Page 69 of What Remains of Grace

She rode bikes with him because he was there every morning. Walked with him because he was across the yard. Ate ice cream with him because he’d caught her between spreadsheets. Would she do any of that if he didn’t have a reason to show up?

He didn’t want to find out.

He threw the blanket off, swung his legs out of bed, scrubbed a hand over his face, then just stood there.

Before he could talk himself out of it, before rational thought could grab him by the collar, he was grabbing his keys, stepping into his boots, and heading out the door.

He didn’t remember the drive. One minute, Cole was pulling out of his driveway, the next he was parked in front of her house, heart pounding so hard it felt like a mistake. The porch light was off. The windows dark.

She was home. Alone.

He sat there for a full minute, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles ached.

Then he got out.

The night was thick and warm, crickets loud in the grass. He stepped onto the porch and started pacing, back, forth, back, trying to string together a sentence that wasn’t reckless or needy or something that would send her running to a different state again.

He dragged a hand along his face again. What was he doing here?

What was he thinking?

The longer he paced, the worse it got. The truth pressed harder, more merciless with every step.

He was in love with her.

Desperately, stupidly, bone-deep in love with her.

The kind of love he had no business carrying into the home of a woman who had already lost too much.

He could build her a roof, but he refused to be another weight on her shoulders.

His hands shook, actually shook, as he raked a hand over his scalp, the motion rough with nerves. He’d tried to tell himself it was the heat, the leftover adrenaline from the job, the late hour.

But it was her. It was always her.

And if she opened that door right now . . .

If she looked at him the way she did in the parking lot . . .

If she asked, gently, what he was doing here . . .

He would ruin everything. The porch light flicked on.

* * *

Jenna woke to footsteps.

Not the creak of Biscuit jumping off the bed, or the hum of the A/C switching on, but of heavy steps. On the porch.

She blinked at the clock.

2:03 AM.

Her chest thudded once, hard, before she shoved out of bed and padded through the dark hallway, heart hammering with every step. She flipped the porch light on.

Cole Bennett stood there. Barely breathing. Panic on his face. Her hand flew to the doorknob, and she pulled it open.

“Cole?” she whispered, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Is everything okay? Is Emmie okay? What, what happened?”