Gabe’s eyebrows rose. “So the mayor got to you.”
“The mayor and this one,” Bree said, hooking her thumb at Hank.
Gabe wiped his hands. “We should talk. When we took over this place, the permits nearly killed me. I’ve got advice and a list of people you should absolutely not hire unless you enjoy watching a man fall off a ladder.”
“Noted,” Hank said.
They grabbed a corner table that looked out toward the water, drinks in hand. The band slid into a softer set; couples drifted onto the small dance floor. The whole town felt like it was exhaling together after holding its breath for days.
Carmen arrived a little later, sliding into a spare chair with a sigh. She’d changed out of team gear into jeans and a simple top. Without the Dragons’ colors, she looked ten pounds lighter.
“You guys good if I crash this?” she asked.
“Only if you don’t bring any dragons,” Brian said.
“Left my fire-breathing accessories at home,” Carmen said dryly. She glanced at Bree; they shared a small, private smile. “Thank you again. For earlier.”
“You're welcome,” Bree said.
They ordered food: fish tacos, burgers, a mountain of fries that disappeared faster than any of them admitted. Conversation flowed easily: racing stories, town gossip, Gabe’s anecdote about the time some guys at a bachelor party tried to body-surf down the boardwalk stairs.
Every so often, someone would clap Hank on the back in passing or raise a glass from another table. He took it in with a mix of pride and discomfort. He was used to being noticed on a track, not in a room.
Bree seemed to sense it. Under the table, her hand found his thigh, thumb rubbing small circles that pulled him back into his body.
“You doing all right?” she asked quietly between bites.
“This is a lot,” he admitted. “But a good lot.”
She smiled. “Good. Because I like seeing people happy you exist.”
Later, when the plates had been cleared and the band shifted into something slow, Gabe nodded toward the floor.
“You two better dance,” he said. “Otherwise, the locals will think you’re fighting.”
Bree’s eyes widened. “Is that a rule?”
“It is now,” Gabe said.
Hank stood and held out his hand. “May I?”
She rolled her eyes fondly. “You already kissed me against a wall. I think we’ve skipped past ‘May I’.”
“Humor me,” he said.
She slipped her hand into his. “You may.”
He led her onto the small dance floor. The song was something with a lazy beat and lyrics about second chances. He set one hand at the small of her back and took her other hand in his, moving them into the gentle sway.
She fit against him like she had in the bed and in the hallway, like her body already knew the map of his.
“Careful,” she murmured, cheek resting against his chest. “This is dangerously close to contentment.”
He smiled into her hair. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I’m still getting used to it,” she said.
He didn’t rush her. They just moved, letting the music and the murmur of Copper Moon wrap around them.
