He followed her, his whole body shuddering; forehead dropping to her shoulder.
For a little while afterward, they did not speak; they just lay tangled in the sheets, her leg thrown over his, his hand resting low on her stomach. His heartbeat thumped against her palm, steady and strong.
“You alive?” he asked eventually, voice sleep-rough.
“Very,” she said. “Dangerously so.”
He laughed, the sound vibrating through her.
“Good,” he said. “I like you that way.”
They shifted so she could lay half on top of him, her cheek on his chest. He stroked lazy patterns along her spine, fingers following the curve of each vertebra.
“So,” she said after a long, contented silence. “You mentioned something earlier about a shop.”
He smiled; she felt it under her ear.
“I did,” he said. “The mayor cornered me after the podium. Apparently, having a Cup winner stick around and hang a shingle is good for tourism. There’s an old warehouse off Bay Street that they want to turn into mixed-use. They figure a performance shop downstairs, and some artsy space upstairs gives them bragging rights.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Artsy space,” she repeated. “That sounds suspiciously like a studio.”
“Depends on who we convince to move in,” he said. “I hear there is an artist in residence at the Copper Moon hotel who has been making a lot of staff very curious.”
She smiled.
“An artist who is thinking about staying,” she said quietly. “About painting more than waves and tourists.”
His hand stilled against her back.
“Yeah,” he said. “Is she now?”
“She might be,” Bree answered. “If there was a place where she could put down roots again without feeling like she was betraying someone she lost. If there was a man who made her feel like living was not a selfish act.”
“Sounds like she should meet this guy,” Hank said. “He sounds pretty smitten already.”
“She has,” she said. “He kissed her against a hotel wall after winning a race, which is very hard to argue with.”
He huffed.
“Is that going in your next painting?” he asked. “Because I’m not sure how I feel about being immortalized as Wall Guy.”
“You’ll live,” she said. “And yes, it probably is.”
He went quiet for a moment.
“I don’t need an answer right now,” he said. “About the shop. About staying. About any of it. I just needed you to know the option is real. It’s not just a daydream I trot out when I am tired of hotel rooms.”
She shifted so she could look at him, propping herself up on one elbow. He met her gaze without flinching.
“Hank,” she said. “I’ve been operating in survival mode for a long time. Paint, eat, sleep, repeat. I came here to try to feel something that was not grief. I didn’t expect to find a possible future.”
“But you did,” he said softly.
“But I did,” she agreed. “I’m ready to imagine what my name would look like on an upstairs mailbox. I am ready to sketch floor plans for a studio instead of escape routes. That feels like a lot.”
“It is a lot,” he said. “And it is enough.”
