“That felt like a goodbye,” she said softly.
“It was,” he said. “But not the permanent kind.”
“You think she’ll take the Cup job?” Bree asked.
“I think she already has,” he said. “She just hasn’t said the words yet.”
Bree exhaled. “I’m glad she’s stepping away,” she said. “Even if it hurts.”
“Step one,” he said. “People who were quiet before are starting to talk. That matters.”
“Are you going to be able to sleep tonight?” she asked.
He thought of the shell company rental and the Brooklyn rasp Carmen had described.
“Eventually,” he said. “After I watch the hallway for an hour and rearrange the chair under the door handle twice.”
She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Good thing you’ve got a girlfriend who’s good with hard things,” she said. “Including talking you down when your Marine brain plans ambush drills in the stairwell.”
He pulled her in, pressing his lips to her hairline. “Yeah,” he said. “That is a good thing.”
Behind them, fireworks popped over the harbor, painting the sky in brief, bright flashes. The crowd roared in appreciation.
Hank watched the reflection in Bree’s eyes; for the first time in a long time, the explosions did not make his muscles tense. They were just light and sound and a town celebrating being alive.
Tomorrow, they would go back to numbers and security plans and shell companies.
Tonight, he wrapped an arm around the woman who had somehow become home and let himself just stand in the warm dark, the threat still out there but held at bay for a few precious hours.
Chapter 19
By late morning, the paddock had emptied out enough that Copper Moon started to feel like itself again.
Trucks rolled slowly toward the exit, haulers groaning under the weight of bikes and gear. Crew members in half-zipped jackets carried toolboxes and coils of hose, the frenetic energy of race day replaced by a tired, satisfied shuffle.
Bree stood near the entrance to Bay Street with her sketchbook tucked under her arm, the breeze from the harbor tugging at the ends of her hair. The warehouse sat at her back, a solid, waiting presence.
Carmen had texted an hour ago.
Coffee? One last civilized beverage before I hit the highway.
Bree had replied with the name of a little place off Main that did decent lattes and had mismatched armchairs that encouraged lingering. She’d walked to the warehouse first anyway; she needed to touch it, to remind herself why everything felt so very in-between.
She let her palm rest against the rough brick for a second, then headed toward town.
Main Street was in that post-event state where everything looked slightly disheveled; banners drooped, trash cans bulged, shop owners stood in doorways with brooms, sweeping confetti and sand back into rough order. People still wore Cup T-shirts, but the edge of excitement had softened into the sleepy satisfaction of having witnessed something big.
The café bell jingled when she pushed the door open. Inside, the air smelled like espresso, cinnamon, and the faint tang of something citrus. A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead.
Carmen already occupied an armchair in the back corner, a to-go cup on the low table in front of her, her jacket folded neatly over the back of the chair. Without the Dragon logo blazing across her shoulders, she looked younger, or maybe just lighter.
“You’re early,” Bree said, dropping into the opposite chair.
“I wanted to make sure they didn’t run out of the good muffins,” Carmen said. “They didn’t. I got you one.” She nudged a napkin-wrapped bundle toward her.
Bree peeled it back: blueberry, with a crumble top. “You know my weaknesses.”
“I pay attention,” Carmen said. “Eventually.”
