Page 75 of What Remains of Grace

“Damn, boss,” Kevin said, whistling low at the finished front counter. “We do good work.”

“Yeah,” Travis said. “We’re pretty. We’re useful. We’re the full package.”

“You’re loud,” Emmie said. “That’s your package.”

She reached under the counter and pulled out a tray. “Cookies,” she announced. “Payment for past roof-related services. Also, bribery, so you all come back when we open and pretend to be customers so it looks like we have buzz.”

“What kind?” Jerrod asked, eyes already on the tray.

“Chocolate chip, oatmeal cherry, and these are lemon, Mom’s recipe,” Emmie said, a small note of pride in her voice.

The men descended like they hadn’t eaten in a week.

“Emmie Cruz,” Travis said around a mouthful, “you are the future of this nation.”

She preened. “Remember that when you tip.”

Cole leaned against the doorway between the hall and the kitchen, taking it in: his crew, comfortable as ever; Emmie, laughing; and Jenna, watching them with that softened expression that only showed up when she forgot to brace.

They should have all been in the middle of this together.

Instead, there was a noticeable gap between his orbit and hers, like an invisible line down the room nobody quite dared to cross.

He caught Travis clocking it. The man’s eyes flicked from Cole to Jenna and back again, sharp for once under the ball cap.

Here it came.

“So,” Travis said slowly, sauntering over under the pretense of examining the finish on the pastry case. “Everything good?”

“Punch list is tight,” Cole said. “We’re in a good spot.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Travis replied. His voice stayed lazy, but his gaze stayed fixed.

“Everything good . . . with you and Hart?”

Cole’s jaw clenched before he could stop it. “We’re fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Travis flicked a cookie crumb into his mouth, unbothered. “It’s just . . . I’ve been here ten minutes, and you two have been in the same room the whole time, and neither of you has looked at the other once. No water delivery. No banter. No judging the playlists. Usually by now there’s at least one moment where you stare at each other like somebody muted the room.”

“We’re working,” Cole said, a little too flat. “Big weekend. Focused.”

Travis snorted. “I’ve seen you focused. This is you acting like a guy who stuck his hand in a blender.”

“Colorful,” Cole muttered.

“Accurate,” Travis countered. He tilted his head. “You two fight?”

Cole could still feel the imprint of her hands on his chest, the jolt of panic when he’d pulled away, the way her face had opened and then shuttered in the space of a breath.

“No,” he said, “we didn’t fight.”

“Did you do something that will lead to a fight?” Travis asked. “Future tense?”

Cole shot him a look. “Since when did you become a relationship counselor?”

“Since it started affecting the jobsite vibes,” Travis said easily. “Look, man, I don’t need details, but I’m just saying, if you’re going to spontaneously combust, maybe do it after final inspection. I’d like to work in this town again.”

Cole huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t hurt. “We’re fine,” he repeated, softer this time. “Drop it.”