Chapter 35
thirty-five
“To love is to burn—to be on fire.” - Jane Austen
They’d kept Cole overnight. Only released him because he fought them on another day.
His mama had fretted over it, over him, but he managed to shake her so he could take Pop’s truck to drive to the Nail and see the damage himself.
There was still too much heat coming from the building for him to stand on the sidewalk in front, so he stood across the street, hands slung low on his hips as he processed the sight.
Too many feelings tore at him at once to pick one, so he just stared. His head still hurt. Body ached, too, but he was alive, damn it.
His place, though. Looked like a charred skeleton. Lifeless. Creepy. Didn’t look like it ever could’ve held life.
“Should’ve known you’d be up on your feet already.”
Her voice soothed the sad that threatened, and he glanced over with a ready half-smile. She was a picture, even with her tired eyes and sad smile.
“Where’d you come from?” he asked, reaching for her.
“Police station.” Jocelyn let him tug her into his side. “I had to answer more questions. They found the note Eric planned to plant to frame Frank. Found a lot of his arson supplies, too. They’re going to reopen a lot of investigations.”
Her arms wrapped around his waist, and they both looked back at the rubble of what he’d built that was now just an empty husk.
Didn’t look as bleak when she was wrapped around him like that, lending him her quiet strength.
He would’ve been part of the ruin in that building if it hadn’t been for her.
She’d handled Ward on her own, refusing to let the man who’d taken so much from her take her all the way down.
And she’d kept Cole from being taken down, too.
Hell of a woman to be able to do all that and still be standing, and no tears to boot.
“It’s awful. Your whole life, Cole.” Her voice was heavy with sadness, and he wanted to lift it off her with his own two hands.
“It’s nothing but stuff, Darlin’,” he replied, remembering Joe’s words from—shit—only a few days before? Felt like lifetimes.
She tucked herself closer against him, as if she wanted to dig in and bury herself inside him. He’d let her. Hell, she was already so deep under his skin, he’d never get free—not that he wanted to.
“Will you rebuild?” she wanted to know.
A sigh sawed up from his chest. “Could.”
She tipped her face up to study him.
“Could just give it up.” A shrug. “Could sell my place outside town, too.” He said it toward the building, feeling the intensity of her stare, the question she pressed into him with those dark eyes.
Her words came out small. “Why would you do that?”
Finally, he looked down at her. “I’d do it if you asked.”
Her brows folded. “But this is your home.”
He shook his head. “It’s just a place.”
Quiet settled over her as she looked out across the street, but he doubted she saw any of it.
He hoped to hell she was considering what was behind his words.
He meant them. There was no question he’d go if she did.
That house and the land didn’t matter much if there wasn’t someone out there with him.
The someone he wanted was her.
“It’s a nice place,” she said after a beat, sparking a little hope in his chest.
“It is,” he agreed, holding steady. “But you and this town have a history. And not a pretty one.”
She frowned, chewing on that. There was that history, and her family that'd been torn up by what'd happened the day before—a scandal that had rocked the town and their place in it. With all that drama and all those memories, he wouldn't blame her at all.
“You’re right," she finally said. "But I also have the possibility of a future—one I can shape myself.” Tilting her head up, she offered him a slow smile. “And I know I’d have some help.”
“Damn right you would,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re sure?”
She laughed. Maybe she could hear his doubt, the fear in the question. “I’m sure of you.”
He cupped her chin, smiling like a fool. “Should be. If I make a decision, it sticks.”
“Long as you stick with me.”
He brushed her mouth with his, just for a taste of those lips before he said, “You got it, Darlin’.”