“We’ll need to reinforce this area,” he said. “Especially if you plan on holding openings with more than a handful of people.”
“Openings,” Bree echoed, soft and almost to herself.
“You’re going to have them,” Hank said. “Might as well plan for it.”
She looked at him, eyes bright in the filtered light. “You really think people are going to climb those stairs to look at my work?”
“I think people are going to climb those stairs to feel something they didn’t expect to,” he said. “Your work does that. I’ve seen it.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “You keep saying things that make it harder to be rational.”
“Rational’s overrated,” he said. “Calculated risk, that’s the sweet spot.”
Jason cleared his throat politely. “Before this turns into a Hallmark moment and I have to pretend I’m not here,” he said, “let me talk timelines. If we get permits moving next week, they can complete the structural and roof work in three months. Windows, wiring, and plumbing will layer in as we go. You’re probably looking at six months before you’re ready to open the doors to customers.”
“Next season,” Colby said from across the room. “We could be running under our own sign by the time the Cup roll-out returns here.”
“That’s the idea,” Hank said.
“Money?” Brian asked. “Just so we know whether we’re eating instant noodles all winter.”
Jason gave them ballpark figures. They weren’t small, but they weren’t impossible. Hank felt the numbers click into the mental spreadsheet he’d been carrying since the mayor’s office.
Prize money. Savings. A percentage of past seasons he’d never touched. The studio build-out was from Bree’s account. Possible small-business grants, the mayor had mentioned.
“Assuming nothing catastrophic hits your budget, you’re okay,” Jason concluded. “I’ll give you a detailed quote once my engineer runs the structural calcs.”
“Thank you,” Hank said. “We appreciate you being straight with us.”
“Straight’s the only way I know how to be,” Jason said. “I’ll email the preliminary breakdown tonight. You three talk it over. If you decide to move forward, we’ll get the paperwork started.”
He headed back toward the stairs with Brian and Colby. Their voices drifted down as they started arguing about whether the shop’s logo should feature flames, a piston, or both.
Hank stayed where he was, next to Bree, letting the quiet settle.
“How’s it hitting you?” he asked.
She turned in a slow circle, taking in the space. “Like standing on the edge of a canvas that’s too big,” she said. “My brain’s trying to fill it all at once, and I know that’s not how it works.”
“You start with one line,” he said. “Then another.”
She smiled faintly. “You say that like you’ve done it.”
“I’ve built a couple of things,” he said. “Teams. Bikes. A life or two.”
Her hand brushed his chest lightly, right over his heart. “You sure you want to build this one here?” she asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
She looked up at him, eyes dark and serious. “Then we have to make it hard for anyone to knock it down.”
“That’s the plan,” he said. “We’ll layer the security in like primer. You’ll notice it when it’s going up; after that, it just becomes part of the walls.”
She nodded, but he could see the lingering shadow. Losing her sister had taught her that bad things did not bother with fair warning; they just happened and left holes.
“Hey,” he said softly. “We’re not helpless bystanders here. We have a capable police chief, a mayor who wants this to succeed, and a contractor who is honest. Plus three stubborn idiots who don’t know how to quit.”
“And one painter with questionable life choices,” she said.
