Liz slid into the row in front of them, turning to grin. “Welcome to the charmingly bureaucratic side of Copper Moon,” she said. “You’ve got your permit. I’ll have the signed copy for you this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Bree said, voice shaking.
“Don’t thank me,” Liz said. “You brought half my talking points with you in person.”
Hank’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out, thumbed the screen.
It was a group text from Kara.
Offer accepted. Sellers agreed to your terms with a small roof-repair credit. Congratulations, homeowners. I’ll call with details.
He stared at the words.
“Well?” Bree asked, trying to read his expression.
He turned the phone so she could see.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she breathed.
Brian leaned over their shoulders. “No way,” he said. “House and shop in the same day? That’s showing off.”
Colby whistled low. “You two don’t play,” he said.
Hank felt lightheaded for a second. Paperwork and permits, two different sets of signatures, and underneath all of it, the simple truth.
They’d just anchored themselves here in two directions at once.
Copper Moon wasn’t a pit stop anymore. It was the map.
The celebration was exactly the opposite of fancy and exactly what he’d wanted.
Jason had strung old café patio lights across the front half of the warehouse, cords looped over beams. The bulbs cast a soft, warm glow that turned the bare brick golden and made the exposed ceiling less intimidating.
Someone, probably Lila, had sent over two huge boxes of mixed takeout: sandwiches, salads, and a tray of brownies. A cooler in the corner held beer, sparkling water, and the cheap champagne Brian had insisted on.
They’d dragged in a handful of mismatched chairs from the office area and turned a sheet of plywood on sawhorses into a table. The bay door was rolled up partway, the harbor breeze sweeping in, carrying the distant slap of water against hulls.
Hank stood near the doorway for a moment, taking it all in.
Bree laughed at something Lila said, her head tipped back, paint smudge still on her wrist from earlier. The soft light threaded through her hair, pulling out amber notes. Brian perched on an overturned crate, chopsticks in hand, re-enacting a dramatic moment from the board hearing with too much flair.
“…and then Hank was like, ‘I’m too old for keg parties,’ and Elaine actually smiled,” Brian said. “I thought the fluorescent lights were going to flicker.”
“They did,” Colby said, leaning against a pillar with a beer. “You didn’t see it because you were texting half the firehouse about the drama.”
“I was inviting them to our inevitable grand opening,” Brian protested. “Marketing never sleeps.”
“You texted them a photo of the board,” Colby said.
“It was a good angle,” Brian said.
Diaz joined them straight from shift, still in her duty boots, badge visible at her belt. She carried a foil-covered tray that smelled like empanadas.
“Don’t get used to this,” she said, handing it to Bree. “I don’t cater for all my informants, just the ones who sign up for lifetime service.”
Bree grinned. “We prefer ‘partners,’” she said.
Diaz’s eyes softened. “You earned that today,” she said. “All of you.”
