Page 116 of What Remains of Grace

“This isn’t a surprise party,” she shot back.

“It kind of is,” he said. “With more legal stakes.”

She did not smile.

He shifted onto his side, facing her fully, propping his head on his hand.

“Jenna,” he said. “We weren’t keeping this from you to avoid consequences. Or to make you look stupid. Or to . . . I don’t know, control anything. We were trying to take something off your plate. Give you a win you didn’t have to manage.”

Her throat worked. “I hate being the last to know.”

“I know,” he confessed. “And you’re right. If we were hiding something that could hurt you? Or something you needed to consent to? That would be a betrayal.” He brushed his fingers lightly over her wrist. “But not every secret is that. Sometimes . . . secrets are gifts. A rally. A surprise party. A bunch of nosy people who love you planning something good.”

She stared at him for a long moment, searching his face like she’d find some hidden angle if she looked hard enough.

“How am I supposed to trust you if I don’t know what you’re not saying?” she whispered.

He swallowed. “By looking at the why. If I’m hiding something to save my own skin? Walk. If I’m hiding something because it’s going to blow up your life? Run. But if I’m hiding the fact that your niece is printing flyers to get you money and backup?” He gave a tiny shrug. “That’s not betrayal, Jen. Maybe it’s a bad strategy. But not a betrayal.”

Her lips pressed together.

“You still should’ve told me,” she said, but there was less heat in it.

“Probably,” he admitted. “Next time, I will. Or I’ll at least leave more obvious clues so you can yell at me earlier.”

She huffed out something that was almost a laugh. “Next time,” she repeated. “God.”

“The fact that there might be a next time means we’re still in this,” he pointed out.

“That’s the problem,” she muttered into his chest a moment later, when she’d dropped her head back down. “You keep doing things that make me want to stay in this.”

He’d smoothed a hand down her back, heart doing something stupid and traitorous in his ribcage.

Now, standing in his bathroom, he took a breath and shoved the memory aside. No time to get lost in it. He had tables to set up and a very small town to charm into opening their wallets.

He finished buttoning his shirt, rolled up the sleeves, shoved his wallet and keys into his pockets, and headed out.

* * *

By Friday afternoon, Jenna had to admit it to herself: she’d been at Cole Bennett’s house every night this week, and sneaking back into the house on Athens at five-thirty every morning so Emmie wouldn’t notice.

Four weeks since she’d learned about the lawsuit, and somehow the person she kept running to wasn’t her attorney; it was him.

Technically, she went over there to “talk through updates” or “compare notes” or “go over invoices,” but that wasn’t the truth.

Not the whole truth, anyway.

Monday, she’d gone over with the file folder of court documents and sat at his kitchen table while he brewed coffee and helped her highlight the sections the attorney had flagged.

They’d worked for three hours, and then he’d noticed she was shaking again and pulled her into his arms until the buzzing in her veins faded.

Tuesday, she’d gone over “just to drop something off,” a permit he needed to sign, and somehow ended up on his couch with her feet in his lap, watching a show she barely remembered because his hand on her ankle had been the only thing keeping her tethered to the room.

Wednesday, she’d told herself she wasn’t going. She was going to stay home, review case law, and build a spreadsheet of renovation expenses.

She’d lasted until ten-thirty before she texted him:

JENNA: I can’t turn my brain off.