Page 43 of What Remains of Grace

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Outside, the heat sat heavy over the block, thick and still. The crew broke for water every thirty minutes, shirts clinging to their backs, conversation dropping to short sentences between gulps.

Cole stood beside the truck, sun catching the curve of his jaw, phone pressed to his ear. Even from where she stood, Jenna could hear the restraint in his tone, the kind of patience that came from being promised roofing material “by Monday” three Mondays ago. His jaw flexed once before he spoke again. Controlled, yes, but not calm. Something in him had shifted.

Travis wandered inside and leaned against the doorframe, sipping from a bottle of water. “Does he ever get mad?” Jenna asked.

Travis huffed a short laugh. “Yeah. But he doesn’t take it out on us like a lot of guys. Saves it for the gym. Guy could probably bench-press that truck.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “And you couldn’t?” she teased, gesturing playfully toward his build. Travis was strong, broad-shouldered, and solidly built, but nothing like the sheer size of Cole.

“Smaller trucks,” Travis said, deadpan. “Fuel efficient.”

Cole hung up and walked back just in time to catch the end of the exchange. “What’s fuel efficient?”

“Nothing,” Jenna said too quickly.

Travis smirked. “Just admiring management.”

Cole raised a brow but didn’t bite. “Lunch in ten.”

Then, turning to Jenna with that calm, unreadable look that made her forget what she was supposed to be doing, he asked, “You eating?”

She hesitated. “If I can find a clean surface.”

“Good luck,” he said, voice even, and walked away.

It was nothing. Barely a conversation. But it knocked her pulse slightly off its mark. Yesterday’s comment had opened a door, and this morning, his distance felt like he was quietly closing it again.

They ate under the oak tree between the house and the bakery, half in shade, half in glare. Cole passed her a sandwich from a brown paper bag. “Turkey. Didn’t know what you liked.”

“Turkey’s fine,” she said, taking it. “You didn’t have to—”

“You skipped breakfast,” he interrupted. “Figured you’d skip lunch too.”

She blinked.

“You look like someone who forgets herself when she’s working,” he offered.

Jenna frowned, “You make that sound like a flaw.”

“Did I?” He looked up from his thermos, eyes dark and steady, and she suddenly hated the heat because she could feel it rising in her chest.

“So,” she said quickly, “how long till the roof?”

He leaned back, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Two weeks, if the supplier ever calls back. You nervous about the tarp?”

“Every afternoon storm since Monday,” she admitted.

He nodded once. “I’d worry too. But it’ll hold.”

Something in his tone, low and confident, made her believe him even before she wanted to. He reached across her for a bottle of water, causing his forearm to flex, and her brain short-circuited for half a second.

He didn’t notice. Or pretended not to. That was the problem. He was perfectly polite, perfectly normal, perfectly untouchable, and she was a fool for wanting to know whether “You too” had meant anything at all.

The afternoon rolled on in a haze of motion and noise. The smell of paint mingled with the sharp bite of new wood and humidity. The roof tarp flapped in the wind like a restless animal.

Emmie came home once for sunscreen and once again for her phone charger, each time bursting through the door with a wave of sunshine and noise. She looked like summer itself, with tan lines, a messy ponytail, and that black Civic parked crooked in the drive.