Page 32 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd as people began to stand.

“The what now?” Sophie asked, turning to Luke.

“Another tradition,” he said. “Though this one’s actually genuine. Really has been happening since the town was founded.”

“Let me guess. Something involving fire and water? Because historically, those always go brilliantly together.”

Luke’s laugh was low and warm. “You’d be surprised. Come on, you’ll need a partner for this one.”

“A partner?” Sophie repeated, her heart skipping.

His eyes met hers, reflecting the thousand lights around them, and he reached his hand out. “Yeah. Lucky for you, I know what I’m doing.”

She hesitated then allowed her hand to be swallowed by his huge one. The sensible part of her brain—the part that made spreadsheets and five-year plans—was waving red flags and sounding alarm bells.

But the part of her that had crossed an ocean for a second chance moved without hesitation. And so she stepped onto the dock beside Luke Rhodes, drawn by something that felt a lot like trust.

Twelve

Luke

The touch of Sophie’s hand in his sent a charge straight up Luke’s arm like he’d grabbed a live wire. He’d reached for her without thinking. It was an instinct, like bracing against a sudden wave. Now her fingers were wrapped in his as he led her through the crowd toward the water’s edge, and he found himself acutely aware of every damn detail about her.

That blue dress hugged curves his hands itched to trace, flowing around her legs in a way that made his mouth go dry. She’d done something different with her hair. Half up, showing off the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. Made a man think about tasting the skin there. The sight of her delicate collarbone peeking above the neckline of her dress didn’t help matters. Christ. When had collarbones become something that could knock a man sideways?

“So what exactly happens in this lantern launch?” she asked, looking up at him with those big brown eyes.

“You’ll find out,” he grunted, more gruffly than he intended. Had to get a grip on himself. He wasn’t some damn teenager with his first crush.

The townsfolk gathered along the main dock. Luke guided Sophie to the shoreline where Abe stood barking orders like the ceremony was a military operation. He was pushing eighty, but still stood ramrod straight, his captain’s hat worn at the exact same angle it had been for all the time Luke had known him. His white beard was trimmed with the same precision he’d once used navigating destroyers through enemy waters.

He’d run this show since before Luke could walk, and God help anyone who tried to change his system. The man was as permanent a fixture as the lake itself.

He was also Caleb’s pa—a fact that had damn near broken him and Margaret when Caleb came out. Luke remembered the shouting matches that had echoed across the water from the inn when Caleb was a teen, Abe’s rigid military values colliding with his son’s truth. Margaret had eventually come around to the idea, but it took a long time for Abe. For years, he didn’t speak to his son.

But something had shifted. Luke never knew exactly what. Abe wasn’t one for heart-to-hearts. One day, the old captain had shown up at Caleb’s first Pride event, still stiff as a new board with his wife but standing there all the same. These days, he introduced Mikkel as “my son-in-law” in the same gruff tone he used for everything, but Luke had seen the old man’s eyes when Caleb and Mikkel exchanged vows. Some things ran deeper than traditions.

Abe ran the lantern ceremony with the same unwavering commitment he ran the old inn, refusing to cancel even during the hurricane of 2013 when he’d been the only one crazy enough to show up. “Tradition doesn’t bend to weather,” he’d told Luke afterward. “That’s the whole damn point.”

“Everyone needs a lantern and a partner!” Abe called out in that booming voice that had once ordered ships through storms. His eyes landed on Luke and Sophie. “Come get yourselves a lantern, you two.”

The old man pushed a shallow wooden vessel into Luke’s free hand: one of Luke’s own creations from last winter. His pa had taught him to work with cedar when he was barely tall enough to see over the workbench, showing him how to follow the grain rather than fight it. This little boat had emerged from a scrap most people would’ve tossed in the fire, but Luke had seen something in the knots and whorls. He’d carved it on a night when the lake had frozen over and the silence had pressed in too close, his hands needing something to do while his mind wandered. The candle sat dead center, anchored in beeswax he’d traded Ethan typewriter parts for. Nothing fancy about it. Just honest work, something that would serve its purpose and return to the lake when done.

“Soooo pretty,” Sophie murmured, her fingers tracing the curves of the miniature hull. Luke found himself hooked on how she moved those fingers; the way she stroked the wood.

“Made it myself,” he admitted.

“Wait, you made this? Like, with your actual hands and not some enchanted forest creatures?”

“Yep.”

“It’s amazing.”

He squirmed slightly. Never expected anyone to look at his miniatures like that—like they saw more than timber and time. It was…uncomfortable. “Just something to stop me climbing the walls all winter,” he muttered.

“Well, it’s officially adorable.” Then she frowned. “Do they float off to inspire fish after or…?”

“Biodegradable. I round up whatever’s left in the morning.”