They all took seats around the table. A slim folder lay in front of Hank and Bree; the mayor tapped it with one finger.
“This is a preliminary sale proposal,” she said. “It’s not binding. Think of it as a starting point. The city owns the Bay Street warehouse outright. It’s been a storage headache for years. We’d like to turn that into a revenue stream and a revitalized block. Having a Cup champion’s performance shop and a local artist’s studio in that space fits nicely with what we’re trying to do.”
Hank flipped open the folder. The first page outlined the purchase price, far lower than he’d expected, especially for a building that size.
“That number real?” he asked.
“Yes,” the mayor said. “It’s an introductory rate; in exchange, you commit to specific improvements that bring the building up to code and create street-facing activity. After two years, the taxes step up to a level closer to the market average, with caps on annual increases. We’re not looking to gouge you. We’re looking to keep you.”
“What improvements would be on us?” Bree asked.
“Interior build-out,” Jason said. “Electrical upgrades. Plumbing for whatever bathroom and utility setup you need. Cosmetic stuff like paint. The city will handle structural work, roof repairs, and exterior masonry. We’ve already budgeted for window replacements as part of a safety initiative in that district.”
Hank tracked the numbers in his head; what he had, what he could reasonably expect from next season, what he could not count on from sponsors.
“It’s doable,” he said slowly. “If nothing catastrophic happens.”
“Catastrophic like nitrous kits blowing up our reputation,” the mayor said dryly.
Bree stiffened. “About that…”
The mayor lifted a hand. “You did us a favor,” she said. “You and your crew. I don’t like the press using the words ‘cheating scandal’ and ‘Copper Moon’ in the same sentence, but I’ll take one ugly news cycle over a fatality. Sergeant Diaz concurs.”
“Speaking of Diaz,” Jason said, “she mentioned you might be interested in security measures. Cameras, reinforced doors. That kind of thing.”
Hank nodded. “She told us we might’ve stepped on somebody’s business plan. I’d like to make sure my shop isn’t an easy target.”
Bree felt tension slide under her skin. “I don’t want to live in a fortress,” she said before she could swallow it.
Three pairs of eyes swung to her.
“I mean,” she said, forcing herself to stay steady, “I spent the last year feeling like my life was made of caution tape. If we turn the studio into a bunker, I’m going to feel like I never left.”
“I’m not talking about sandbags and razor wire,” Hank said, tone calm. “I’m talking about smart locks, camera coverage on entry points, solid glass instead of the ‘a stiff breeze could punch through it’ that’s in there now.”
“The glass upstairs is the only reason the light’s decent,” she said. “If we start slapping bars over it, I might as well paint in a closet.”
Jason leaned forward. “There are options between closet and fortress,” he said. “Tempered glass with security film. Roll-down shutters you only deploy at night. Discreet cameras. From the street, it looks like any other cool mixed-use space. From a would-be thief’s perspective, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”
Bree considered that. “You’re sure it doesn’t have to look like a prison?”
“Promise,” Jason said. “My wife would divorce me if I started turning half the town into bunkers. She runs the bookstore; she has opinions.”
The mayor smiled. “She also sits on the arts council, which would be thrilled to have a working studio downtown.”
Hank looked at Bree. “I’m not trying to cage you,” he said quietly. “I just don’t like leaving doors open for people who mean us harm. That’s all.”
She heard the echo of Diaz’s words yesterday. You stepped into somebody’s income stream. That puts you, and anyone close to you, on their radar.
“I know,” she said. “I just spent a year being scared of everything. Of crossing the street, of getting in the car, of answering the phone. I don’t want this to become another thing fear takes from me.”
He reached across the table and rested his hand over hers. The mayor and Jason politely examined their notes.
“What if,” he said, “we design the space so your studio is light and open and very Bree, and the security sits underneath that. Like a frame. You won’t see it day to day, but it’ll be there if we need it.”
She exhaled slowly. “So long as we’re not talking about metal detectors at the door.”
“Only for Brian,” he said. “He sets off alarms just on principle.”
