Page 79 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

“But ultimately, fake,” Luke said with a shrug. “In my experience, anything to do with social media—anything to do with people who use social media—is fake.”

“So I’m fake, then?”

“Maybe.”

The instant he said it, Luke knew he’d gone too far. Hell, even calling her followers nutjobs had been a step too far. He saw her flinch, saw the hurt flash before her face went cold.

“Well,” she said, “at least I know where I stand.”

“Sure do.” He turned back to his boat, not wanting to look at the hurt on her face. Instead, he heard her footsteps creak across the dock followed by the soft click of her door. Only then did he straighten, dragging a hand down his face. Damn, maybe he should go after her?

But then what? The truth was right in front of him, plain as day. History repeating itself like some cruel joke. His father, broken by his mother leaving for a city man with big promises. Then him, nearly destroyed by Claire and her slick plans to “improve” everything he loved. Now Sophie—another outsider with secrets, with thousands of internet strangers bankrolling her dreams, ready to remake his lake in her image. Different package, same contents. Some lessons had to be learned twice, it seemed, but not three times. Better to cut bait now, retreat to what he knew for certain: the lake, his work, himself. Better off alone than watching another woman he cared about sail away when she got bored with playing small-town. Better finish it, before it took root, before it grew into something he couldn’t walk away from.

The only thing he could rely on was Solace Lake. It was in his blood. Had been for generations. He belonged here, even when here meant heartbreak and harsh winters and backbreaking work. This wasn’t a chapter in his story; it was the whole damn book.

Luke grabbed his toolbox and headed into his boathouse, slamming the door behind him. Coral looked up with worried eyes, sensing his mood.

“It’s fine, girl,” he told her, scratching behind her ears. “We’re gonna be fine, just us three: you, me, and the lake.”

But it would take time getting over this one. Because somewhere between fishing Sophie out of his lake and waking up with her in his arms, Luke Rhodes had started to care. More than he should. More than was safe.

Best to retreat now. Pull back. Fortress the walls. Protect what mattered.

He’d learned the hard way that letting someone in who saw his home as just a stopping point on their journey only ended one way: with him standing alone on the dock, watching them sail away without a backward glance.

Thirty-Three

Sophie

Sophie stared out of her kitchen window, fingers wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold twenty minutes ago, the book she’d been reading discarded on the side mid-chapter, a truly rare occurrence for Sophie.

She focused on the lake, its surface mirror-smooth in the early-morning light, broken only by the occasional ripple of a passing fish.

Opposite her window, Luke’s curtains remained stubbornly drawn.

She’d heard him return well past midnight, the soft thud of his boots on the dock just audible through her half-open window. She’d crept to the glass, peering out and catching a glimpse of his silhouette against the moonlight. Had he been stumbling slightly? It was hard to tell, but the ramrod-straight posture she’d grown accustomed to had seemed softer, more fluid. Less “I’ve-got-a-broomstick-for-a-spine” and more “I’ve-possibly-been-drinking-away-my-feelings.” He hadn’t so much as glanced toward her boathouse, even when she practically pressed her face against the window like a desperate goldfish.

“Well, you’ve properly cocked that up, haven’t you?” she muttered to herself, finally abandoning her cold tea in the sink with the dramatic flair of a woman discarding her last hopes and dreams. “Gold star for you, Sophie Bennett, relationship wrecker extraordinaire. Perhaps I should add it to my CV: ‘Special skills include organizing bookshelves by color and driving away hot men with the velocity of an F1 racer.’ ”

The thing was, she hadn’t actually lied, not really. She’d just…omitted certain details. What had he expected her to say all those weeks ago? “Hello, I’m Sophie, your brand-new neighbor who nearly drowned in your lake. By the way, I bought this place with money from the internet after my boyfriend dumped me for being boring. Also, four thousand strangers have a vested interest in whether or not I install reclaimed wood shelving. Fancy a cuppa?”

Or maybe that was exactly what she should have done?

In fact, maybe this was a sign. Maybe she should pack up and go back to London, with its familiar streets and crowds where she could blend in anonymously. Back to a life where she understood the rules.

Then she caught her own reflection in the glass: big brown eyes staring back at her, resigned and defeated, with a hint of “pathetic” around the edges.

No.

No.

Not just no, but hell no, with sprinkles and a cherry on top.

This was exactly what she’d promised herself she wouldn’t do again. Make her entire world about a man with nice forearms and the emotional processing skills of a stubborn rock. Let a man’s opinion dictate her choices like she was some sort of Victorian wife dependent on her husband’s approval to choose a new bonnet. Diminish herself to fit someone else’s expectations, folding up her dreams until they were small enough to stuff into the pocket of his apparently superior worldview.

She’d done it with Marcus. Rearranged her life to accommodate his moods, his schedule, his opinions. And now here she was, ready to give up her dream because another man had decided she wasn’t doing it right? Because Luke “I’m Too Rugged for the Internet” Rhodes disapproved of how she’d financed her business and had decided her online community wasn’t authentic enough for his precious lake?

Sophie straightened her shoulders, properly looking around the boathouse. Not with the dreamy eyes of a woman in lust, but with the clear-eyed focus of a woman with a clipboard and a mission. She needed to unpack and put together those smaller bookshelves. Nothing like a flat-pack construction project to distract the mind. But as she puzzled over the ridiculously complicated instructions, her mind started to throw memories at her, rubbing salt in the wound. There, by the newly paned window, was where Luke had pinned her against the wall, kissing her until she couldn’t remember her own name. There, on the workbench that sat by the window seat, where they’d scattered her carefully organized nails (which had taken her forty-seven minutes and three cups of tea to tidy, thank you very much). There, on the new stairs, where they’d—