“It’s ugly,” she said. “And dirty. And it smells like someone stored a year’s worth of bad decisions in here and forgot to take them out.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” he said.
She huffed, then smiled. “And it has bones. Good ones. Those beams.” She pointed up. “You could hang track banners between them. Or canvases. The light’s terrible right now, but if we clean those windows and add some north-facing ones upstairs…”
“Careful,” Hank said. “You sound like you’re about to start nesting.”
She looked up the stairs. “Can we go up?”
“After you,” he said.
The steps creaked under their weight but held. At the top, the space opened into a long, narrow room that ran the length of the building. Dust lay thick on the floor; old file cabinets sagged against one wall. A cracked window at the far end offered a sliver of Bay Street and, beyond it, a glimpse of water.
Bree walked toward that window like it was a magnet.
When she reached it, she wiped a sleeve over the glass, clearing enough grime to see the curve of the shoreline and the line of the boardwalk.
“This could be my studio,” she said quietly. “I could put easels here to catch the morning light. Shelves along that wall. A couch over there. People could sit for portraits and listen to the sea.”
Hank came up beside her. “You wouldn’t hate having the smell of oil drifting up through the floor.”
“I grew up with a dad who rebuilt engines in our garage,” she said. “I find it comforting.”
He slid his hand into hers. “That’s a good sign.”
Brian appeared in the doorway, dust on his boots. “Found a leak in the roof near the back corner,” he reported. “And some questionable wiring choices. We’re going to need a real electrician and probably a new panel.”
Colby nodded. “And the city’s going to want to talk zoning. Mixed-use means building codes. Fire escapes. ADA access. The fun stuff.”
Bree looked from one to the other. “Can we even afford this?”
Hank squeezed her hand gently. “We’re not signing anything today. But between prize money, some savings, and the mayor’s enthusiasm for having a Cup winner with a storefront, we’ve got leverage. There are grants available to revitalize this kind of space. We can talk to someone who knows more about paperwork than carburetors.”
“Gabe will know,” Brian said. “He and Lena jumped through a bunch of hoops for The Breakwater. He’s got opinions.”
“Of course he does,” Colby said. “He’s Gabe.”
Bree laughed, the sound bouncing off the bare walls. “Okay. So we call in experts. We make lists. We take our time.”
She turned back to the window, looking out at the hint of water.
“I could paint Copper Moon from here,” she said. “Not just the pretty parts the tourists see. The alleys. The race prep. The back doors of the boardwalk bars where the staff sneak out for air.”
Hank watched her profile, the way her eyes had gone bright. His chest felt too small for the feeling that rose there.
“This is the first place I’ve been in a long time that feels like more than a stopover,” he said. “I like the idea of putting your name on the door upstairs and mine on the one downstairs.”
She looked at him, all the usual doubts and caveats in her gaze, but layered now with something sturdier.
“Then let’s keep walking toward it,” she said. “One permit, one paint swatch, one busted light fixture at a time.”
He grinned. “Deal.”
As they headed back down the stairs, he caught movement through the grimy front windows. A dark sedan eased past, too nice for this section of town. The driver didn’t slow down, but the passenger glanced toward the warehouse.
Suit. Sunglasses. Expression careful and blank.
Hank tracked it out of instinct. The car continued down the block and turned toward the civic center, where the Dragons’ disciplinary hearings were being held.
