “You’ve been saying it since the moment we met. City girl, outsider, doesn’t belong. Well, newsflash, Rhodes: this is my boathouse now. Mine. And I’m going to paint it whatever color I bloody well please!”

They glared at each other and damn it, they were standing much closer than Luke had realized, close enough that he could see the tiny freckles across the bridge of Sophie’s nose and the slight tremble in her lower lip that might have been anger…or something else entirely.

He suddenly got an image of kissing her. Just one step forward, his hands finding her waist, pulling her against him until that indignant expression melted into something warmer.

He squeezed his eyes shut and stepped back. “Whatever, do what you want but we definitely need to replace the flooring here before we do anything else. I’ll make a materials list.”

Sophie exhaled, visibly gathering herself. “Fine. Make your list. But I’m not changing my floor plan.”

“We’ll see about that,” Luke muttered.

The rest of the day continued like that, Luke veering between wanting to storm out and wanting to kiss the woman. Clearly the desire to kiss her outweighed the storming out as he found himself returning every day that week. And each time, the anger rose, the frustration rose…the heat rose.

And yet somehow, work was getting done. Kyle had sorted the piping and replaced the shower and sinks. The walls had been stripped of old paint and wallpaper. The floorboards had been ordered. They’d even reached a compromise on the bookcase position that actually made sense, though Luke would rather haul boats in a hurricane than admit how impressed he was by Sophie’s reasoning. The woman knew her interior design, he’d give her that much.

But this tension—it was getting worse. Like when she’d reached across him for a tape measure, her hair brushing his face, and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.

Something had to give. And soon. He just hoped it didn’t give at the Spring Awakening event that night.

—

An hour before the festival kicked off, Luke found himself making his way along the narrow trail toward the lighthouse. The path wound close to the water, where the lake deepened and the air turned cooler, like it remembered it had once been part of the ocean. Coral ranged ahead, tail wagging, nose buried in every mossy patch and half-buried pinecone like it was the most important mission she’d ever been on.

Unlike the weathered charm of the boathouses, the lighthouse was all about functionality, its white tower rising nearly eighty feet from a rocky outcrop. Iron stairs spiraled around the exterior, leading to the lantern room where Luke’s friend Ethan had set up what he called his “observation deck.”