Page 80 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

“Oh for God’s sake,” she muttered. “You’ve turned this place into a Mills & Boon novel with sawdust.”

She’d let it happen again, hadn’t she? Become so wrapped up in a man that her actual project—her actual purpose—had become secondary, a side character in her own story. All those hours she could have been working, planning, building. Instead, she’d been wrapped around Luke Rhodes like he was the last life jacket on a sinking ship. She’d let herself be deliciously distracted by biceps and boat knowledge, when she should have been focusing on ISBNs and inventory systems.

Sophie shoved the instructions she’d been reading aside and grabbed her laptop. Yes, good old-fashioned admin, that was what she needed. After all, she had a bookshop to launch in less than four weeks. Her bookshop. Funded by people who believed in her vision enough to contribute their hard-earned money.

What was so shameful about that, anyway? So what if she’d used crowdfunding instead of a traditional bank loan? So what if she’d found a community of fellow book lovers who didn’t think her enthusiasm for properly alphabetized mystery novels was a symptom of a deeply repressed personality?

Her ex had always sneered at her BookTok friends, too—“Not real friends,” he’d said, dismissing the community she’d built as “pathetic internet people” while he spent hours playing online games with strangers he called his “squad.”

And now Luke was doing the same. Different man, same judgment, packaged in flannel and woolen sweaters instead of designer shirts. Both of them, in their own ways, had made her feel small for the things that brought her joy. As if her enthusiasm for organization and community and yes, occasionally posting online about books, somehow made her less valid. Less real. Less worthy of being taken seriously.

Her laptop now the discarded item, Sophie reached for her phone, scrolling through the comments on her latest update with the defiance of a woman rediscovering her backbone. Words of encouragement flooded the screen:

Love watching your dream come true! That window is EVERYTHING.

This bookshop is giving me serious life goals. My husband is tired of me talking about it but I DON’T CARE.

The way you’ve preserved the character of the place while adding modern touches is brilliant. Please tell me more about those floor-to-ceiling shelves!

You’re inspiring me to take the leap on my own business! Been too scared for years but watching you makes me think maybe I can.

These weren’t faceless strangers or “content consumers,” or whatever dismissive label Luke wanted to slap on them. These were people who’d connected with her story, who saw something of themselves in her journey. Real people with real dreams who’d chosen to support hers. And she’d let a man make her feel ashamed of that? Let him bring her to the edge of giving up entirely with his judgy eyebrows and disapproving silences?

Not today, Satan. Not on her watch.

Sophie refused to waste another moment on Luke Rhodes. She’d made a promise to herself and her supporters to transform this boathouse into something magical and, by God, she was going to deliver.

“Right, then,” she muttered, grabbing her laptop again and reaching for the clipboard hanging on a rustic hook by the door (installed by her, it so happened). “One task at a time.”

She looked down the list.

She’d already checked off the big things. She’d registered the Cherry Blossom Boathouse as an LLC, wrangled an EIN from the IRS, and opened a business bank account that still looked unnervingly empty. She’d set up a trade account with Ingram and other wholesalers so she could actually order books, and—after three very long calls with publishers—had advance shipments of new releases and local interest titles on the way. One distributor had already lost her order of fantasy hardbacks, which meant Sophie had to chase them while knee-deep in sawdust. Efficiency, she told herself.

Social media was buzzing, too. She’d launched Instagram, TikTok, and Facebook pages, peppering them with renovation updates and book polls that Juniper Skye kept gleefully boosting. The backers were eating it up. The city clerk’s office? Not so much. It had taken endless paperwork, a business license application, and an argument about whether she needed a retail food permit just to serve coffee before she finally got approval.

Now, with four weeks to go, she still had to finalize supplier agreements, chase delayed deliveries, and set up the till system that currently existed only as a blank square in her budget. Stock needed shelving, the front display had to be dressed, and she hadn’t even decided on loyalty cards yet.

She tapped her pen against the clipboard, staring down the never-ending list. “Piece of cake,” she muttered. “If the cake was baked with red tape, backorders, and a side of panic attacks.”

She threw herself into it with a manic energy and even managed to fit in a video update for her followers, angling the camera away from the window that faced Luke’s cabin.

“Day fifty-eight at the boathouse,” she narrated, panning across the area. “As you can see, the shelving is coming along nicely. I’ve decided on a combination of fixed and floating options to maximize the space while keeping the airy feel we all loved from the concept drawings.” She zoomed in on a satisfying corner. “What do you think? Should the nautical fiction go here by the window or would it be too on-the-nose?”

She posted the video, then firmly set her phone face-down on the counter. By noon, her stomach was making the kind of noises that couldn’t be ignored.

—

The café was busy with the lunch crowd when she arrived, but Grace spotted her immediately and waved her over to a small table in the corner.

“Saved it for you,” Grace said with a wink. “Figured you’d be in around now. Your usual?”

Sophie sank gratefully into the chair. “You’re a mind reader. And possibly a saint.”

“Just a woman who recognizes the signs of someone who needs caffeine and carbs,” Grace replied. “Coming right up.”

While waiting for her food, Sophie pulled out her notebook, sketching ideas for the children’s corner she planned to install next week. She was so absorbed in calculating how many beanbags she could reasonably fit into the space that she didn’t notice Grace returning until a steaming mug of coffee appeared at her elbow.

“You look different today,” Grace commented quietly after bringing her food over. She slid into the seat opposite Sophie. “More…focused.”