Chapter Twenty-Three Sophie
Twenty-Three
Sophie
Sophie smoothed down her floral wrap dress as she approached the town hall entrance with Luke, who looked criminally handsome in dark jeans and a forest-green button-down.
His ramrod-straight posture suggested he might be wearing a suit of armor beneath it, though, and he kept fidgeting with his collar like it was plotting his assassination.
Luke had suggested they attend the town hall meeting together, mentioning in his typically cryptic way that Sophie might want to “dress nice” for it, an odd recommendation for what Sophie assumed would be a casual civic gathering, but she was happy to oblige.
Anything that involved spending more time in Luke Rhodes’ company was fine by her, even if it meant subjecting herself to the mysterious workings of small-town American democracy.
Besides, she was curious about the community she was joining, and Luke’s invitation felt like another small step toward whatever was building between them.
The Solace Springs Community Center occupied a converted 1940s church hall in the main street, all honey-colored wood paneling and tall windows that someone had optimistically tried to modernize with mismatched curtains in various shades of faded floral.
Folding chairs that had probably witnessed decades of town drama were arranged in slightly crooked rows facing a modest stage where a hand-painted banner reading “Welcome Spring!” hung at a jaunty angle.
A serving table along one wall held the inevitable coffee urn that looked like it had been burbling away at town meetings forever, flanked by paper cups and a selection of homemade cookies.
The place was packed, too; at least a hundred people squeezed into the hall.
“You know,” Sophie said to Luke, “when you said ‘town meeting,’ I pictured something quaint. Maybe twelve people around a kitchen table arguing about whose turn it is to water the community flowers.”
Luke did a half chuckle. “You’re about to get a proper education in how Solace Springs politics works.”
They took their seats and Sophie found herself wedged between Luke and Margaret. He looked like a giant sitting in a child’s chair and his proximity to her was doing highly inappropriate things to her concentration.
Margaret’s sharp eyes surveyed the room like a general assessing her troops.
Sophie followed her gaze, taking in the familiar faces she’d come to know over the past week.
Mabel bustled around the front of the room like a caffeinated hummingbird while simultaneously directing Ella from the museum about proper folding chair deployment.
The woman could run a small country if she set her mind to it.
Grace was at the coffee station, pink-tipped hair catching the overhead lights as she arranged cups and napkins. Her son Zach had taken up a position against the wall, perfecting the art of the teenage slouch.
Caleb swept toward the coffee urn in an aggressively floral shirt that could be seen from space, gesticulating about something that had his husband Mikkel wearing a patient expression of loving resignation.
Sophie nearly choked on her own breath as Luke shifted beside her, his thigh brushing against hers. Good God, the man was like a space heater.
She noticed a woman in her thirties with a hard bob watching him. Then she caught Sophie’s eye and gave her a tight but totally fake smile.
What was her deal?
Before Sophie could think any further about it, a whistle pierced the air. Abe, the same man who’d officiated her cultish ceremony a couple of nights ago, was at the podium.
“Right!” he barked. “Time to get this show on the road.”
The woman from the knitting circle with a baby strapped to her chest and dark circles under her eyes called out, “Can we skip the opening remarks and get to the part where we solve the break-ins? Some of us need to get home before our children stage a rebellion.”
“Order!” Abe commanded, banging a gavel with unnecessary force. “We’ll follow proper procedure, Isabel, or I’ll clear this room!”
“Wow, he’s taking this seriously,” Sophie whispered to Luke.
“Man thinks he’s still commanding a destroyer,” Luke muttered.
Margaret nodded. “Give my husband five minutes and he’ll start making us all salute the flag.”
“Right!” Abe called out. “Let’s get the smaller items out of the way first.”
He peered toward Mabel, who was standing to the side. She nodded and pointed at a woman in her fifties at the front.
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Turner,” Abe said, “your complaint about the rusty nail in dock post seventeen has been noted and will be addressed during regular maintenance next week.”
A woman in the third row stood up, eyes sparking with fury. “But it needs to be addressed now! That nail is a public safety hazard! What if a child—”
“She’s measured that nail three times this week,” Luke murmured to Sophie. “With a ruler.”
Sophie suppressed a giggle.
“Noted and logged,” said Mabel, cutting her off with military efficiency.
“Next,” Abe said. “Natalie’s request to relocate the town recycling bin six feet to the left has been approved by a vote of four to three.”
The woman with the bob who’d side-eyed Sophie smiled. “Thank you, Abe.”
“Democracy in action,” Luke said under his breath. “Nothing says ‘civic engagement’ like a heated debate over garbage placement.”
Sophie had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing out loud.
As the meeting progressed with more earth-shattering municipal decisions, Sophie found herself watching what could only be described as a masterclass in small-town theatre.
All the time, Mabel helped Abe, conducting from the front like she was leading the London Symphony Orchestra rather than a room full of people who couldn’t agree on the proper way to fold a napkin.
“She’s got a whistle in her purse,” Luke added quietly. “Uses it when things get too rowdy. Learned it from her stint as a soccer mom.”
Grace was in charge of diplomatic coffee service, flitting between mediating disputes and preventing what looked like an imminent sugar packet shortage.
Every few minutes, she’d catch her son Zach’s eye and deploy that universal mother telepathy that somehow conveyed “stand up straight and stop looking like attending this meeting violates the Geneva Convention.”
Caleb had appointed himself the evening’s fashion commentator, stage-whispering observations to Mikkel like he was providing commentary for the Met Gala. “Look at Jean’s ensemble. Beige on beige with a hint of taupe. Bold choice for someone about to unleash hell about splinters in the dock.”
The mention of said splinter incident caused a collective groan that suggested it had achieved legendary status in local folklore.
“Every goddamn meeting,” Luke muttered beside her. “Like clockwork.”
Sophie bit her lip again to keep from laughing. “What exactly happened with this splinter?”
“Three-hour emergency town meeting. Accusations of negligent maintenance. Jean Hodgson threatened to sue the entire municipal government over a piece of wood smaller than a matchstick.”
“Now onto the most important business of the evening,” Abe said, interrupting the hubbub. “The recent fire and museum break-in. Sheriff?”
The casual chatter died instantly, replaced by whispers and looks of concern. Isabel shifted her baby to her other hip, jaw tightening. Luke even stopped joking long enough to lean forward with interest.
Sophie noticed a sheriff standing near the back, a blond Viking type who was even taller than Luke. He strode to the front of the room.
“We’ve had four confirmed incidents in the past two weeks,” the sheriff reported. “Museum, general store, and two private residences. No major damage, minimal theft. Whoever’s doing this seems to be searching for something specific.”
“What kind of something?” Grace asked, unconsciously moving closer to Zach.
“Hard to say. Papers scattered, drawers rifled through, but electronics and valuables left untouched.”
“Probably teenagers,” proclaimed Natalie with an eye roll as she looked at Zach. “That’s what happens when parents don’t discipline properly. In my day—”
“In your day?” Grace interrupted with the exhausted patience of a woman who’d heard this lecture before. “You’re only thirty-five, Natalie, Jesus.”
“Yeah,” Jake added, “and I seem to recall sneaking a smoke behind the school with you and damn near torching half the county. Still got the scorch marks to prove it.”
Natalie bristled like an offended porcupine. “Well, I never—”
“Enough!” Abe’s voice cracked like a whip. “This isn’t helpful. Jake, what about the fire on the island?”
“Looks like a small campfire that got out of control,” Jake said, “but the set-up was deliberately hidden from view.”
The sheriff nodded. “Could be connected to the break-ins, could be separate. We’re investigating.”
A murmur went up around the room and Sophie felt Luke tense beside her.
“We’ve increased patrols,” the sheriff said over the sound, “but everyone should remain vigilant. Lock your doors, report anything unusual.”
As the sheriff continued detailing the break-ins while offering advice to women living alone, Sophie felt Luke’s shoulder press against hers, solid and warm.
She’d noticed how his posture had changed entirely now the topic of the fire and the break-ins had started, from casual observer to something far more primal.
Sophie’s breath caught as his hand found the back of her chair, his arm creating a protective barrier behind her shoulders.
The gesture was subtle enough that no one else would notice, but to Sophie it felt monumental.
Heat pooled low in her belly as she became hyper-aware of everything about them: the steady rise and fall of his chest, the barely restrained power in his large frame.
She wanted to lean into that strength, to feel those arms wrap around her properly, to let this big bear of a man shield her from whatever shadows were lurking around Solace Springs.
When she risked a glance up at him, she found his blue eyes already on her, dark with something that made her pulse race. For a heartbeat, the town meeting faded away entirely, leaving just the two of them and the promise of what those protective hands might feel like on her skin.