Chapter Thirty-Three Sophie
Thirty-Three
Sophie
Sophie stared out of her kitchen window, fingers wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold twenty minutes ago, the book she’d been reading discarded on the side mid-chapter, a truly rare occurrence for Sophie.
She focused on the lake, its surface mirror-smooth in the early-morning light, broken only by the occasional ripple of a passing fish.
Opposite her window, Luke’s curtains remained stubbornly drawn.
She’d heard him return well past midnight, the soft thud of his boots on the dock just audible through her half-open window.
She’d crept to the glass, peering out and catching a glimpse of his silhouette against the moonlight.
Had he been stumbling slightly? It was hard to tell, but the ramrod-straight posture she’d grown accustomed to had seemed softer, more fluid.
Less “I’ve-got-a-broomstick-for-a-spine” and more “I’ve-possibly-been-drinking-away-my-feelings.
” He hadn’t so much as glanced toward her boathouse, even when she practically pressed her face against the window like a desperate goldfish.
“Well, you’ve properly cocked that up, haven’t you?
” she muttered to herself, finally abandoning her cold tea in the sink with the dramatic flair of a woman discarding her last hopes and dreams. “Gold star for you, Sophie Bennett, relationship wrecker extraordinaire. Perhaps I should add it to my CV: ‘Special skills include organizing bookshelves by color and driving away hot men with the velocity of an F1 racer.’ ”
The thing was, she hadn’t actually lied, not really.
She’d just…omitted certain details. What had he expected her to say all those weeks ago?
“Hello, I’m Sophie, your brand-new neighbor who nearly drowned in your lake.
By the way, I bought this place with money from the internet after my boyfriend dumped me for being boring.
Also, four thousand strangers have a vested interest in whether or not I install reclaimed wood shelving. Fancy a cuppa?”
Or maybe that was exactly what she should have done?
In fact, maybe this was a sign. Maybe she should pack up and go back to London, with its familiar streets and crowds where she could blend in anonymously. Back to a life where she understood the rules.
Then she caught her own reflection in the glass: big brown eyes staring back at her, resigned and defeated, with a hint of “pathetic” around the edges.
No.
No.
Not just no, but hell no, with sprinkles and a cherry on top.
This was exactly what she’d promised herself she wouldn’t do again.
Make her entire world about a man with nice forearms and the emotional processing skills of a stubborn rock.
Let a man’s opinion dictate her choices like she was some sort of Victorian wife dependent on her husband’s approval to choose a new bonnet.
Diminish herself to fit someone else’s expectations, folding up her dreams until they were small enough to stuff into the pocket of his apparently superior worldview.
She’d done it with Marcus. Rearranged her life to accommodate his moods, his schedule, his opinions.
And now here she was, ready to give up her dream because another man had decided she wasn’t doing it right?
Because Luke “I’m Too Rugged for the Internet” Rhodes disapproved of how she’d financed her business and had decided her online community wasn’t authentic enough for his precious lake?
Sophie straightened her shoulders, properly looking around the boathouse.
Not with the dreamy eyes of a woman in lust, but with the clear-eyed focus of a woman with a clipboard and a mission.
She needed to unpack and put together those smaller bookshelves.
Nothing like a flat-pack construction project to distract the mind.
But as she puzzled over the ridiculously complicated instructions, her mind started to throw memories at her, rubbing salt in the wound.
There, by the newly paned window, was where Luke had pinned her against the wall, kissing her until she couldn’t remember her own name.
There, on the workbench that sat by the window seat, where they’d scattered her carefully organized nails (which had taken her forty-seven minutes and three cups of tea to tidy, thank you very much). There, on the new stairs, where they’d—
“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.