Page 68 of What Remains of Grace

She wanted to ask him what he’d been about to say. He seemed to want to say it, too.

But neither of them moved.

Then, he turned and walked away, back to his truck, the same way he had so many times before.

She drove home with the windows down, the music low, her heart somehow too full and too empty at the same time.

Biscuit waited curled at the foot of her bed when she slipped in under the quilt. She scratched behind his ear, letting the quiet settle.

She crawled into bed that night with her thoughts tangled between the porch, the dream she still couldn’t quite shake, and the words he’d almost said before swallowing them back down.

She didn’t know what any of it meant. She only knew it wasn’t leaving her alone.

18

After Midnight

Cole watched her taillights disappear down the road, that hazy blue glow of her dashboard fading into the dark like a door closing.

He sat there longer than he meant to. Long enough for Travis to shout something from the truck. Long enough for the deck lights to shut off behind him.

Long enough for the weight in his chest to settle into something he didn’t want to examine too closely.

He’d opened his mouth twice to tell her something real. And both times, the words had caught behind his teeth.

He wasn’t ready. Or maybe he was, and that was the problem.

Because what lived in him for Jenna Hart wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t just an interest. It wasn’t something he could shrug off at the end of a job. It was something with teeth. Something that had already taken hold long before he realized he was lost.

He started up the truck, pulled out of the lot, heart pounding in a way he couldn’t slow. He told himself the drive would clear his head, that a few quiet miles might make sense of the mess inside him.

It didn’t.

Cole made it all the way home before the ache really set in.

Capt’n Jack’s had been loud, warm, full of laughter, the kind of night that should’ve left him tired in the good way. The roof was done. The crew had toasted to a job well handled. Jenna had smiled at him across that sticky wooden table more than once, and each time it had hit him like a reminder he didn’t want.

This project was almost over.

He walked through his apartment on autopilot, keys on the counter, shoes at the door, shirt peeled off and tossed over a chair. He changed into gray sweatpants and a thin jersey tee, the kind that had survived too many dryer cycles.

He stretched out in bed, but he didn’t sleep.

He rolled onto his back. Onto his side. Back again. The ceiling stared him down.

He could still see her, hair loose, cheeks warm from laughter, leaning across the table as she told Travis that no, football was not a personality type, and yes, she did in fact have a personal vendetta against sprinkles. He could still feel the moment she’d looked at him when everyone else got distracted, the quiet, searching sort of glance that slipped past every wall he’d built.

He’d almost said it then.

I want you, Jenna Hart. More than I should. More than makes sense. More than is remotely professional. More than is safe for either of us.

But every time he opened his mouth, something cut in. A joke. A toast. Emmie yelling for more fries. A boat horn. Anything and everything.

Maybe that was for the best, because if he said it out loud . . . what then?

He imagined the end of this job. The bakery finished, the house perfect, his clipboard full, and his excuses gone. He imagined walking up to the porch like he always did, and instead of her opening the door with that crooked half-smile, she’d blink and ask, “Why are you here?”

The thought made something cold settle in his chest.