Page 71 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

“Sure,” Sophie said, working to keep her voice light despite the dull ache spreading beneath her ribs. “Makes sense. Beauty sleep and all that.”

“Right.” He shifted his weight, hands going to his pockets. “I’ll check in tomorrow? After my tours?”

“Whenever. No rush.” She gave a small wave, already turning toward her boathouse. “Night, Luke.”

“Night, Sophie.”

She heard his door close as she reached her own steps. Sophie hesitated at the bottom, glancing back over her shoulder, but Luke was already inside. She stayed outside for a few moments, still watching his house, breathing in the night lake air. Then, with a sigh that felt like it came from somewhere deeper than her lungs, she turned the key in her lock and pushed inside.

The familiar smells of sawdust and fresh paint greeted her as she kicked off her shoes, dropping her bag on the gorgeous counter Luke had created. All she wanted now was to get into her pajamas, finish reading her book, and have a good cry into her pillow.

Sophie flicked on the kitchen light and froze. A shadowy figure moved at the still-dark end of the boathouse. For one heart-stopping moment, their eyes met across the room. Then the intruder bolted, disappearing through the back door she’d apparently left unlocked.

Thirty

Luke

Coral leaped at Luke like a furry torpedo, all spinning circles and wagging tail. Always the same. Two minutes or two hours. Always greeted him like he’d been gone for a month instead of a few hours. Any other night, Luke would have crouched down, given her a good scratch behind the ears. Tonight, he just patted her head once and kept moving.

“Not now, girl.”

His keys hit the counter with a clatter. Beer from the fridge. Cap twisted off. First swallow did nothing to wash the sour taste from his mouth.

Damn party. Damn Victoria and her smug smile. Damn social media and everyone’s obsession with taking pictures of things that ought to be left alone.

More than anything, damn him.

He was in one of his moods; the kind he couldn’t shrug off. Best Soph didn’t have to witness it.

Luke stood at the window, staring out at his lake. The moonlight created a path that stretched across the water, silver and still. Perfect night for a midnight cruise. Perfect night to be anywhere but trapped in his own head.

Tourists coming in specifically to photograph Solace Lake, asking where they can find “that cute bookshop from the internet.”

Victoria’s words stuck like a fishbone in his throat.

Sophie hadn’t done anything wrong. So she’d posted some pictures. So what? People had been taking photos of the lake since before his grandfather was born. Wasn’t like she’d committed a crime.

Except it felt familiar. Too familiar. Photos turning into posts turning into followers turning into visitors turning into development proposals and renovation plans and “untapped potential” and “underutilized waterfront” and every other buzzword Claire had used to describe his hometown like it was a business opportunity instead of a community.

“Hell.” Beer sloshed over the counter as he set the bottle down hard. In her corner bed, Coral whined, head on paws, watching him like she expected him to start throwing things.

He was being an ass. Sophie wasn’t Claire. Sophie got her hands dirty. Worked the wood herself. Respected the history. Rejected that stained-glass window because it didn’t fit what she wanted: traditional bookshelves, honoring the boathouse’s character. She wasn’t trying to change anything.

Except she had those financial backers she’d been so damn vague about. Those “friends” who’d helped fund some of her renovation. In Luke’s experience, money didn’t come without strings.

So what was Sophie promising them?

And why tell him it was all her mother’s inheritance and savings paying for the place? Why lie?

That was the part that circled back like a shark. The lie. Smooth and practiced, looking him dead in the eye. Maybe it shouldn’t dig under his skin so much. They’d known each other just a couple of months. No promises. No labels. No definitions.

But the lie burrowed deep all the same.

Because he’d heard it before. That before came back at him, fast, furious.

It’s just concepts, Luke. Visual references.

Claire, across his kitchen table. Laptop open to some fancy presentation. Architectural drawings of Solace Lake. Only it wasn’t his lake anymore. Boathouses replaced with modern glass boxes. Docks turned into trendy walkways with string lights. The bait shop reimagined as a coffee bar with reclaimed-wood counters and fifteen-dollar lattes.