Page 57 of What Remains of Grace

He couldn’t.

Not her. Not now. Not when she was grieving, terrified of closeness, and balancing Emmie’s whole world on her shoulders.

“Thanks for coming,” he said instead.

Her smile faltered before she tucked it away. “Thanks for inviting me.” Silence pulled between them, warm and charged.

He forced himself to step back. “Monday’s going to be busy,” he said. “We’ll have the flooring wrapped up in the bakery by noon. My crew will move into the house next.”

She nodded, but something in her eyes tightened, anticipation or dread, he couldn’t tell, but maybe both.

He wanted to hug her, simple, harmless, comforting. But with her looking at him like that? There was nothing simple about it.

He steadied himself, gave her one last smile, calm, careful, safe.

Then he walked to his truck and shut the door before instinct could override judgment. He wanted her.

But he wouldn’t be the thing that made her run. Not when she’d only just stopped sinking.

15

The Rhythm of Things

By the time a week had passed since Caladesi, Jenna had stopped pretending it was a one- off.

It started with the bike.

She’d mentioned it in passing, almost as a joke, how she’d bought a used Trek after remembering all the miles she and Brooks had put on theirs in high school. She’d meant it as nostalgia, something tossed into the air between construction updates and budget talk.

“You ride?” Cole had asked, like that was the most interesting part of her sentence.

“Sometimes,” she’d said, “when I remember, it’s not just for decoration.”

The next morning, his text came before seven.

COLE: Bring the bike. Meet me at the trailhead. Live Oak. Clearwater run. Promise not to kill you.

She’d stared at the screen longer than necessary, heart doing something unfamiliar and unruly. Then she’d typed back, You say that like I’m out of shape.

You’re not, he replied. That was it. No winky face. No follow-up. Just a fact dropped.

They rode twenty miles that day, from Tarpon Springs down toward Clearwater. The sun was high already, and the trail hummed with joggers and other cyclists. She pointed out little things she’d forgotten: the spot where the mangroves leaned over the water, the bench where Brooks once nearly passed out after trying to race a triathlete for fun. Somehow, no matter how often Jenna slowed or sped up, Cole stayed right beside her without ever making it feel deliberate.

Her thighs burned by the time they turned back. It was the good kind of hurt, the kind she used to chase on purpose. Cole rode beside her, easy and unhurried, talking about nothing and everything, like music, the best route through hurricane traffic, or why Emmie insisted on hating country songs even when she knew all the words.

By the time Jenna got home that afternoon, Emmie was ready for her.

Every day when Jenna walked through the door, Emmie clocked her with that suspicious teenage squint, half fond, half feral.

“You’re glowing,” she’d announce, flopping dramatically across the couch. “Like aggressively. Did Mr. Bennett tell another joke only you find funny?”

Jenna threw a dish towel at her. “I’m not glowing.”

“Sure, okay.” Emmie lifted a brow. “Whatever you say . . . Jenna Bennett.”

Jenna nearly aspirated on her iced coffee the first time she heard it. “Absolutely not.”

“It has a flow, though.” Emmie grinned, fully committed. “Very Hallmark. Very coastal-town romance energy.”