Page 37 of What Remains of Grace

Something in the suggestion caught in her chest, sharp and unexpected.

Brooks had painted those shutters, and they’d teased him relentlessly about the colors not matching. The colors were never going to match. The paint on the bakery was a million years old even then, and none of them had the time, money, or manpower to repaint all the bakery trim, so he matched it as best he could, but they gave him hell about it, because that’s what they did.

“Yeah,” she said finally, her voice tight. “Match the blue.”

He studied her for a moment but didn’t push. “You got it, boss.” The word hit her harder than it should have.

Boss.

That was what everyone in Atlanta had called her—on job sites, in meetings, in a life that had felt so far away from this one until this moment. No one called her that here.

She didn’t know how he could have known what it meant to her or if he was teasing her. But somehow, Cole Bennett just knew.

By afternoon, professionalism had become armor. With his crew watching, Cole was the picture of composure: precise, courteous, focused. It made it easier for Jenna to mirror him, to keep her tone brisk and her hands in her pockets instead of tracing the air between them.

When the others drifted outside to load equipment, he stayed back to double-check a measurement. They ended up standing shoulder-to-shoulder again, close enough for Jenna to feel the warmth coming off him.

“Your crew’s efficient,” she said, low enough that only he could hear.

“So’s the client,” he murmured back.

She smiled despite herself. “Are you always this charming on demo day?”

“Only when the drywall cooperates.”

She couldn’t believe she had said that. She called the man charming. It was nothing, really— banter, professional, harmless. Right? But when someone called his name from outside, she felt the loss of the space between them like a physical thing.

Cole wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “We’ll wrap for today. I’ll get you the updated timeline tonight. I’ll send the light fixtures and paint swatches, too.”

“Okay.”

He looked toward the house. “You need me to walk that one more time? Make sure we didn’t miss anything?”

She shook her head. “No. I know what we’re doing.”

“Of course you do,” he said with a wink.

She should’ve left it there. Let him cross the yard, get in his truck, and drive away without making this feel like something more than a contractor walking a job site.

But every cell in her body was screaming to say, Actually, yeah, let’s walk it one more time, like she was asking him up for coffee after a date.

Perfect, she thought. Now I sound like a construction groupie.

She caught movement in the window. Biscuit, perched on the sill, staring out at her like a tiny, furry therapist waiting for her to make better choices.

Her stomach twisted. “Don’t look at me like that.”

The truck engine turned over, and she realized she was still gripping the porch railing like it might stop her from doing something stupid. Professional, she reminded herself.

Professional and composed.

But as the sound of his tires faded down the street, all she could think of was how much she already wanted the next ‘walk-through’.

* * *

The noise lingered even after the last truck pulled away. Jenna could still feel the thrum of saws and hammers, and the pulse of something being torn apart on purpose. The bakery looked hollowed out, but in the familiar way that things always were before they could come alive again.

Inside the house, the air felt too still. She dropped her keys on the counter and stared at the couch. It had become her default place, safe and temporary, an easy way not to commit. But the longer she stood there, the more it felt like avoidance.