Page 41 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

“I hope so.” The look he gave her then was warm enough to chase away any lingering morning chill, something unguarded and hopeful in his blue eyes. “Hungry?” he asked, gesturing for her to sit.

“Starving,” Sophie admitted, sinking onto one of the cushions.

He nodded and busied himself with retrieving a picnic basket from the boat—a proper wicker picnic basket, complete with baby-blue gingham lining and little leather straps.

“Bloody hell,” she said, then immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s just…Where on earth did you find something that perfect?”

“It was my ma’s,” he said, setting the basket down carefully. “She used to say if you were going to eat outside, you might as well do it with style.”

She watched as Luke unpacked the basket with methodical care. First came a checked tablecloth, spread precisely across the driftwood table. Then plates, cups, utensils, all organized with unexpected attention to detail. When he began setting out the food, Sophie couldn’t suppress her delight. Each container was neatly labeled with contents and date, arranged by type. He’d even color-coded them with small stickers: green for savory, red for sweet, blue for beverages.

Her heart seemed to explode.

“Luke Rhodes,” she said, picking up a jar of perfectly sliced fruit, “did you organize this picnic for me? With labels? And color-coding?”

A flush crept up his neck. “Thought you might appreciate it,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes. “No hockey romances, though.”

“Oh, it’s fine; I have that covered,” she said, gesturing to the book in her bag.

He laughed. “Always prepared.”

A wave of tenderness swept through Sophie. Marcus had relentlessly teased her organizational tendencies, treating them as neurotic habits. Never once had he thought to speak Sophie’s language, to show he valued this fundamental aspect of how she navigated the world.

Yet here was Luke—supposedly gruff, emotionally unavailable Luke—presenting her with color-coded containers and labeled jars as if offering a piece of his heart.

“I love it,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

They ate in a calm, easy silence for a few minutes, the platform rocking gently beneath them, surrounded by the quiet awakening of spring. Sophie savored each bite: fresh berries bursting with sweetness, warm bread slathered with honey, cheese that melted on her tongue.

Luke leaned back on his elbows, more relaxed than she’d seen him yet. But the way he looked was making her anything but relaxed. The movement pulled his shirt taut across his chest, showcasing his muscles. His legs stretched out in front of him, denim hugging thighs that could probably crack walnuts. And that position—casual, confident, slightly sprawled—did frankly obscene things to his already unfair attractiveness level. Sophie tried not to stare, but seriously, the man lounging there like some kind of rugged lake deity was making it very difficult to focus on breakfast rather than…other appetites.

“So,” Sophie said, curling her legs beneath her, “what happened last night? With the fire?”

Luke’s expression sobered. “Someone’s been camping on the island. Had a shelter set up in the rocks, hidden from view.”

“Any idea who?”

He shook his head. “They cleared out before we got there.”

“Well, if you need help solving lake mysteries, I happen to have excellent deductive skills,” Sophie said. “I’ve listened to every true-crime podcast worth mentioning. I’m practically the female Sherlock Holmes.”

That earned her another of those rare smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

A comfortable silence fell between them again, broken only by birdsong and the gentle lapping of water against the platform. Sophie found herself studying Luke’s face, the way tension seemed to have melted from his features out here on the water, away from watchful eyes.

“Can I ask you something?” she said finally.

“Just did.”

She rolled her eyes. “Another thing, smart arse.”

He gestured for her to continue, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Why did you bring me here? Really.”

Luke’s gaze shifted to the water for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. When he looked back at her, the vulnerability in his expression took her breath away. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said simply. “About last night. About that kiss.”

Sophie’s heart fluttered against her ribs. “I can’t stop thinking about you either. And yet we’ve only known each other…” She looked at the date on her digital watch. “A week. Exactly a week.”