“I feel like there should be a compliment coming,” he said.
“There is,” she said. “You make me feel like the future’s not a cliff I’m going to fall off. It feels like a road I can walk, even if I’m not sure where all the turns are yet.”
He cupped her face, thumb tracing her cheek. “Good,” he said softly. “Because I’m planning on being on that road with you. Warehouse. Studio. Whatever comes after.”
She smiled, slow and genuine. “Then I guess we should start packing.”
“For the warehouse or for your old place,” he asked.
“Both,” she said. “Eventually. Not tomorrow. But soon.”
He kissed her under the glow of the Copper Moon Cup banner that still fluttered over the boardwalk, the taste of salt and possibility on her lips.
When they finally headed back to the hotel, fingers intertwined, Copper Moon felt less like a stop on his racing calendar and more like the place his life could actually unfold.
The race win had been one line of the story.
This, walking into the future with Bree at his side and trouble brewing quietly at the edges of town, felt like the beginning of everything else.
Chapter 15
Bree woke to the sound of waves and the feel of steady heat at her back.
For a few seconds, she lay still with her eyes closed, breathing in the mix of hotel soap and motor oil that clung to Hank. The curtains were cracked just enough to let in a sliver of pale light. The Copper Moon Cup banner out on the boardwalk snapped faintly in the breeze; she could hear it if she listened.
His arm lay heavy across her waist, hand splayed low over her stomach. Every time his chest rose, it nudged her a little closer to believing last night had not been some elaborate dream.
The dance. The warehouse. The way he had said our future like it belonged to both of them.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She winced and reached blindly for it, trying not to jostle him. The screen lit her face in a soft glow.
One new text from Mom. A second from Dad beneath it; shorter, more practical.
Mom: How are you doing this morning, sweetheart? Call when you can. xx
Dad: Weather’s decent. We’re going to the cemetery this afternoon.
The words sent a familiar ache through her chest. Cemetery. Bryn. The life that had ended so painfully short.
Hank’s voice came low and sleepy behind her. “You okay?”
She jumped a little, then relaxed back into him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Your breathing changed,” he said, sliding his palm in a slow arc over her stomach. “You tense when something hurts.”
She swallowed. Of course, he would catalog that. “Text from my parents.”
“Bad news?”
“No.” She stared at the screen again. “Just normal news that still stings.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. His hair stuck up on one side, flattened on the other; the sight made something soft pull in her. Hank James, Copper Moon Cup champion, race helmet traded for bedhead.
“You want to call them now?” he asked. “I can take a walk, find coffee.”
She turned onto her back so she could see him properly. “No. Not yet. I need to figure out how to say ‘hey, remember how you thought this was a short trip, surprise, I might have accidentally found a life.’”
