Page 95 of What Remains of Grace

It was, in more ways than Jenna wanted to admit.

* * *

Cole threw himself into work the entire week. Not because he needed to.

Because he didn’t know what to do with himself otherwise.

Every gutter install, every drywall patch, every estimate, he tore into each one like momentum was the only thing holding him together. His crew didn’t ask questions; they just kept pace.

But Friday . . . Friday had a pulse.

By 6 p.m., he’d showered twice, changed shirts three times, and still didn’t feel right. He wasn’t even sure what “right” was supposed to look like when he was going to see Jenna Hart for the first time since he’d drunk-texted her that he was in love with her.

He told himself he was fine. He lied.

When he stepped into the bakery, the world narrowed to a single point. Jenna.

She was across the room talking to an employee, the blue-and-white floral dress hugging her waist and skimming her curves in a way that nearly dropped him to his knees. The ruffled neckline framed her collarbones, her hair falling loose and elegantly around her shoulders. Her smile was tentative but real.

She looked breathtaking.

Cole almost dropped dead on the spot.

Next to him, he heard someone say, “Mission accomplished.”

He glanced sideways just enough to see Emmie smirking mischievously at him. She looked triumphant, as though she had personally orchestrated this moment.

A villain mastermind indeed.

Jenna turned then, eyes finding him.

He straightened so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

Smile.

Not too big.

Not too small.

Friendly.

Normal. Cole managed something he hoped resembled human behavior. She smiled back mildly, warm but cautious.

He felt something inside him settle and quake at the same time.

He didn’t know how he was going to be friends with this woman. But tonight, she’d invited him back into her world.

And he wasn’t going to screw it up by charging ahead. Not this time.

* * *

Jenna hadn’t expected to feel self-conscious in the dress. But the moment she stepped into the bakery and caught her reflection in the glass of the pastry case, she had to take in a breath.

The dress Emmie chose was . . . a lot.

White and fitted, the fabric was delicate but structured. Blue floral print sweeping across it like watercolor. Thin straps. A neckline that was almost sweet until you noticed how it framed her breasts and collarbone. Ruffle details that moved every time she did. The skirt hugged her hips, then floated out just enough to make her feel feminine instead of exposed.

She felt like someone who had slept in the sun, someone who laughed easily, someone who didn’t wake up every day bracing for impact.