Chapter Thirty-Two Luke
Thirty-Two
Luke
“And if you look to your right, you’ll see the osprey nest that’s been here since the nineties. Same family returns every spring.”
Luke guided the boat through the water, his mind a thousand miles from the tour script he could recite in his sleep. The Vance family—middle-aged couple with twin boys who hadn’t looked up from their damn phones once—nodded politely.
“Is that the same as an eagle?” Mrs. Vance asked, shielding her eyes.
“Different bird. Ospreys are smaller, dark around the eyes,” he said, cutting his explanation short. No point wasting words on people who weren’t listening.
The lake stretched out ahead, steady and reliable, unlike certain British women with secret fundraising schemes and a few thousand strangers bankrolling them.
Four thousand of them.
Four thousand nosy outsiders with opinions about his lake. His town. His—
Luke’s grip tightened on the wheel.
“How deep is the water here?” Mr. Vance asked, breaking into his thoughts.
“Sixty feet. Deepest part’s near the bluffs. Hundred feet there.”
“Wow. Hear that, boys? A hundred feet deep!”
Neither kid looked up. Christ.
“Sorry, they’re watching some TikTok live with a gamer they love,” Mrs. Vance explained. “Apparently only happens once a year.”
TikTok. Same bullshit platform that purple-haired girl had mentioned. Fucking perfect.
Luke steered them through the standard route, pointing out landmarks with the bare minimum of explanation, just wanting the hour to end. By the time he docked back at the marina, his mood had turned as dark as the storm clouds rolling in from the west.
“Thanks for the tour!” Mrs. Vance chirped as they climbed out. “The boys can post all the videos I took when we get back to the hotel. We have a family channel, you know! Such great content.”
Content. Like his lake. The one his grandfather had taught him to fish on. It was just material for their internet popularity contest.
Just like it was for Sophie.
The marina office was empty, Abbey probably on lunch. Luke dropped into the chair, jabbing at the power button on the ancient desktop.
He shouldn’t do this. Should just leave it alone.
His fingers typed anyway: Sophie Bennett crowdfunding bookshop.
The results loaded instantly. Page after page about “The Cherry Blossom Boathouse” project. The first link was to something called Kickstarter, with a banner and video showing Sophie smiling into the camera.
Luke clicked.
“Help a Boring Girl Buy a Bookshop” the page announced in some fancy font.
Below was a video. Luke hesitated, then hit play.
Sophie appeared, sitting in what looked like a London apartment, wine glass in hand, eyes too bright. He drew in a sharp breath as she turned her laptop to show pictures of his lake. His town. The boathouse he’d fixed for her.
￡87,426 raised of an ￡85,000 goal.
Over a hundred grand in real money, all from strangers who now thought they had a stake in Solace Springs.
More scrolling revealed update after update: design plans, photos of the town, shots of the boathouse. And him in the background, like some local color for her little internet show.
The comments made him want to put his fist through the screen:
OMG the hot local builder helping her is straight out of a romance novel!!!
Loving these updates, especially Harbor Hottie! Planning our road trip to see it in person this summer!
Can’t wait to visit when it’s done, hopefully the boat guy will be there too! #BookTok road trip anyone?
The carpenter is HOT. More pics of him plz!
The carpenter. The builder. Boat guy. Was that all he was to her? Some background prop in her viral bookshop adventure?
Luke slammed the browser closed, feeling gutted like a fresh-caught trout. She’d made him part of her show without asking. Lied to his face about “friends” helping with funding when she’d invited the whole damn internet to invest in her fantasy.
“Luke? Everything all right?” Abbey poked her head in. “You look like you’re about to murder that computer.”
“Hey, Ab,” he managed. “Just checking the schedule.”
“Two o’clock canceled. Sunset cruise at six is still on.” She set her lunch down. “Want half my sandwich? You look like hell.”
“I’m good.” Luke stood. “Gonna check fuel.”
Outside, the lake sparkled in the sun, same as it always had. Tourists and locals mingled on the docks and nothing looked any different than yesterday.
Except everything was different.
Luke spent the next hour doing maintenance his boat didn’t need, hands working while his mind churned like lake water in a storm. When he headed back, Sophie was sitting outside her boathouse. She was wearing one of his old T-shirts. The sight sent a jolt through him: anger tangled with desire.
She jumped right up. “Luke!”
He focused on tying up his boat.
“Can we talk? About this morning. I should have told you about the crowdfunding—”
“Nothing to talk about.” His voice came out flat. Dead.
“There is, though.” She stepped closer, close enough that he caught the scent of her shampoo.
Focus, Rhodes. “I should have explained from the start. It began as this silly, wine-fueled joke after my breakup and then it actually worked. By the time we got together, I didn’t know how to bring it up without sounding—”
“Like you’d lied?” Luke shot back, hands still working mechanically as he coiled rope the way his grandfather had drilled into him. “Which you did.”
“Yes.” Her voice went small. “I did. And I’m sorry.”
He nodded once, still not looking at her. “Your business. Your funding. Nothing to do with me.”
“That’s not true. It has everything to do with you.” Her hand reached for his arm, but he sidestepped, putting the rope between them. Her hand dropped. “Luke, please look at me.”
He did, briefly. The hurt in her brown eyes sent a spike of guilt through him, but he shoved it down.
“Oh, Luke, come on,” she said with a sigh. “Really, it was just a bit of fun. It’s not hurting anyone!”
Luke’s face hardened. “Fun for you, maybe. But this town isn’t some quirky backdrop for your internet followers. It’s home. Real people live here. Not some purple-haired fake nutjobs.”
That made her pause. “Nutjobs? My followers are real people, too, you know. They’re not just faceless numbers on a screen.”
“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.