The warehouse sat two blocks off the water on Bay Street, a hulking rectangle of brick and corrugated metal that had clearly been built when people cared more about function than charm.
Hank loved it at first sight.
“Okay,” Bree said, staring up at the faded letters barely visible on the front. “It looks like every serial killer movie I’ve ever seen.”
Brian chuckled. “That’s just the lighting. And the peeling paint. And the fact that there’s exactly one sad little plant trying to survive by the door.”
“That plant is a metaphor,” Bree said.
“For what?” Colby asked, fishing the keyring out of his pocket.
“For potential,” she said. “And stubbornness.”
Hank’s chest did something warm. “I’m going to steal that for the sales pitch.”
Colby got the lock to turn with a grating protest, then shouldered the heavy door open. The smell of dust and old oil rolled out, along with a faint chill.
Inside, the main floor stretched back farther than Bree had expected. High ceilings with exposed beams, overhead lights that probably hadn’t worked in years, a concrete floor scorched with old tire marks. A large roll-up door took up most of the back wall, currently shut, rust streaked down from its hinges.
Sunlight slanted through grimy windows high along the side walls, catching dust motes in the air.
“Oh,” Bree breathed.
Hank heard it, that little hitch between surprise and inspiration. He watched her step inside, slow and careful, as if she half expected the floor to give way. When it held, she moved farther in, turning in a slow circle.
Brian whistled low. “We can fit at least four bays along this wall,” he said, pacing out imaginary lift positions. “Plenty of clearance. You could put the dyno in the back corner. That roll-up door opens right onto the alley. Perfect for loading.”
Colby wandered toward a metal staircase that hugged one wall. “Upstairs office or storage,” he called. “Maybe both. We’d need to redo the wiring. This panel looks older than I am.”
Beneath their chatter, Hank could hear the quiet start of Bree’s attention locking on. She drifted toward the stairs, fingers trailing along the railing, eyes tracking the way light fell from windows near the ceiling.
“What do you think?” he asked, coming up behind her.
“It’s ugly,” she said. “And dirty. And it smells like someone stored a year’s worth of bad decisions in here and forgot to take them out.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” he said.
She huffed, then smiled. “And it has bones. Good ones. Those beams.” She pointed up. “You could hang track banners between them. Or canvases. The light’s terrible right now, but if we clean those windows and add some north-facing ones upstairs…”
“Careful,” Hank said. “You sound like you’re about to start nesting.”
She looked up the stairs. “Can we go up?”
“After you,” he said.
The steps creaked under their weight but held. At the top, the space opened into a long, narrow room that ran the length of the building. Dust lay thick on the floor; old file cabinets sagged against one wall. A cracked window at the far end offered a sliver of Bay Street and, beyond it, a glimpse of water.
Bree walked toward that window like it was a magnet.
When she reached it, she wiped a sleeve over the glass, clearing enough grime to see the curve of the shoreline and the line of the boardwalk.
“This could be my studio,” she said quietly. “I could put easels here to catch the morning light. Shelves along that wall. A couch over there. People could sit for portraits and listen to the sea.”
Hank came up beside her. “You wouldn’t hate having the smell of oil drifting up through the floor.”
“I grew up with a dad who rebuilt engines in our garage,” she said. “I find it comforting.”
He slid his hand into hers. “That’s a good sign.”
