Page 62 of What Remains of Grace

He huffed out a hushed laugh and stopped at the bottom of the steps, close enough to see the faint shine on her collarbone from the heat.

“You good?”

She nodded. “Just finishing up emails. Trying to convince a lender that yes, everything really will be up to code by the time they send their guy out.” She rolled her eyes. “You’d think you were some kind of professional or something.”

“I hear rumors.” He tipped his head toward the house. “How’s it feel? With everything inside starting to look finished.”

“Less like I’m squatting,” she said. “More like we actually live here.”

“Good,” he said, “that’s the goal.”

There was a moment where neither of them moved. Cole could’ve said goodnight and walked away. He should have.

This was the part that scared him the most, the staying.

He could handle daylight. Noise. Movement. Crew members nearby.

Daylight meant lines, rules, and boundaries he could pretend he wasn’t crossing.

But night? Night blurred everything. Night made every choice feel like a confession.

And Jenna Hart was not a woman he could afford to misstep with. Not with her grief still raw. Not with Emmie watching him like a guard dog in Vans. Not with a whole house full of ghosts she was trying to make peace with.

So he stayed right to the edge of dark. And then he forced himself to go.

Until recently.

Instead, he found himself leaning against the post by the steps, like staying were the most natural thing in the world.

“You know you don’t have to babysit the job every second,” he said. “You could pick a day and get out of the house. Trust me. Go do something reckless like . . . sit on the beach.”

“Reckless,” she echoed dryly. “You live dangerously, Bennett.”

“So I’m told.”

She sipped her drink, hiding a smile behind the rim. “Besides, I’m not sure you can be trusted. If I left you alone in there, you’d probably rearrange the whole house just to see if you liked it better.”

He lifted one shoulder. “Can neither confirm nor deny.”

She laughed, and the sound settled into him like it had a place there.

“So,” she said, setting her glass down with a gentle clink, “how much longer do you think before we’re . . . done?”

“With inspections and punch list? Just about another week, maybe less.”

“And after that?”

“After that, it’s your show. You and Emmie and Biscuit and the ghost of a thousand cinnamon rolls.”

She smiled, but looked away. “Ghosts seem to like this place.”

“You’re doing right by them.”

She looked back, startled. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

The air shifted; something hovered between them.