Bree’s smile kept flickering in and out, like she was testing whether it fit.
“We really just told a mayor we were serious,” she said.
“Yep.”
“And I told my parents we're together.”
He squeezed her hand. “Also true.”
Her cheeks went a little pink, but she did not pull away. “Where are Brian and Colby?”
“Dockside,” he said. “Brian texted while we were in there. He found pastries the size of his face and decided it was a sign.”
She laughed; the sound loosened something tight in his chest. “Okay. Let’s go tell them we’re about to become small business owners, and we're possibly insane.”
They crossed the street, stepping around confetti and the occasional flattened paper cup with the Cup logo on it. Someone in a souvenir T-shirt gave Hank a double take, then nudged his friend and pointed. Hank lifted a hand in a casual half-wave and kept moving.
“You’re getting recognized,” Bree murmured.
“It’s the hair,” he said. “Stands out.”
“It was the pass on the last lap, and you know it.”
He did know it. His muscles still remembered the lean of the bike, the split second when the gap had opened, and he’d taken it. The adrenaline from that would probably still be working its way out of his system when they were signing mortgage papers.
Dockside smelled like coffee, bacon, and the ocean. The bell over the door chimed as they stepped in. The same mechanic crowd from earlier weekends mixed with tourists wearing brand-new Copper Moon Cup caps.
Brian already occupied a corner booth, a plate of pastries in front of him, and a coffee mug in his hand. Colby sat opposite, his tablet propped against the sugar caddy; he looked up as soon as Hank slid into the booth.
“Well?” Brian asked. “Did the mayor offer you the keys to the city or just the cool abandoned building?”
“Preliminary sale proposal,” Hank said, dropping the folder on the table between them. “Price is better than we hoped. City handles major structural, roof, masonry, and new windows. We cover interior build-out, electrical, plumbing, and finishes.”
Colby’s brows went up. “What’s ‘better than we hoped’ mean, in actual numbers, boss?”
“Look for yourself,” Hank said.
He opened the folder and turned it so they could read. Bree slid in beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his; her presence grounded him more than the coffee in his hand.
Brian whistled. “Damn. They know they’re sitting on a problem.”
“They know they’re sitting on an opportunity,” Bree said. “They want more people to stick around instead of treating this place like a long weekend.”
Colby scanned the second page, lips moving as he did mental math. “Taxes stay low for the first two years. Step up after that, but capped increases. That’s not bad.”
“We’d be buying the building outright,” Hank said. Saying it out loud made the idea more solid. “No lease; no landlord deciding they want to sell out from under us.”
“Three units on paper,” Colby murmured. “Ground floor shop, back bay that could be separate if we ever needed it, and upstairs.” His gaze flicked to Bree. “You still good with making that studio yours?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I am.”
Hank watched the way her hand tightened around her sketchbook. She looked scared and determined at the same time. He’d seen that expression on Marines going into a raid; he’d never expected to see it on a painter heading toward a mortgage.
“So this is the part where we talk percentages,” Brian said. “Who owns what.”
“I figured we’d split the shop three ways,” Hank said. “Equal partners. The studio upstairs is Bree’s. We can figure out how that works on paper so the city stays happy, but I don’t want her space getting tangled up in arguments about dyno schedules.”
Colby leaned back, considering him. “You’re coming in with the biggest cash chunk,” he said. “Prize money plus savings. You okay with an equal split?”
