Page 74 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

But the feeling of violation lingered, an oily sensation that no amount of scrubbing seemed to wash away. Someone had been in her space. Touching her things. The plans for the bookshop were scattered across the floor, her box of childhood photos upended, the frames she’d bought the day before thrown aside like rubbish.

But nothing had even been stolen!

Except her sense of security. Her notion that she wasn’t completely alone in a foreign country, thousands of miles from anyone who shared her DNA, anyone who’d known her longer than a few weeks.

A soft knock on the door made her jump.

“You all right in there, Soph?” Luke’s voice came through, low and concerned.

Sophie cleared her throat. “Fine! Just…freshening up.”

“Take your time. Made you some tea.”

The simple gesture brought a rush of warmth that threatened to overwhelm her. Tea. Of course. Because somehow, this grumpy American boatman had figured out that tea was the universal British remedy for everything from a stubbed toe to an existential crisis.

When she finally emerged, Luke had changed into sweatpants, his top bare. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed as if deep in thought, elbows on his knees. She took in the strong planes of muscle on his huge back that never failed to make her breath catch.

He looked up at her approach, blue eyes softening as they took in the sight of her in his T-shirt.

He stood, pulling back the covers. “Get in. You’re dead on your feet.”

Sophie didn’t have the energy to argue, the sheets warm against her bare legs as she crawled in. Luke hesitated for a moment, then slid in beside her, keeping a careful distance between them as if she might break if he got too close.

“You don’t have to stay all the way over there,” she said softly as she took a sip of the tea Luke had made her. “I won’t break. Contrary to popular belief, bookshop owners are surprisingly durable. Now books have started to arrive, I’ve been lugging boxes of hardcovers around. It’s basically aerobics with more papercuts and less spandex.”

He laughed as he moved closer, placing her mug on the side table and drawing her against the solid warmth of his chest. She went willingly, curling into him like a comma seeking its twin, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder.

“That scared me,” he admitted. “When I saw that broken window…”

“Scared myself, honestly.” She tried for lightness, but her voice wobbled traitorously. “Not quite the ending I had planned for the evening. In my version, there was a lot less broken glass and a lot more dessert. Possibly chocolate-related. Definitely without a side of terror.”

Luke’s arms tightened around her. “Well, I’ve got you now.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her face into his neck, breathing in the scent of him—familiar now after these few weeks of stolen moments and heated encounters, but somehow different tonight. More essential. More necessary than air.

He just held her, one hand drawing slow circles on her back, making a soothing path along her spine, up to her shoulder, down to the small of her back. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear, its rhythm gradually slowing her own racing pulse.

Sophie tilted her face up to look at Luke, finding his eyes already on her. He lowered his head, pressing his lips to hers in a surprisingly gentle kiss. She kissed him back, her hand coming up to cup his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath her palm. His tongue slid against hers in a way that made heat bloom in her belly. One large hand slid down her side, over her hip, finding the bare skin of her thigh beneath his T-shirt.

“Sophie,” he murmured against her lips, voice rough with restraint. “We can stop if you want to. After what happened…”

Sophie nipped at his lower lip in a way that made his fingers tighten on her thigh. “I heard orgasms are medically recommended for trauma recovery. I’m pretty sure I read that in a very scientific journal. Or possibly Cosmopolitan. Either way, highly credible source.”

He drew his T-shirt over her head, leaving her in just her knickers, his eyes sweeping over her. They’d been here before, in this same position, but tonight his gaze felt different. Less about carnal appreciation and more about seeing her, really seeing her.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough with something deeper than want. “So beautiful.”

He maneuvered his body so he was above her, his weight braced on his forearms to avoid crushing her. The breadth of his shoulders, the solid muscle of his chest, the way his arms flexed as he held himself above her: it all combined to make her feel simultaneously safe and thrillingly overwhelmed.

His hand slid between them, fingers tracing the elastic of her knickers, seeking permission. She lifted her hips in answer, and he drew them down her legs with aching slowness, his calloused palm sliding along her calf, the back of her knee, her inner thigh.

When his fingers found her already slick with wanting him, a satisfied sound rumbled through his chest. He stroked her slowly, deliberately, like he was learning again what made her gasp, what made her arch against his hand.

All the while, his eyes never left hers, watching every reaction with an intensity that should have made her self-conscious but instead only heightened her pleasure. When he slid one finger inside her, then another, curling them in a way that made her see stars, Sophie couldn’t hold back a cry of pleasure.

“Luke,” she gasped, her hips moving against his hand, seeking more. “Please.”

“Tell me what you need,” he murmured, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, her throat, the sensitive spot just below her ear.