Page 71 of What Remains of Grace

Heat surged through her like fireworks detonating along her spine.

She heard her own gasp, and he deepened the kiss for half a heartbeat, then tore himself away, breath shaking. His chest rose and fell like he’d just surfaced from underwater, eyes wrecked, mouth still parted from hers.

And then his expression shattered. She felt him pull back, fingers curling like he needed to hold on to something. Or to her. Cold rushed in where his body had been, leaving her skin prickling.

“Please,” he whispered, voice raw in a way she’d never heard.

Her chest tightened. She swallowed. “What?”

“Please, Jenna…” His thumb brushed her cheek, gentle even as he stepped back. “I can’t do this right now. It’s too important.”

She stared at him, stunned, breathless, wanting to pull him back and demand answers, or demand more, maybe demand everything, but he was already stepping off the porch.

“Go back to bed,” he said with pained resolve. “Please.”

And then he turned, crossed the yard, and disappeared into the cab of his truck. The engine started. Tail lights glowed. He drove away.

Jenna stood alone on the porch, fingers still trembling, lips still tingling, pulse still racing. “What the hell,” she whispered to no one, “just happened?”

He’d come here.

At two in the morning. To tell her . . . something. Something he still couldn’t say.

His words, “I can’t do this right now. It’s too important,” didn’t even make sense. What was so important that he came here but still didn’t tell her?

Jenna closed the door slowly, leaned back against it, and let her head fall forward.

Then she walked to her bedroom, crawled beneath the covers, and curled around Biscuit, who huffed like she’d woken him from a royal sleep.

Her heart didn’t settle for a long, long time.

* * *

Cole gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white. His lips still tingled. His chest still hurt. Jesus. He’d kissed her.

He’d finally kissed her.

And instead of letting himself stay in the warmth of it, instead of holding her the way he’d wanted to for months, he’d torn himself away so fast it felt like something inside him had split clean in two.

He didn’t know how he made it home. Didn’t remember the turns. Didn’t remember the road. All he could see was the look on her face when he stepped back. She was shocked, hurt, and reaching for him like she wasn’t ready for the moment to end.

He wasn’t ready either. Not even close.

His breath shook. His pulse still hadn’t settled. That kiss had undone him, every wall, every careful line he’d drawn between them, ripped apart in one impossible, perfect second. He’d tasted Jenna’s breath, felt her hands, heard that soft gasp when he pulled her closer, and every part of him had snapped into place like it had been waiting, aching, for her.

And then he’d walked away.

She wasn’t ready, and he wanted her too much to risk ruining whatever this was becoming.

19

The Finish Line

By Saturday morning, the bakery didn’t look like a construction site anymore.

There were still traces of it, sure: an empty paint bucket shoved under a prep table, a ladder leaning in the hallway, blue tape flags on a few stubborn spots of trim, but the bones of it were done.

The floor gleamed. The pendant lights over the counter cast hazy halos across the glass. The big front windows were clean enough that when Jenna wiped at one out of habit, the paper towel came away almost spotless.