28. The Rally #2
It was a deep plum dress, dark and bold, and nothing delicate about the way it hit him.
The fabric draped low in the front, an intentional kind of trouble, held up by thin beaded straps that crossed over the bare line of her back.
It hugged her waist, skimmed her hips, and fell straight to the floor like it knew exactly what it was doing.
He wasn’t looking at the dress, not really.
He was looking at her, every inch of confidence, curve, and quiet power it revealed. The kind of sight that stopped a man in his tracks and made the rest of the room go blurry.
Her hair was down, loose waves falling around her shoulders.
She wore small gold earrings and the simple pendant that he’d seen her fiddle with when she was nervous.
Her makeup was subtle, but her eyes were defined, her mouth a muted rose that made him want to kiss her, just not in front of Mrs. Cartwright.
She looked like herself, just elevated.
Not as untouchable as she was in her business armor, but still far too stunning for anyone to casually approach. Exactly what Emmie had aimed for.
Cole forgot about the table leg entirely. Emmie materialized beside Jenna, doing a quick, satisfied once-over. “You’re welcome,” Cole heard her say.
“Don’t start,” Jenna muttered back, but she didn’t smack Emmie’s hand away when the girl straightened a nonexistent wrinkle in the fabric.
Cole forced his hands to let go of the table and made his way over, trying to act like his heartbeat hadn’t just kicked into a higher gear.
“Hey,” he said.
Jenna turned to him, and for a second, the busy bakery faded away. It was just her and that dress and the faint shadow of the week in her eyes.
“Hey,” she said.
“You look . . .” He caught himself before something sappy fell out. “Like Emmie did a good job.”
Emmie smirked. “He means you look hot as hell.”
“Em,” Jenna hissed, “language!”
Cole coughed. “I mean, I’m not disagreeing.”
Color rose in Jenna’s cheeks, and he filed that away in the part of his brain that kept him going on bad days.
“You clean up okay, too.” Jenna’s eyes flicked over him. “Very . . . Rotary chic.”
“Thanks. Emmie didn’t dress me, but she did threaten me if I didn’t dress to impress,” he said.
For a moment, they just looked at each other. A week’s worth of late-night drives to Cole’s place, quiet dinners on his couch, Jenna’s face tucked into his neck when the world felt too big, all of it sat humming just under the surface.
He wanted to reach for her hand. Wanted to press his mouth to her hair. Wanted to tell her this was going to work, that they were going to make it.
Instead, he pointed at the banner and asked, “You ready?”
“No,” she said honestly. “But I’m here.”
“That counts,” he said.
Her mouth curved, soft, sad, and strong all at once.
“All right,” Emmie cut in, clapping her hands once. “Sentimental time over. We have old people to charm and wallets to empty. Let’s go, team.”
She marched off toward the front, Jenna in her wake.
Cole watched them go, Emmie blazing forward and Jenna in that deep plum dress, heading into a fight she never asked for, and something settled hard inside him.
Whatever happened in court, whatever number the judge ultimately circled on some sheet of paper, tonight they weren’t just defendants.
They were the Hart women.
And he was damn proud to be on their side.
* * *
The bakery was already buzzing.
Cars lined both sides of Athens Street. Kids darted across the sidewalk with balloons. Someone had strung twinkle lights between the awning and the lamppost, giving the whole scene a warm, welcoming glow.
For a moment, Jenna just stood there and watched.
She saw Mrs. Cartwright at the entrance, checking items off a clipboard like she were running a military operation.
She saw Mr. Delaney fussing with a poster board full of black-and- white photos of the bakery “in her youth,” as he’d called it.
She saw Steph through the window, sliding trays of cookies into the display case like she was stocking up for a sugar apocalypse.
And she saw him.
Cole stood near the makeshift stage, talking to one of the Rotary guys, his hands moving as he explained whatever setup issue they were solving.
He’d ditched his ball cap and traded his usual T-shirt for a navy button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The collar was open just enough to show a hint of the tan line at his throat.
She watched him laugh at something the older man said, head tipping back, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. He looked . . . easy. At home. Like he belonged here.
Warmth slid through her, complicated and unwelcome and very, very alive. “Okay,” she told herself. “Focus on the event. Not the man in the shirt.”
As soon as she walked inside, noise and color surrounded her. The place was packed.
Every table seemed taken. The air was filled with the low murmur of conversations, the clink of coffee cups, and the occasional burst of laughter.
A local guitarist strummed in the corner, singing something low and familiar.
Kids chased each other around adults’ legs.
The air carried the scent of sugar, coffee, and something buttery from the ovens, familiar notes that settled her shoulders a little.
“Jenna!” someone called.
She turned as Mrs. Cartwright swept toward her in a floral dress and dangerous heels, arms open wide.
“Oh, honey,” the older woman said, gathering her into a hug that smelled like Chanel No. 5 and lemon bars. “Look at you. Grace would be so proud. And your dress! Praise the Lord, you let Emmie take you shopping.”
“Apparently, I didn’t have a choice,” Jenna said, a little dazed.
“Of course you didn’t,” Mrs. Cartwright said briskly. “Now, you mingle. You thank people. You let them fuss over you. That’s your job tonight. Everything else is handled.”
Jenna blinked. “Everything?”
“Everything,” Mrs. Cartwright repeated, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Now go say hello to Mr. Jenkins; he brought his entire bowling league.”
And he had.
Everywhere Jenna turned, someone was holding out a hand, a hug, a check.
“Your sister gave me my first job,” one woman said, pressing an envelope into Jenna’s hand. “It’s past time I paid that debt.”
“My boys grew up on your cinnamon rolls,” a man in a contractor’s shirt said. “Can’t imagine Saturdays without this place.”
“We heard what that man is trying to do,” an older couple from church murmured, slipping a folded check across the table like they were passing state secrets. “We won’t stand for it.”
The silent auction tables were filled with bids. Someone dropped a thick white envelope into the donation box and walked away before Jenna could see their face. The tip jar at the counter overflowed, Steph having slapped a sign on it that said, “Every dollar helps us tell Troy to take a hike.”
At one point, Emmie climbed up on a chair in the middle of the room and whistled, sharp and loud.
“All right, everybody!” she called out. “Because apparently subtlety died with my mother—” A few people gasped; a few more laughed, recognizing Grace’s brand of gallows humor in her daughter.
“You didn’t come here to watch me run around like a stressed-out raccoon.
You came here for a cause. So, cause time. ”
She pointed dramatically toward Jenna. “This is my aunt. You know her. You love her. She’s the one who’s been pouring her life into this place while an absentee husband tries to cash out on work he didn’t do.
She hates public speaking as much as she hates surprises, which is why this is fun for me.
But she has something to say. So listen. ”
And just like that, every face turned to Jenna.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her mouth went dry.
She felt Cole step up beside her, not touching, but close enough that she could feel his presence like a hand at her back.
“You’ve got this,” he murmured. She took a breath. Stepped forward.
“Hey y’all,” she said into the makeshift microphone someone had loaned them.
Her voice sounded too loud in the small, crowded bakery.
“I’m Jenna Hart. Most of you know me as one of the bakery sisters.
It’s been a long time, but I used to live behind that counter.
Not to be confused with Grace, the one who always had flour on her shirt. ”
A ripple of muted laughter warmed the air.
“When my grandmother opened this place, she wanted it to be more than a business,” Jenna continued.
“She wanted it to be . . . a kitchen table for the neighborhood. When Grace took over, she kept that going. You’ve all sat at these tables for birthdays and breakups and post-game carb-loading.
You’ve told us your news. Good and bad. You’ve trusted us with your celebrations and your sorrow. ”
A wave of grief swept over her, but she kept going.
“Now we’re asking you to help us fight for the right to keep doing that.”
She didn’t go into details about the lawsuit. Emmie and Mrs. Cartwright had helped her shape the words earlier that afternoon, just enough specifics to make it real, not enough to turn it into a TED Talk on probate law.
“We’re here tonight because a man who hasn’t lived in this house in a very long time or worked in this bakery a day in his life has decided that numbers on a page are more important than the people who built this place,” she said.
“We’re here because we don’t agree. We believe history matters.
We believe local businesses matter. We believe women’s ownership matters. ”
She looked around the room, at the faces she’d known for years, at new ones, at her niece standing by the door with her arms folded and her chin high.
“We can’t do this alone,” Jenna said. “But we’re not alone. You’re here. And that . . . that already feels like a miracle.”
She finished with a simple thank you.
The applause was loud and long. Someone whistled. Someone else shouted, “We love you, Jenna!” which made her laugh and cry at the same time.