Page 65 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

Sophie met him at the door before he could even knock, that damn pencil still stuck behind her ear. “How’d it go?” she asked, a pensive look on her face that made him feel about as bad as a bear that had stolen a cub’s dinner. “I can pay you back any—”

“Nope. My mistake, my money. I screwed up. Your shop, your call. Won’t happen again.” He found her waist, pulling her close until she was flush against him. Then he leaned down until his lips brushed her ear.

“Stop being so distracting,” she breathed, her head tilting back as he pressed a kiss to the spot just below her ear. “We have work to do.”

“Want me to stop?” Luke asked, though his hands were already sliding under the hem of her T-shirt, finding warm skin beneath.

“God, no,” Sophie gasped, her fingers threading through his hair, pulling his mouth to hers.

The kiss was hungry, urgent, both of them pouring their lingering tension into it. Luke backed her against the drafting table, lifting her up onto it without breaking the kiss. Blueprints crinkled beneath her. Wood shavings dusted the floor. A hammer lay forgotten near his foot.

None of it mattered. Nothing mattered but Sophie’s hands yanking at his shirt, his palms skating up her thighs, the little sounds she made when he nipped at her throat.

“Here?” she panted, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings.

“Here,” he confirmed, tugging her shirt over her head.

The sawhorse table wobbled dangerously beneath them. Luke steadied it with one hand, his other already undoing her bra. “Not stable enough.”

“Then find something that is.”

Luke glanced around the space, his brain only half-working. The floor was covered in dust and tools. The new countertop wasn’t secured yet. The walls were…

“Wall,” he decided, scooping her up in one motion. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her to the nearest stud-reinforced wall, pinning her against it with his body.

“Structural integrity,” Sophie gasped between kisses. “Very important in renovations.”

“Essential,” Luke agreed.

What followed was hot, messy, perfect. Clothes shoved aside rather than removed. Sophie’s nails digging into his shoulders. His hand braced against the wall for leverage. Her leg hooked around his hip, urging him deeper.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. It was reconciliation and reassurance and something that felt dangerously close to need.

When they finally collapsed against each other, breathing hard, Sophie’s face tucked against his neck, Luke felt himself relax, too. This—her in his arms, her trust in him restored—was what mattered. Not windows or reading nooks or the past.

“I think,” Sophie said when she could speak again, her voice muffled against his shoulder, “that we’ve just christened yet another part of the boathouse. At this rate, we’ll run out of surfaces.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he teased. “We can get creative.”

Later, after some semblance of actual renovation work was completed, Sophie disappeared upstairs to change. Luke gathered the scattered blueprints from the floor, trying to smooth out the crumples they’d left during their enthusiastic reunion.

Her phone buzzed on the workbench, the screen lighting up with a new message. The preview caught his eye.

@BookishAdventures: As a top-tier backer, I’m so excited to see how you transform that old boathouse into something fresh and modern! When can we expect—

The rest of the message was cut off, but what he’d seen was enough to make him pause.

Top-tier backer? What the hell was that about? Some kind of business partner? A business partner expecting “fresh and modern” changes?

Sophie had mentioned her mother’s inheritance helping fund the bookshop. Never said anything about partners or backers or whatever this person was.

Then again, he hadn’t asked. Too busy getting lost in her.

Still, it needled at him.

Why hadn’t she said anything about a backer?

Twenty-Nine