“She might be,” Bree answered. “If there was a place where she could put down roots again without feeling like she was betraying someone she lost. If there was a man who made her feel like living was not a selfish act.”
“Sounds like she should meet this guy,” Hank said. “He sounds pretty smitten already.”
“She has,” she said. “He kissed her against a hotel wall after winning a race, which is very hard to argue with.”
He huffed.
“Is that going in your next painting?” he asked. “Because I’m not sure how I feel about being immortalized as Wall Guy.”
“You’ll live,” she said. “And yes, it probably is.”
He went quiet for a moment.
“I don’t need an answer right now,” he said. “About the shop. About staying. About any of it. I just needed you to know the option is real. It’s not just a daydream I trot out when I am tired of hotel rooms.”
She shifted so she could look at him, propping herself up on one elbow. He met her gaze without flinching.
“Hank,” she said. “I’ve been operating in survival mode for a long time. Paint, eat, sleep, repeat. I came here to try to feel something that was not grief. I didn’t expect to find a possible future.”
“But you did,” he said softly.
“But I did,” she agreed. “I’m ready to imagine what my name would look like on an upstairs mailbox. I am ready to sketch floor plans for a studio instead of escape routes. That feels like a lot.”
“It is a lot,” he said. “And it is enough.”
She leaned down and kissed him, slow and sure.
“Then maybe after you deal with contract offers and sponsor calls and whatever fallout comes from exposing the Red Dragons, we can take a walk down Bay Street,” she said. “Look at this warehouse.”
“You want the grand tour?” he asked.
“I want to see where you picture yourself when you are not on a bike,” she said. “I want to see where I might hang a canvas without feeling like it could all disappear tomorrow.”
His eyes softened.
“Then yeah,” he said. “We'll do that. We'll look at bad insulation, cracked concrete, and potential. We'll argue about where the coffee pot goes.”
“That is an important decision,” she said.
“Maybe the most important,” he replied. “And Bree. I love you. I want you to know that. I love you.”
Her breath hitched, and a knot formed in her throat. Tears filled her eyes, her emotions scattered through her body. Smiling, she stared into his beautiful brown eyes. “I love you too, Hank. It scared me when I first realized it. But I love you too.”
His lips met hers, softly, reverently, and sweet.
Outside, the roar of the crowd had faded to a low hum; the late afternoon light slanted through the gap in the curtains, painting a thin stripe across the floor. Somewhere down on the boardwalk, someone laughed, a sound carried on the same breeze that brought the smell of the sea.
Inside, Bree felt like something inside her had just been set carefully back on its feet after years of stumbling.
“You know what the weirdest part is?” she said.
“What?” he asked.
“I actually want to paint this,” she said. “You. The race. The warehouse. All of it. Not because it is an assignment or a commission or a distraction. Because it is mine.”
He tipped his head up to kiss her again, a quick, soft press.
“Then paint it,” he said. “Paint the hell out of it. Copper Moon could use a few more stories on canvas.”
