Page 95 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

Finally, Luke Rhodes felt the hole in his chest repair itself.

Thirty-Nine

Sophie

Sophie looked down at her dress: a vintage-inspired number with cherry blossoms printed on navy fabric that she’d panic-ordered for the launch. In the harsh light of day, it felt a bit much, like she was trying too hard to be Solace Springs’ answer to a 1950s pin-up, but it was too late to change now.

It had been a few days since the storm. That time had consisted of many things. By day, Sophie found herself wrangling invoices, paint colors, and last-minute book deliveries while sweet-talking local journalists into running fluffy features about the “cherry blossom rebirth of a lakeside literary gem.” By night, she was tangled in Luke’s sheets (or sometimes just tangled in Luke).

And then there was Finn.

Still guarded. Still unpredictable. But slowly letting them in. She’d helped him write the first awkward email to a rehab clinic. He was booked in now—just a local place to start—but it felt like something real.

Luke still hadn’t worked up the courage to contact his mum and maybe that was okay. Maybe the two men needed some time.

But the realest thing now was the fact that her bookshop was about to launch.

“Is the dress too much?” she asked Grace.

“Absolutely not. You look stunning. Proper bookshop launch material.”

“I should finish setting up the refreshment table,” she said. “The festival starts in an hour and I still need to make sure all the mini quiches are arranged in perfect concentric circles and—”

She stopped mid-sentence, her attention caught by movement outside the window. Luke was walking up the path toward the boathouse looking pretty relaxed for someone who supposedly hated crowds. Sunlight glinted off his dark hair, the sleeves of his navy sweater were shoved up like he meant business and that easy, lopsided smile he sometimes dared to show was firmly in place.

She squinted. Behind him trailed what looked like a small tour group—six or seven people, chatting animatedly and pointing at the boathouse. Sophie tried to make out their faces in the late-afternoon light.

“Is that…Juniper?” she asked, recognizing the BookTokker’s distinctive purple hair. Then a woman with red hair and oversized glasses came into sight. BookishBee92, one of her most active crowdfunding supporters…all the way from Glasgow! And the tall man beside her looked remarkably like StorytellingSailor, who’d left thoughtful comments on every one of her renovation updates.

“What on earth…?” Sophie turned to Grace, who was unsuccessfully trying to suppress a smile. “What’s going on? Did I accidentally ingest hallucinogens with my morning tea? Am I having some sort of bookshop-owner fever dream?”

In response, Grace pulled out her phone and handed it to Sophie. On the screen was an Instagram account called @LukeRhodesNotOnSocialMedia, a profile picture featuring a shot of Solace Lake at sunrise.

There was only one post:

Win a trip to the grand opening of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse. Nominate someone who supported @SophieBennettBooks’ journey to tell me why they deserve to be here. Five winners announced Friday. #CherryBlossomSurprise #SolaceSpringsWelcomesYou

The post had thousands of likes and hundreds of comments.

“He did this?” Sophie whispered, looking up as Luke and the small group reached the path leading to her door. “Luke ‘The Internet Is for Cat Videos and Conspiracy Theories’ Rhodes did this for me?”

“Of course he did it, Sophie,” Grace said with an eye roll. “Don’t you get it by now? He’d do anything for you. Except maybe smile too much, or speak in full sentences.”

Sophie’s legs moved of their own accord, carrying her outside into the golden afternoon light. Luke stopped when he saw her, that familiar half-smile tugging at his lips. Behind him, the group—her online supporters, her virtual community made flesh—watched with barely contained excitement.

“You did this?” Sophie asked Luke.

“Thought your opening should have the right people here. The ones who believed in it from the start.”

“But…social media…you hate all that,” Sophie said. “You once said hashtags were ‘the death of meaningful conversation’ and that was one of your less extreme opinions.”

“I don’t hate it,” Luke said, stepping closer. “Just didn’t get it. Didn’t get why it mattered to you.” He jerked his chin toward the group gathered behind him. “Took another look at that crowdfunding page of yours. Read what they wrote.” He shrugged, a little awkward. “Figured out it’s not all noise. Sometimes it’s people giving a damn. About you. About what you’re building.”

She noticed Finn was standing among the crowd, a small smile on his face.

But the biggest surprise of all was Lisa. Her sister. Right there in the flesh, wearing wide-leg rust-colored trousers, a silky cream blouse tucked just-so and a statement blazer with shoulder pads sharp enough for a knife fight. Her light brown waves were swept into a low knot, and her lipstick was the kind of red that said, I own the room and probably the building, too. She rolled a compact carry-on suitcase behind her like it was a fashion accessory, not a piece of luggage.

“Lisa?” Sophie blinked. “Are you—What—How?”