Chapter 13 #3
He touched her like he had ridden; focused, attentive, reading feedback and adjusting. When she sucked in a breath or tensed, he slowed; when she arched into him, he followed.
“Tell me if you need anything different,” he murmured into the curve of her neck. “Faster, slower, more, less. I’m not on a solo ride here.”
She laughed softly; the sound breaking on a sigh when his mouth found the sensitive spot just below her ear.
“I’ll tell you,” she promised.
She did. When a particular pressure was too much, when she wanted his hand to move, when she needed a second to chase away an old ghost that tried to creep in when his weight settled more fully over hers.
“I’m here,” he reminded her each time. “You’re here. No one else in the room.”
By the time he slid into her, she was ready; not just physically, but in all the ways that mattered. She met him halfway, hips rising, hands framing his face. The stretch hurt a little; then it did not, then it felt so right she could have cried.
He moved with a rhythm that felt almost like the race: steady, sure, pushing and easing at all the right moments. Except here, there were no opponents, no lap times, no flags. Just the two of them, figuring out a new way to fit together.
When release swept over her, it felt nothing like the shattering she had feared and everything like coming back into alignment. She heard herself cry out; heard him answer with a rough sound that was part her name, part relief.
He followed her, his whole body shuddering; forehead dropping to her shoulder.
For a little while afterward, they did not speak; they just lay tangled in the sheets, her leg thrown over his, his hand resting low on her stomach. His heartbeat thumped against her palm, steady and strong.
“You alive?” he asked eventually, voice sleep-rough.
“Very,” she said. “Dangerously so.”
He laughed, the sound vibrating through her.
“Good,” he said. “I like you that way.”
They shifted so she could lay half on top of him, her cheek on his chest. He stroked lazy patterns along her spine, fingers following the curve of each vertebra.
“So,” she said after a long, contented silence. “You mentioned something earlier about a shop.”
He smiled; she felt it under her ear.
“I did,” he said. “The mayor cornered me after the podium. Apparently, having a Cup winner stick around and hang a shingle is good for tourism. There’s an old warehouse off Bay Street that they want to turn into mixed-use.
They figure a performance shop downstairs, and some artsy space upstairs gives them bragging rights. ”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Artsy space,” she repeated. “That sounds suspiciously like a studio.”
“Depends on who we convince to move in,” he said. “I hear there is an artist in residence at the Copper Moon hotel who has been making a lot of staff very curious.”
She smiled.
“An artist who is thinking about staying,” she said quietly. “About painting more than waves and tourists.”
His hand stilled against her back.
“Yeah,” he said. “Is she now?”
“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.”
She smiled, eyes stinging in the best way.
“I think we've got one,” she said. “Maybe more than one.”
“Good,” Hank said, settling deeper into the pillows and pulling her close. “Because I am not done writing it with you.”
For the first time since Bryn’s death, Bree believed that might be true.
And that belief, fragile and fierce, felt like its own kind of victory.