Page 41 of What Remains of Grace

Jenna turned back to her desk, pretending to check an email that wasn’t there. It didn’t matter, though, the image had already lodged somewhere in her ribcage, too warm, too alive. She’d seen plenty of men like him. Construction sites were full of strong arms and work-worn hands. But something about him made her pulse misbehave.

A soft knock broke her focus. Two knuckles. Polite. Familiar.

She stood, starting to smooth her shirt before realizing how ridiculous that was, then opened the back door.

Cole stood on the step, clipboard tucked under one arm, eyes bright from the sun. His voice was roughened by the day, low and easy. “Didn’t mean to bother you. Just finished up next door. Thought I’d check in before I take off.”

Jenna leaned against the doorframe, grateful for the wood between them. “Everything good?”

“Better than good. Soffit’s reinforced, subfloor’s secured, and the rot wasn’t half as bad as I thought. It’s solid now.”

“Well, look at you, making my evening a little better.”

He grinned. “I like to exceed expectations.”

It was a throwaway line, one he’d probably used a hundred times, but something about the way he said it made her throat go dry. He must’ve seen the flicker in her expression because his grin tilted just a little.

“Or maybe,” he added lightly, “I just don’t like leaving things halfway done.”

She blinked, unsure whether he meant the project or something else entirely. “Good to know,” she said carefully, keeping her voice even. “Noted.”

He chuckled, glancing past her shoulder into the office. “Looks different in here. You’ve been busy.”

“Trying to make sense of the chaos.”

“That’s your thing.”

She arched a brow. “Chaos?”

He smiled again, slow and sure. “Fixing it.”

The space between them seemed to shift, dense with a quiet energy that made her pulse trip. Cole shifted the clipboard to his other hand, thumb brushing against the edge like he needed something to do.

“Well,” he said finally, stepping back, “I’ll stop hovering. Just wanted to say the house looks good.” There was a brief pause where she reflected on the changes to the rooms behind her when she heard his deep, low voice come again, “You too.”

She felt like her heartbeat stuttered. “What?”

He gave a small, crooked smile. “The house. It looks good.”

Before she could decide whether she’d imagined the pause between words, he tipped his head with a small salute and started down the steps, boots crunching against the gravel.

She watched him cross the yard until he disappeared behind his truck. Then she exhaled: loud, shaky, half laugh, half surrender.

“God help me,” she muttered.

* * *

That night, the house felt different. Lighter somehow. The rhythm of hammers and saws had been replaced by the imperceptible tick of cooling wood and the low, familiar drone of the vents. She’d spent the day checking things off lists: repairs made, rooms reclaimed, boxes sealed and labeled. Progress, she could see. Progress, she could measure.

But none of it settled her.

She couldn’t stop hearing his voice. You too.

Just two words, tossed over his shoulder like nothing, but they’d settled into her like a warm hand on her spine.

Did he mean anything by it? Probably not.

He was just . . . Cole. Steady. Kind. The sort of man who made people feel seen without trying.