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.’”
His mouth curved. “You make it sound like you tripped over it in the hallway.”
“Feels a little like that.” She brushed her thumb over the tattoo on his shoulder, tracing the edges of the ink. “How are you doing?”
“Physically?” He did a quick mental inventory; she could see it on his face. “Sore in the usual ways. Brain’s still doing after-action reports.”
“About the race, or the nitrous situation?”
“Both.” His gaze searched hers. “And about a warehouse, I may have already mentally filled with lifts and toolboxes.”
She smiled, nervous and excited all at once. “You really meant it. That you want to do this.”
“Bree.” His tone sharpened gently. “I don’t say stuff like that to hear myself talk.
We walked into that place yesterday, and for the first time in a long time, my head didn’t immediately go to exit routes.
It went to possibilities. That feels important.
Brian, Colby, and I have talked about doing this for a long time.
I started it, planted the seeds, but the more we joked, talked, and planned, the more real it became.
The issue was...where? Back home, there wasn't anything like this warehouse that we could afford. The fact that this came up, here and now, along with the mayor offering concessions through tax credits and support, makes me believe it has to be here.”
She heard the unspoken part; the Marine who had spent years in places where a building meant cover or a target or both. The fact that he could stand in that ugly old warehouse and think about lifts instead of ambushes said more than any speech.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “So let’s talk about what possibilities cost.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Spoken like a woman who has actually looked at her bank account in the last six months.”
“I’m a working artist,” she said. “I check my balance more than I check my email.”
He rolled onto his back and hooked one arm under his head.
“All right. Practicalities. We’ve got prize money from the Cup.
After taxes, team percentage, and the usual slices, I still come out ahead enough to make a solid down payment on renovations.
I’ve got savings from the last few seasons.
I’m not rich, but I’m not living on instant noodles. ”
“Instant noodles are underrated,” she said, then sobered. “I’ve got some savings. Most of my paintings go to people who pay me in actual money, not exposure. I sold that series in Milwaukee. The one with the industrial waterfront.”
He nodded. “The one you hate talking about.”
“I don’t hate talking about it.” She did, a little. It had been the last thing she’d completed before Bryn died. “It just feels like part of a different life.”
He waited. He was getting good at that. At letting silence stretch until she filled it with something real.
“There’s also…” She stared at her phone again, thumb resting on the screen without unlocking it. “There’s the insurance money.”
His brows drew together, but he didn’t speak.
“When Bryn died,” she said, words awkward and thick, “she had a small life insurance policy through work. Not huge. Enough to help with funeral costs and a cushion. She hadn't changed my parents’ names as the beneficiary when she and Charlie married. My parents refused to touch it. They insisted it go to me. ‘For your future,’ my mom said. I offered it to Charlie for the kids, but he said Bryn would love that I have it, and he was fine, financially. The money wouldn't bring her back. I put it in an account and haven’t touched a cent.”
“Because?” he asked gently.
“Because spending it felt like… stealing from her.” She blinked hard. “Like I’d be cashing in on the worst thing that ever happened to us.”
He reached for her hand and laced their fingers. “Money doesn’t know where it came from,” he said. “You do. And you get to decide whether it just sits there like a rock in your pocket, or whether you use it for something that would’ve made her smile.”
Bree swallowed again. “She would’ve liked the studio idea.”
“Then maybe,” he said, squeezing her hand, “using some of it to build a studio with her name on the door is not stealing. Maybe it’s the exact opposite.”
She let that sink in; the idea of a space where Bryn existed in more than framed photos. A place where Bree could paint, and maybe hang one canvas that never went to a gallery; one that stayed because it belonged there.
“I could paint a series about her,” she said slowly. “Not just portraits. Pieces of her. Her boots by the door. The coffee mug she stole from that diner we loved. The way she left paint on everything she touched.”
“I’d stand in line to buy that,” Hank said quietly.
“You’re biased.”
“Sure,” he said. “But I also know what good art feels like. The warehouse upstairs with your work, people climbing those stairs to see pieces of your heart on the walls? That’s worth betting on.”
She exhaled. “Okay. So, finances. If we pool what you’ve got, what I’ve got, and whatever the mayor can conjure up in grants, we could probably manage a modest renovation and a few months of breathing room.”
“Throw in some sweat equity,” he said, “and favors from friends like Gabe, and we’re in better shape than most.”
“Your family,” she said quietly. “How are they going to feel about you planting yourself in Copper Moon instead of, I don’t know, buying a house back home and racing out of there?”
He smiled. “My mom’s initial reaction will be to ask what the healthcare options are in town and whether there’s a decent grocery store that sells real vegetables.
My brother will want to know if there’s space for a lift with his name on it.
My sister will remind me she called it, because she always knew I wasn’t done with small towns. ”
“And your dad?” she asked.
His gaze flicked away for a second, just long enough for her to see the shadow. “He’ll be fine. He likes a project. He’ll probably send unsolicited advice about shop organization just to feel useful.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I say it like I know I’m going to be rearranging wrenches at midnight to avoid arguments.” He looked back at her. “What about your parents?”
Bree’s stomach did a slow flip. “That’s the part I’m still working out. They’ve already lost one daughter. The idea of the other one living eight hours away instead of two… that’s not going to be their favorite news.”
“You’re not exactly close by now,” he pointed out. “And Copper Moon’s an actual town with actual people who care whether you make it home at night. That counts for something.”
“I know.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “But it’s not just distance. It’s… permanence. I came here to breathe for a week. Not build a life. In their heads, I’m still going home when the race weekend is over.”
“Then maybe,” he said, tone gentle but firm, “it’s time to tell them that home shifted a little.”
She made a face at him. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not,” he said. “But you’re good with hard things. You stayed when everyone else left the paddock yesterday. You saw something wrong, and you spoke up. You can have a tough conversation.”
She looked at his mouth; at the small line that formed when he was absolutely certain of something. Then she looked back at her phone.
“Will you be here when I call?” she asked.
“Do you want me here?”
“Yes,” she said. “But maybe not in the room for the whole thing. I don’t want them to feel like I’m performing for you.”
“I can grab coffee,” he said. “Loiter in the hallway like a proper anxious boyfriend.”
The word pinged around the room.
Boyfriend.
Her heart did a small, startled dance. “Is that what you are?”
He met her gaze. “Unless you’d like to renegotiate my contract.”
She laughed, the sound wobbling. “No. That title’s fine.”