16. The Wall Between
The Wall Between
Cole hadn’t meant to start staying late.
Interior work was supposed to be the easy part, the home stretch.
Once the framing was solid, the roof patched, the soffit fixed, and the subfloor secure, the rest of it was detail work.
Paint. Trim. Fixtures. The kinds of jobs he could usually hand off to his crew while he moved on to the next site.
But he found himself inventing reasons to linger, a last-minute adjustment on the bakery lighting. Another pass with the level on the shelves in Jenna’s office. Double-checking the caulk line on the kitchen window that didn’t actually need double-checking.
He told himself it was because this job mattered. Because too many people had history tangled up in these walls to risk sloppy work. Which was true.
It just wasn’t the whole truth.
He kept replaying that first bike ride more than he cared to admit.
The way she’d shown up at the trailhead, hair pulled back, cheeks still warm from rushing, helmet slightly crooked like she’d forgotten how it was supposed to fit.
He remembered pacing his breath to hers without letting her notice, keeping to her cadence even when she sped up on the Clearwater stretch like she had something to prove.
He remembered the sound of her laugh when Emmie’s country-music vendetta came up.
He remembered how easy it had been. Too easy.
And he’d made sure to drop her off well before the sun went down, like darkness itself was a line he couldn’t cross with her, at least not on personal time.
“Boss, you heading out or moving in?” Travis called one evening from the bakery door, wiping his hands on a rag.
Cole glanced at the clock. It was after seven-thirty. The sky outside had dimmed to the bruised blue of early evening, just before the streetlights flickered on.
“In a minute,” he said. “I want to make sure this dimmer switch isn’t going to buzz on you.”
Travis smirked. “Pretty sure the dimmer’s fine. You just like the view.”
Cole leveled him with a look. “What view?”
Travis only grinned wider and jerked his chin toward the side window that faced the house, where Jenna’s shape moved through the kitchen, just a blur of motion, hair up, phone tucked between shoulder and ear while she stacked takeout menus in a drawer.
“Electrical’s important,” Travis said, “would be a shame if the lights were all wrong.”
Cole shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Go home, man. I’ll lock up.”
Emmie had teased him too, once, in passing, when he ran into her in the kitchen.
“So, when are you taking Jenna Bennett on an actual date?” she’d asked, deadpan, grabbing a popsicle.
He nearly swallowed his own tongue. “No—that’s not—”
She’d only shrugged. “If you break her heart, I’ll egg your truck.”
He believed her. And weirdly . . . respected her for it.
Piano night hadn’t helped.
He’d planned on blending into the crowd, watching her from a safe distance, leaving before he could slip. Instead, she’d walked across the sand toward him in the fading light, bare feet and wind-tangled hair, and he’d felt something inside him shift like a loose board giving way.
She’d stood shoulder to shoulder with him while “Tiny Dancer” floated over the beach, her arm brushing his in those easy, accidental ways that never felt accidental to him.
And then she’d laughed at something he’d said, really laughed, and it had taken everything in him not to stay in that moment too long.
She’d stood so close that he could smell her sunscreen, the light, sweet kind she used that reminded him of childhood summers. Every so often, her hip would bump his, sending a quiet jolt through him that he pretended not to feel.
He’d kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets the entire night, terrified that if he let them hang at his sides, he’d reach for her without thinking, just to feel the reassurance of her shoulder brushing his again.
He’d checked his watch like a coward and forced himself to leave before the dark settled in. Before he could reach for something he wasn’t supposed to want.
But the truth was, he hadn’t stopped thinking about the shape she made in that dusk light.
Emmie’s teasing stuck with him more than it should have, though, not because she was wrong, but because she might accidentally scare Jenna. He overheard her teasing Jenna sometimes, too. Saw the texts come in while they were out together.
By the time he finished “checking” the fixtures, the crew was long gone, and the sky had deepened.
Crickets had taken over where nail guns and radios left off.
The bakery felt different at night, quieter, more intimate.
It reminded him of how Caladesi Island State Park had felt when the crowds thinned, and it was just the water, the two of them, and a cooler between their boards.
Dangerous territory.
First Friday had been worse, or better, depending on the angle.
He’d told himself it would be crowded enough to keep things safe. Public. Loud. Easy to disappear into.
But then she’d shown up by the Tarpon fountain wearing that soft blue top that made her eyes stand out, and he’d gone quiet in a way Travis would’ve roasted him for.
They’d walked side by side through the vendor stalls, sharing the same cone of fries like it wasn’t the most intimate thing he’d done in years.
Her phone had buzzed. He’d glimpsed Emmie’s name and some kind of insinuation. Jenna had waved it off with a groan, embarrassed.
But he wasn’t relieved.
If anything, it rattled him. It was proof that all the effort he’d put into appearing indifferent was clearly not working.
He turned off the last bank of lights and stepped out into the warm evening.
Across the small strip of yard, Jenna stood on the porch, one hand on the railing, a glass of something cold sweating on the rail beside her.
Her hair was down, curling at the ends from the humidity, and she’d changed into one of those thin, worn T-shirts that had long since lost their fight with gravity, clinging to her in ways that were not helpful to his self-control.
She looked so at home there, it hurt. With one hip braced against the railing, bare feet tucked under her, and the breeze lifting strands of her hair. The porch light behind her framed her like a photograph he didn’t know how to stop looking at.
“Thought you’d left an hour ago,” she said as he crossed the yard. Her voice was somewhere between amused and curious.
“Lost an argument with a dimmer switch,” he said.
“One of you seems to be glowing just fine.”
He huffed out a hushed laugh and stopped at the bottom of the steps, close enough to see the faint shine on her collarbone from the heat.
“You good?”
She nodded. “Just finishing up emails. Trying to convince a lender that yes, everything really will be up to code by the time they send their guy out.” She rolled her eyes. “You’d think you were some kind of professional or something.”
“I hear rumors.” He tipped his head toward the house. “How’s it feel? With everything inside starting to look finished.”
“Less like I’m squatting,” she said. “More like we actually live here.”
“Good,” he said, “that’s the goal.”
There was a moment where neither of them moved. Cole could’ve said goodnight and walked away. He should have.
This was the part that scared him the most, the staying.
He could handle daylight. Noise. Movement. Crew members nearby.
Daylight meant lines, rules, and boundaries he could pretend he wasn’t crossing.
But night? Night blurred everything. Night made every choice feel like a confession.
And Jenna Hart was not a woman he could afford to misstep with. Not with her grief still raw. Not with Emmie watching him like a guard dog in Vans. Not with a whole house full of ghosts she was trying to make peace with.
So he stayed right to the edge of dark. And then he forced himself to go.
Until recently.
Instead, he found himself leaning against the post by the steps, like staying were the most natural thing in the world.
“You know you don’t have to babysit the job every second,” he said. “You could pick a day and get out of the house. Trust me. Go do something reckless like . . . sit on the beach.”
“Reckless,” she echoed dryly. “You live dangerously, Bennett.”
“So I’m told.”
She sipped her drink, hiding a smile behind the rim. “Besides, I’m not sure you can be trusted. If I left you alone in there, you’d probably rearrange the whole house just to see if you liked it better.”
He lifted one shoulder. “Can neither confirm nor deny.”
She laughed, and the sound settled into him like it had a place there.
“So,” she said, setting her glass down with a gentle clink, “how much longer do you think before we’re . . . done?”
“With inspections and punch list? Just about another week, maybe less.”
“And after that?”
“After that, it’s your show. You and Emmie and Biscuit and the ghost of a thousand cinnamon rolls.”
She smiled, but looked away. “Ghosts seem to like this place.”
“You’re doing right by them.”
She looked back, startled. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
The air shifted; something hovered between them.
“I’ve gotten used to ending my days here,” he said softly, a little too softly. Jenna immediately perked up at his words.
He cleared his throat, trying to reel himself back into something that resembled professional. “I meant the job. The crew. It’s a good project.”
“Right. Good project.”
A small pause settled between them, one of those moments where he could feel the ground shift under his boots and had no idea what to do about it.
“Can I ask you something weird?”
His stomach dipped. “Uh-oh.”
She nodded toward the bottle clipped to his belt. “Do you bring me premium water?”
He actually blinked. “What?”
“Like . . . top-shelf water.”
He stared at her, completely lost for a moment.
She waved a hand. “It’s just something Emmie said. Forget it.”
But he couldn’t forget it, mostly because he knew exactly what Emmie meant. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to sound like an idiot. “It’s hot,” he said finally. “And you drink more coffee than anyone I’ve ever met. And sometimes you forget to drink anything else.”
Her expression softened in a way that made something tight pull in his chest. “So . . . yeah,” he added quietly. “I try to make sure you’re good.”
She didn’t say anything, just looked at him, really looked, and he felt that look in places he had no business feeling anything.
That was his cue to move. Fast.
He pushed off the post, too abruptly, too obvious. “I should let you get some sleep.”
“I’m going to be up for a while, too much of that coffee,” she said lightly. “Are you doing anything?”
And just like that, the bottom dropped out of him again.
He wanted to say yes so badly it almost slipped out of him, but wanting it made the whole thing dangerous. He shoved his hands in his pockets so she wouldn’t see how badly they shook and forced a step back he didn’t feel.
“See you in the morning, Jenna,” he said, because it was the only thing he could manage that wasn’t a confession.
She held the railing like she needed the grounding. “See you.”
He walked away, and she watched him go.
But the next day, he stayed even later. And later after that.
The wall he’d built between want and risk was thinning, and he wasn’t sure how much longer it could hold.