Page 80 of What Remains of Grace

But this was the last thing she needed; another variable to manage, another thing to hold together, or another person she could lose. Her life was already a balance beam she walked with her toes curled over the edge. And still . . . she’d said yes and driven here anyway.

But when Jenna pulled in just before six, Cole was already there, leaning against the brick wall near the door.

He wore worn-in jeans and a simple grey T-shirt that did absolutely nothing to hide the lines of his shoulders. A ball cap shaded his eyes, but she could still see the familiar shape of his mouth when he smiled at the sight of her.

For a wild, disorienting second, her brain supplied the image of him in those grey sweatpants low on his hips and that damp T-shirt clinging to his chest, standing on her porch in the middle of the night like a man who’d come undone.

Warmth unspooled low in her stomach, impossible to ignore. She knew exactly why she had come.

“You found it,” he said, pushing off the wall.

“The marketing was . . . compelling,” she said. “You had me at ‘most days’ air conditioning.”

His mouth kicked up. “They’re honest,” he said. “That’s what counts.”

Inside, the place smelled like fried food, old wood, and the distinct tang of spilled beer. Christmas lights hung along the ceiling year-round. A jukebox in the corner cycled through old country and rock songs. A handful of regulars sat at the bar, the kind of people who’d been coming for so long they probably had their own hooks for their keys.

It felt familiar in a way she hadn’t expected, like places she used to go before life got complicated.

Cole guided her to a small table near the back. “This okay?” he asked.

“It’s perfect,” she said, and meant it.

He ordered the champagne at the bar with the ease of someone who had done it before. When the bartender popped the cork, it made more of a dull thud than a celebratory pop, but Jenna still flinched and laughed.

“You weren’t kidding,” she said when the bottle hit the table, already sweating. “This is aggressively inexpensive.”

“Told you,” he said, pouring both of them a plastic flute. “I have very specific tastes.”

“In bubbly or in celebration venues?” she asked.

“Apparently both,” he said. “To The Blue Cypress.”

She lifted her cup. “To The Blue Cypress.”

The champagne was . . . not good, but it was cold and fizzy and went straight to the edges of all the places inside her that had felt tight for months.

They talked. At first, it was easy stuff: the inspector’s quirks, the way Tarpon’s calendar revolved around Sponge Docks festivals and tourist season, the story of the bar’s Wednesday night karaoke, and the time Travis had tried to sing something and nearly gotten them all banned.

“Please tell me there’s a video,” she said, eyes bright.

“There is,” he said. “It will be used as blackmail when the time is right.”

They refilled their glasses. The low hum of conversation and jukebox noise wrapped around them, turning their small table into its own little pocket.

She was aware of him in a way that felt almost unfair. The way he cradled his drink, the way his forearms rested on the table, the way he leaned in just slightly when she spoke, as if everything she said was worth hearing.

“So,” he said after a while, swirling the remaining bubbles in his cup. “Tomorrow, inspector. After that?”

“After that, we launch,” she said. “Soft open, then the real one. Emmie’s already planning the playlist.”

He smiled, “She’s got taste.”

“She’s got opinions,” Jenna corrected. “Big ones.”

He huffed a muffled laugh. “You’ll do great.”

The words landed like a weight and a gift at the same time. “You sound sure.”