Page 38 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

As he began the work of containing the blaze with the rest of Jake’s crew, Luke looked back toward shore where the festival lights looked like fireflies caught in jars. Sophie was over there somewhere, probably watching the same flames he was fighting.

Damn inconvenient timing. His body was still running hot from her touch, his mouth still tasting like her cherry blossom punch. Bad enough he’d been interrupted mid-kiss like some teenager discovered behind the boathouse. Worse that it was the island burning.

Luke hauled another length of hose across the rocky ground, muscles burning with the effort as he helped the others control the fire, eventually driving it back. The air was thick with smoke and scorched sap, the heat clinging to Luke’s skin like it meant to stay. Around him, the trees creaked and hissed, their blackened trunks still weeping resin into the ashes.

He moved carefully, boots crunching over brittle underbrush and fractured bark, every step a reminder that some of the island’s bones had been burned through. Somewhere ahead, Jake called out, moving closer to a ridge just below the hill. The light from his helmet cast distorted shadows between the trees.

Luke heard a low, warping sound that sent the hairs on his neck up. One of the old maples was listing hard now, its base a hollowed-out ruin.

“Jake!” he shouted.

Jake turned, confused, just as the tree gave out. Luke didn’t think, he just moved. A few long strides, a shoulder slam and then they were both hitting the ground as the tree came down behind them with a deafening crack, sending up a blast of hot air and ash that singed the back of his neck.

Jake coughed beside him. “Holy hell.”

“You good?” Luke asked.

“Yeah,” Jake said hoarsely. “Just singed and stupid. Come on,” he said, managing to stand. “Let’s check the north side. Just in case.”

They moved in silence, cutting across the rocky rise that shielded the far edge of the island. Not many people bothered coming this way—too steep, too isolated—but Luke knew every inch of it. Or thought he did.

It wasn’t until Jake slowed that Luke saw it, tucked into the crook between two boulders, half-hidden by the curve of the rocks. A tarp. Weatherproof. Pinned tight. And beneath it, containers, a neatly rolled sleeping bag, even a small stone-ringed fire pit.

Someone had been living out there.

Jake knelt and touched one of the plastic tubs. “Been here a while. Weeks, maybe.”

Luke’s gaze swept the set-up: the way the tarp faced away from the town, the way even passing boats wouldn’t catch a glimpse of it. It was smart. Too smart to be accidental. And whoever it was…they were gone now.

Maybe back on the mainland…back to Sophie.

He felt a protective surge.

You’ve got it bad, Rhodes, he thought grimly.

“That’ll be the cause of the fire,” Jake said, pointing to a toppled-over gas grill. “Damn it. When I get my hands on who did this…”

“You and me both, bud; you and me both,” Luke said.

They continued searching over the next hour, making sure every hint of fire was out. Luke got back sometime after midnight, muscles aching, clothes stinking of smoke and ash, boots caked with mud from the island. Every inch of him wanted to cross the few yards between his and Sophie’s docks, to knock on her door and finish what they’d started beneath that cherry tree. His body still hummed with the memory of her: the soft curves pressed against him and the sweet taste of her mouth.

But her windows were black and he was filthy, exhausted, in no state to be touching something as clean and perfect as Sophie Bennett. Besides, Coral was anxious from the smell of smoke clinging to him. The dog needed some reassuring.

He managed to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep then woke to head out onto his dock and check the island was looking okay. As he sat watching the sun climb higher, willing Sophie’s curtains to open, he found his mind wandering back to her mouth under his, her hands on his back, the way she’d whispered “yes” when he’d hesitated at the curve of her breast.

Christ, he was gone on her. Completely, utterly gone.

“You look like hammered shit,” a voice said, disturbing his thoughts.

Luke didn’t need to turn to know it was Grace approaching along the dock. Those Dr. Martens she wore made the same distinctive sound. She settled into the chair beside him, passing over a paper bag that smelled of Mabel’s cinnamon rolls.

“Heard you found evidence someone’s been camping there,” Grace said as they both looked over at the island.

“Yep.” Luke took a bite of the still-warm roll. “Been there a while, from the looks of it. Smart set-up, too. Hidden in those rocks on the north side.”

“Any idea who?”

“Not yet. They cleared out before we got there. Jake’s heading back out today with Steffan,” he said, referring to the local sheriff, “to check for anything we missed.”