“You always wanted to see the finish line, Bryn,” she said softly. “Guess some habits die harder than others.”
By the time she reached her room, her heartbeat had settled a little. Her guilt had not.
She let herself in, locked everything again, and tossed the hat and glasses onto the chair.
The TV still played the broadcast on a short delay. She turned the volume down to a murmur and stared at her phone.
No new messages yet.
He would be doing media, debriefs, the endless whirl that came with winning something like this. He did not owe her immediate reassurance. He did not owe her anything but the truth he had already given.
She owed him the same.
The knock came sooner than she expected.
Three quick raps, pause, two more. Her entire nervous system lit up in anticipation.
She crossed the room fast and opened the door.
Hank stood there with his hair still damp from a quick shower, a Copper Moon Performance T-shirt stretched over his chest, jeans hanging low on his hips. He had the trophy in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
The sight of him there, whole and breathing and grinning, nearly brought her to her knees.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was rough, like it had been scraped over gravel. “Heard you know a guy who won a race.”
“Rumor reached me,” she managed. “Congratulations.”
He stepped inside; set the trophy on the dresser with a satisfied clunk. The paper bag landed beside it. Before she could say anything else, he was in front of her, big hands settling at her waist.
“Bree,” he said.
“Hank,” she answered.
He kissed her.
Everything that had been wound tight inside her poured into that contact. She went up on her toes as his mouth claimed hers, arms flying around his neck. He tasted like mint and a faint hint of champagne; his lips firm and sure; his body radiating heat through the thin cotton of his shirt.
He lifted her without effort, hands sliding under her thighs; her legs wrapped around his hips on reflex. She gasped against his mouth; laughed when her shoulders hit the wall; the sound swallowed by another kiss that went deeper, slower.
“God, you feel good,” he murmured against her lip. “Kept thinking about this every time I hit that straight. Probably not ideal race prep.”
“Whatever you did worked,” she said, slightly breathless. “Maybe we should add it to your routine.”
“Pre-race visualization, huh,” he said. “Might have to keep that one between us.”
He eased her back to her feet, though his hands did not leave her for long. He cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones; eyes searching hers.
“You okay, honey?” he asked. “You look like you have about six extra thoughts bouncing around in there.”
She swallowed.
Here it was.
“I’m okay,” she said. “And I owe you the truth.”
His fingers stilled.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Hit me.”
