Page 63 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

Sophie nodded, watching as the three men carefully rewrapped the stained-glass panel.

Had she handled that right? The window was beautiful, and clearly Luke had thought he was doing something nice. But it was the principle of the thing, wasn’t it? The fact that he’d made the decision without her?

Or was she being stubborn just to prove a point?

No. The fact remained: he’d made the call without her.

She then had to remind herself of another fact, too: Luke wasn’t Marcus. This time was different. It had to be.

Twenty-Eight

Luke

Luke stared out of the passenger window of Ray’s ancient pickup, watching the familiar shoreline blur past. The truck smelled like old cigarettes, fish bait, and WD-40—Ray’s signature scent. The windows in the back rattled with every pothole they hit, that beautiful stained-glass panel making a sound that scraped at Luke’s nerves like sandpaper on sunburn as Ray’s cousin tried to keep the window steady in the back.

“So,” Ray said, breaking the silence as he took a curve too fast, “that went well.”

Luke shot him a look. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t state the obvious?”

“Just drive, Ray.”

But Ray, being Ray, couldn’t leave well enough alone. Never could. Thirty-plus years of friendship had taught Luke that Ray Wakeman had exactly three settings: electrical genius, food van connoisseur, and pain in the ass. Right now, he was running on full pain-in-the-ass power.

“All I’m saying is, windows ain’t worth that look on your face.” Ray gestured vaguely toward Luke’s expression with one hand, the truck swerving slightly before he grabbed the wheel again. “Fitz’ll take it back. Probably knock a few bucks off, but that’s business.”

It wasn’t about the damn window. Or the money. Luke didn’t give a rat’s ass about either. But trying to explain that to Ray would be like trying to teach him advanced calculus: technically possible, but not worth the effort.

So Luke just grunted and kept his eyes on the shore.

Ray tapped the steering wheel in an off-beat rhythm that matched exactly nothing on the classic rock station playing softly in the background. “Book lady sure knows what she wants.”

“Sophie,” Luke corrected without thinking. “Her name’s Sophie.”

“Right, right. Sophie. Reminds me a bit of Claire, you know? All that talk about vision and plans.”

Luke kept his face neutral. “Sophie’s nothing like Claire.”

“All I’m saying is, Claire was always yapping about her ‘vision’ for Solace Springs, remember? How she was going to ‘transform’ the lake, bring it into the modern age. But then she’s a city girl, like your book lady. Though Sophie’s probably even more citified. London’s like New York, but with those red phone booths, right?”

Luke’s jaw clenched. Ray was fishing and Luke wasn’t biting.

But the comparison nagged at him, worming its way in. Sophie had had the same look in her eye that Claire used to get just a moment ago: that determined set of her jaw, that flash of irritation when she thought someone wasn’t taking her ideas seriously. That passion that burned hot enough to scorch anyone nearby.

But Sophie wasn’t Claire. Claire had wanted to gut the boathouses, replace weathered wood with chrome and glass, turn the lakeside into some kind of resort. Sophie wanted to preserve the character, work with the history, build something that honored what was already there.

“I can hear the gears grinding from here,” Ray murmured. “You stuck on this chick then?”

“Not open to discussion. Drop it.” Luke’s voice came out sharp enough to cut.

Ray raised one hand in mock surrender. “Consider it dropped. But don’t come crying to me when—”

“The road, Ray,” Luke interrupted, pointing at the deer about to dart across their path.

Ray hit the brakes, the truck skidding to a stop just as the deer bounded across and disappeared into the trees on the other side. The window in the back slid forward along with Ray’s cousin, both thudding against the back of the cab.

“Shit,” Ray muttered as Luke twisted around to check on them. “Window okay?”