Page 118 of What Remains of Grace

It was a deep plum dress, dark and bold, and nothing delicate about the way it hit him. The fabric draped low in the front, an intentional kind of trouble, held up by thin beaded straps that crossed over the bare line of her back. It hugged her waist, skimmed her hips, and fell straight to the floor like it knew exactly what it was doing.

He wasn’t looking at the dress, not really.

He was looking at her, every inch of confidence, curve, and quiet power it revealed. The kind of sight that stopped a man in his tracks and made the rest of the room go blurry.

Her hair was down, loose waves falling around her shoulders. She wore small gold earrings and the simple pendant that he’d seen her fiddle with when she was nervous. Her makeup was subtle, but her eyes were defined, her mouth a muted rose that made him want to kiss her, just not in front of Mrs. Cartwright.

She looked like herself, just elevated.

Not as untouchable as she was in her business armor, but still far too stunning for anyone to casually approach. Exactly what Emmie had aimed for.

Cole forgot about the table leg entirely. Emmie materialized beside Jenna, doing a quick, satisfied once-over. “You’re welcome,” Cole heard her say.

“Don’t start,” Jenna muttered back, but she didn’t smack Emmie’s hand away when the girl straightened a nonexistent wrinkle in the fabric.

Cole forced his hands to let go of the table and made his way over, trying to act like his heartbeat hadn’t just kicked into a higher gear.

“Hey,” he said.

Jenna turned to him, and for a second, the busy bakery faded away. It was just her and that dress and the faint shadow of the week in her eyes.

“Hey,” she said.

“You look . . .” He caught himself before something sappy fell out. “Like Emmie did a good job.”

Emmie smirked. “He means you look hot as hell.”

“Em,” Jenna hissed, “language!”

Cole coughed. “I mean, I’m not disagreeing.”

Color rose in Jenna’s cheeks, and he filed that away in the part of his brain that kept him going on bad days.

“You clean up okay, too.” Jenna’s eyes flicked over him. “Very . . . Rotary chic.”

“Thanks. Emmie didn’t dress me, but she did threaten me if I didn’t dress to impress,” he said.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. A week’s worth of late-night drives to Cole’s place, quiet dinners on his couch, Jenna’s face tucked into his neck when the world felt too big, all of it sat humming just under the surface.

He wanted to reach for her hand. Wanted to press his mouth to her hair. Wanted to tell her this was going to work, that they were going to make it.

Instead, he pointed at the banner and asked, “You ready?”

“No,” she said honestly. “But I’m here.”

“That counts,” he said.

Her mouth curved, soft, sad, and strong all at once.

“All right,” Emmie cut in, clapping her hands once. “Sentimental time over. We have old people to charm and wallets to empty. Let’s go, team.”

She marched off toward the front, Jenna in her wake.

Cole watched them go, Emmie blazing forward and Jenna in that deep plum dress, heading into a fight she never asked for, and something settled hard inside him.

Whatever happened in court, whatever number the judge ultimately circled on some sheet of paper, tonight they weren’t just defendants.

They were the Hart women.