Chapter Eight Luke #3
Luke couldn’t help but admire her guts. This woman had her heart stomped on, her job yanked away, and here she was, still standing. Still sassing him on his own turf. He found himself admiring that more than he wanted to admit.
“So, how about you tell me more about your plan to deal with that bonus surprise?” Luke asked.
“I’ve got a whole notebook full of ideas.”
Luke arched an eyebrow. “A notebook?”
“Two actually. Well, one and three-quarters. I had to start a new one last night because I ran out of pages in the first. I’ve mapped out room layouts, paint samples, storage options. I have a whole timeline, too.”
“Oh yeah?” He tried not to look too cynical. Fact was, though, as his grandpa always used to say, planning a boathouse renovation was like planning a wedding in hurricane season.
“I know it’s a mess now,” Sophie said, “but I’ve broken it down into stages. First up, plumbing.”
Luke nodded. “Like I said, I know someone who can help with that.”
“Fab. Next, window repair, especially the large arched window.”
Luke gave her a look. “You can’t just fix the holes in that window, Sophie. The whole frame’s warped and rotted through. You need a custom replacement. Might be able to salvage the original trim, but it’s not a simple patch job.”
“But I’ve seen panes replaced,” she said, frowning. “Surely you can just take the broken part out and—”
“Not when the wood’s more air than frame. Trust me. One good storm and that whole thing’s coming down.”
She sighed, shoulders sinking just a touch. “Fine. New window. Add that to page forty-three.”
Luke smirked, but the expression softened when Sophie pulled out a notebook from her bag and jotted it down.
He strolled over and sat beside her on the log, looking at the notepad. “You really have planned this out,” he said.
“Of course I have. You think I’d haul my life across an ocean without a plan?”
“I mean…yes,” he said drily, and she laughed.
“Next on the list: wood treatment for the walls. I looked into products that work in lakefront settings. There’s this borate-based preservative you can apply after drying the wood completely.
Stops fungus, insects, the whole lot. It’s environmentally safe, too. I read it in a cabin renovation forum.”
Well, damn. He’d expected her to throw around words like “charming patina” and “rustic vibes,” not borate-based preservatives. Most people couldn’t tell mildew from moss, and here she was quoting lumber forums and fungus prevention like she’d grown up on a boatyard.
“I’m also thinking floor-to-ceiling bookshelves,” she continued. “Made from lake driftwood, so they feel part of the house’s story.”
“Which wall?” Luke asked, looking around.
“The east side,” Sophie said.
Luke frowned. There was a very narrow and battered window there, sure, but he’d always liked the design of it, with two stained-glass panes with boat patterns.
“The window looks directly out onto the wall of your boathouse,” Sophie continued, “so it doesn’t let much light in. If I have it taken out, I can create a whole wall of shelves.”
Luke rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Floor-to-ceiling shelves might be a bit much. You sure?”
“Absolutely,” she said firmly. “It’ll give it that magical, almost library-like feel. Like you’re stepping into a secret reading nook where every story is waiting to be found.”
He tried to imagine it: the musty old space transformed with books and color and sunlight streaming through new windows.
Her voice had taken on that hopeful edge again, and damn if it didn’t make him want to see it happen, even if he still thought the shelves were a little much.
And the idea of taking the window out…it just didn’t sit right with him.
He’d been used to looking at that window when his grandpa had used the place as a workshop.
“And new flooring, obviously,” she continued, flipping to another page in her notebook.
“I found a supplier in Elmsworth Falls who does reclaimed hardwood. Some of it even came from old barns in Canada. That’ll keep the rustic charm without the risk of falling through the floor.
After that, paint. Something warm. Maybe a soft green or buttery yellow? ”
Luke grunted, trying not to show how impressed he was. “Don’t paint over the original beams.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, as if insulted. “But I am adding a window seat. Right in front of the big window.”
He watched her as she spoke, hands animated, face alight with purpose. She wasn’t just throwing ideas at the wall, she was building something. And despite every bone in his body telling him not to get involved, he couldn’t help but feel pulled in.
“You’re really going all in on this,” he said.
“I have to. I want this place to feel like a sanctuary, not just for me, but for the people who’ll come through the doors. A bookshop with soul.”
“How long you planning for this all to take, then?”
“I’ve given myself twelve weeks, give or take a few days for unexpected hiccups,” she said brightly.
He had to stop himself from laughing. “Twelve weeks, huh?”
“Yes.” She didn’t even flinch. “Two weeks to clear the place out, sort the plumbing, and get all the boring inspections and structural stuff handled. Then flooring, windows, and wood treatment by week five. Painting and shelves after that. Final stage is furniture, book stock, signage…and voilà.” She beamed at him. “Grand opening by the end of spring.”
He gave a low whistle. “You’re talking about turning a relic into a functioning business in twelve short weeks. You know what they say about lake time, right? Everything takes twice as long and costs three times as much.”
“Well,” she said brightly, “good thing I’m stubborn and I brought spreadsheets.”
Luke gave her a long look. Part of him thought she might actually pull it off.
“So why a bookshop? Other than you clearly being a bookworm.”
“Is that judgment I hear in your voice, Captain Rhodes?”
“Curiosity,” he corrected.
Sophie’s expression softened. “Books became my friends. My dad traveled a lot for work and Mum was busy keeping the house running without him. My older sister, Lisa, was always out so I was often alone. But books were always there. I like how they’re these perfect little worlds you can carry around with you.
How they can make you feel less alone even when you are. ”
Something dangerous tugged in Luke’s chest as he watched her brown eyes lighting up when she talked about something she loved.
“Sounds like how I feel about the lake,” he found himself saying. “Been talking to these waters since I was a kid. Always listens. Never talks back unless you know how to hear it.”
“That’s exactly it.” Sophie nodded, leaning closer. “It’s finding something—a place, a book—where everything makes sense, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Like coming home.”
For a moment, everything went still. Just the lake breathing and Sophie looking at him with those eyes—warm brown with gold hiding in them like sun through whiskey.
Her hair caught the breeze, and Luke found himself frozen.
Too damn aware of how close she was sitting, their shoulders nearly touching on that weathered log.
The way her lips parted when she was thinking made something low in his gut tighten.
Hell, he could see the flutter of her pulse at her throat, right where her sweater dipped.
And that scent of hers—clean, with something floral—made his hands want to do things they had no business doing.
“So what’s your favorite spot?” she asked, breaking the spell. “If the lake is your book, which chapter do you read most?”
Luke felt himself smile—actually smile—and pointed to a distant shoreline. “There’s this hidden inlet where the morning light hits just right. Makes the water look like it’s on fire.”
“I like the sound of that place.”
“I’ll have to take you there sometime.”
Damn. He shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have let his guard down, even for a second.
He’d spent too many years building walls stone by stone, weatherproofing himself against repeating history.
His history. His father’s. This woman would be gone by the time the year was out, just like all the others who thought they wanted lake life until the first real winter hit.
Better to remember that now before the ice set in.
He pushed off the log, dusting off his hands. “Come on. If we don’t load this stuff up now, you’re gonna be rowing yourself back.”
Sophie hesitated then nodded, standing to help.
He needed to get this trip wrapped up and haul Sophie back to shore. Back to where her being anywhere near him wouldn’t feel like taking on water. She was too full of ideas and dreams and damn conversations about making a life that mattered.
He wasn’t going to fall for that. For her.
But then, as she laughed at something, the sound so warm and easy, Luke felt it—
A crack.
A tiny, barely there fissure in the walls he’d built.
And that…that was a problem.