She leaned down and kissed him, slow and sure.
“Then maybe after you deal with contract offers and sponsor calls and whatever fallout comes from exposing the Red Dragons, we can take a walk down Bay Street,” she said. “Look at this warehouse.”
“You want the grand tour?” he asked.
“I want to see where you picture yourself when you are not on a bike,” she said. “I want to see where I might hang a canvas without feeling like it could all disappear tomorrow.”
His eyes softened.
“Then yeah,” he said. “We'll do that. We'll look at bad insulation, cracked concrete, and potential. We'll argue about where the coffee pot goes.”
“That is an important decision,” she said.
“Maybe the most important,” he replied. “And Bree. I love you. I want you to know that. I love you.”
Her breath hitched, and a knot formed in her throat. Tears filled her eyes, her emotions scattered through her body. Smiling, she stared into his beautiful brown eyes. “I love you too, Hank. It scared me when I first realized it. But I love you too.”
His lips met hers, softly, reverently, and sweet.
Outside, the roar of the crowd had faded to a low hum; the late afternoon light slanted through the gap in the curtains, painting a thin stripe across the floor. Somewhere down on the boardwalk, someone laughed, a sound carried on the same breeze that brought the smell of the sea.
Inside, Bree felt like something inside her had just been set carefully back on its feet after years of stumbling.
“You know what the weirdest part is?” she said.
“What?” he asked.
“I actually want to paint this,” she said. “You. The race. The warehouse. All of it. Not because it is an assignment or a commission or a distraction. Because it is mine.”
He tipped his head up to kiss her again, a quick, soft press.
“Then paint it,” he said. “Paint the hell out of it. Copper Moon could use a few more stories on canvas.”
She smiled, eyes stinging in the best way.
“I think we've got one,” she said. “Maybe more than one.”
“Good,” Hank said, settling deeper into the pillows and pulling her close. “Because I am not done writing it with you.”
For the first time since Bryn’s death, Bree believed that might be true.
And that belief, fragile and fierce, felt like its own kind of victory.
Chapter 14
Hank sat in a plastic chair that had seen better days, trying not to bounce his knee.
The conference room at race control, which was in the back of a garage near the water, smelled like burnt coffee, dry-erase marker, and the faint lingering tang of race fuel that seemed to seep into everything at Copper Moon. A wall-mounted TV looped slow-motion highlights of the Cup finish on mute; his own number flashed past every few seconds, which was surreal in this setting.
Across the table, Mac, the head tech inspector, flipped through a stack of forms. Beside him sat a woman from series operations with a tablet, a man in a sponsor golf shirt whose smile never quite reached his eyes, and Sergeant Diaz from Copper Moon PD.
On Hank’s side of the table, Brian slouched with deceptive ease, arms folded, while Colby sat very straight, hands laced, gaze sharp.
“Let’s pick this up,” Mac said, tapping the top sheet. “We’ve documented the equipment found on Marcus Stoke’s primary bike and taken statements from his crew. I’d like to get yours on record now.”
Hank nodded. “Sure.”
Mac clicked his pen. “Walk us through when you first suspected the Red Dragons might be running something illegal.”
