Chapter 16
Hank walked Bree down the steps of the civic center, their hands still linked, the folder with the city’s proposal tucked under his arm. The harbor glittered like someone had scattered broken glass across the water. A gull screamed overhead, offended about something only gulls understood.
Bree’s smile kept flickering in and out, like she was testing whether it fit.
“We really just told a mayor we were serious,” she said.
“Yep.”
“And I told my parents we're together.”
He squeezed her hand. “Also true.”
Her cheeks went a little pink, but she did not pull away. “Where are Brian and Colby?”
“Dockside,” he said. “Brian texted while we were in there. He found pastries the size of his face and decided it was a sign.”
She laughed; the sound loosened something tight in his chest. “Okay. Let’s go tell them we’re about to become small business owners, and we're possibly insane.”
They crossed the street, stepping around confetti and the occasional flattened paper cup with the Cup logo on it. Someone in a souvenir T-shirt gave Hank a double take, then nudged his friend and pointed. Hank lifted a hand in a casual half-wave and kept moving.
“You’re getting recognized,” Bree murmured.
“It’s the hair,” he said. “Stands out.”
“It was the pass on the last lap, and you know it.”
He did know it. His muscles still remembered the lean of the bike, the split second when the gap had opened, and he’d taken it. The adrenaline from that would probably still be working its way out of his system when they were signing mortgage papers.
Dockside smelled like coffee, bacon, and the ocean. The bell over the door chimed as they stepped in. The same mechanic crowd from earlier weekends mixed with tourists wearing brand-new Copper Moon Cup caps.
Brian already occupied a corner booth, a plate of pastries in front of him, and a coffee mug in his hand. Colby sat opposite, his tablet propped against the sugar caddy; he looked up as soon as Hank slid into the booth.
“Well?” Brian asked. “Did the mayor offer you the keys to the city or just the cool abandoned building?”
“Preliminary sale proposal,” Hank said, dropping the folder on the table between them. “Price is better than we hoped. City handles major structural, roof, masonry, and new windows. We cover interior build-out, electrical, plumbing, and finishes.”
Colby’s brows went up. “What’s ‘better than we hoped’ mean, in actual numbers, boss?”
“Look for yourself,” Hank said.
He opened the folder and turned it so they could read. Bree slid in beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his; her presence grounded him more than the coffee in his hand.
Brian whistled. “Damn. They know they’re sitting on a problem.”
“They know they’re sitting on an opportunity,” Bree said. “They want more people to stick around instead of treating this place like a long weekend.”
Colby scanned the second page, lips moving as he did mental math. “Taxes stay low for the first two years. Step up after that, but capped increases. That’s not bad.”
“We’d be buying the building outright,” Hank said. Saying it out loud made the idea more solid. “No lease; no landlord deciding they want to sell out from under us.”
“Three units on paper,” Colby murmured. “Ground floor shop, back bay that could be separate if we ever needed it, and upstairs.” His gaze flicked to Bree. “You still good with making that studio yours?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I am.”
Hank watched the way her hand tightened around her sketchbook. She looked scared and determined at the same time. He’d seen that expression on Marines going into a raid; he’d never expected to see it on a painter heading toward a mortgage.
“So this is the part where we talk percentages,” Brian said. “Who owns what.”
“I figured we’d split the shop three ways,” Hank said. “Equal partners. The studio upstairs is Bree’s. We can figure out how that works on paper so the city stays happy, but I don’t want her space getting tangled up in arguments about dyno schedules.”
Colby leaned back, considering him. “You’re coming in with the biggest cash chunk,” he said. “Prize money plus savings. You okay with an equal split?”
“I didn’t get here alone,” Hank said. “You two kept me upright and fast. I won the Cup because my bike ran like it was supposed to and because there was someone in my ear keeping me from doing anything too stupid. I’m not interested in being the guy who owns everything and barks orders.”
Brian grinned. “That’s sweet. You’re still going to bark orders.”
“Probably,” Hank said. “But I’d rather do it to partners than employees.”
Brian tore off a piece of pastry and popped it in his mouth. “All right. I’m in. I’ve been half living in this town for three seasons anyway. Might as well get a proper address.”
Colby nodded slowly. “I want to walk the building again with Jason,” he said. “Get a better sense of what his ‘that’s an easy fix’ face means. But yeah. I’m in. We’re going to need an excellent accountant and a lawyer who doesn’t scare easily.”
“The mayor had a list of people who’ve handled business sales in town,” Hank said. “We can talk to a couple, see who feels like the least painful option.”
“Least painful is a high bar,” Brian said. “You’re trusting lawyers with your future.”
“Careful,” Bree said. “Their future involves my paintings. I need contracts that don’t make me want to light them on fire.”
Hank nudged her knee under the table. “We’ll let you vet the language.”
She smiled, but her thumb still stroked the edge of her sketchbook. He knew her head was half at this table and half in Milwaukee, in the house where her parents had just hung up the phone.
“Did you tell your folks about this idea?” Brian asked Bree.
Bree glanced at Hank; he tipped his head, giving her the choice. She took a breath.
“They were… okay,” she said. “Sad. Worried. But they listened. I told them about the building and the studio. And about using some of Bryn’s insurance money for the build-out.”
Brian’s calm expression sobered. “Was that a hard sell?”
“It was a hard start,” she said. “But my dad said she’d like it. That she hated I hadn’t painted her yet.” Her mouth quirked. “He also wants pictures of the warehouse and said something about gravity, which made little sense, but it was sweet.”
“Parents rarely make sense,” Colby said. “It’s part of their charm.”
Hank watched Bree’s shoulders; they were relaxed in a way he hadn’t seen since the first night. She’d just taken one of the hardest conversations of her life and walked out of it standing.
“You were brave,” he said quietly.
A flush climbed her neck. “You already said that.”
“I’m going to keep saying it until it sinks in,” he replied.
His phone buzzed against the table. The screen flashed Diaz’s name.
He swiped to answer. “Sergeant.”
“James,” Diaz said. In the background, he could hear the low murmur of a station. “You got a minute?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at the others. “We’re at Dockside. What’s up?”
“Short version, we’ve got confirming chatter that Eisen’s supplier is not happy their product got yanked off the track,” Diaz said.
“One of our neighboring departments picked up talk at a regional race about ‘the guy who ratted.’ No names, but the description’s close enough to you that I’m not calling it a coincidence. ”
Hank’s hand tightened around his mug. “Is he in this region?”
“Probably not yet,” she said. “But he has friends who are. I’m not telling you this to freak you out; I’m telling you so you keep your head on a swivel. Awareness, not paranoia. You understand the difference.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m talking with the mayor about fast-tracking security cameras around the Bay Street block,” Diaz went on. “If you move forward with that warehouse, I want your exterior covered. I’ll connect you with a guy I trust. No junk equipment.”
Bree watched his face, worry flickering in her eyes. Hank reached for her hand under the table and squeezed once.
“We were already talking security with Jason and the mayor,” he said. “We’ll loop your guy in.”
“Good.” Paper rustled. “If you see anyone hanging around that doesn’t fit, get me a plate if you can. Don’t play hero at the warehouse, James. You already did that once.”
“I hear you.”
She exhaled. “I’ll pass along anything else that crosses my desk. For now, finish your coffee. Enjoy your victory. Let us do our jobs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He ended the call.
“Well?” Brian asked.
Hank relayed the gist. Brian’s easy grin vanished; Colby went still.
“So we’re officially on somebody’s list,” Brian said.
“We were already on it,” Hank said. “This just means Diaz knows the list exists.”
Bree’s fingers tightened on his. “Does this change anything?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “It changes how fast I want to get cams on that building. It changes how often I want you walking alone.”
Her jaw set. “I don’t want to live like a target.”
“You’re not a target,” he said. “You’re a witness who helped stop something lethal. That’s going to irritate people who think they’re untouchable. I’m not saying we board up the windows. I’m saying we make it harder for them to cause trouble without consequences.”
She looked down at their joined hands, thumb rubbing along his knuckles. “You’re falling into Marine brain,” she said softly.
“Probably,” he admitted. “Hard to shake. But Marine brain kept a lot of people alive. I’d like to put it to work here.”
Colby cleared his throat. “I’m with him on this,” he said. “We can design the shop so it feels open and still leaves us control of the entry points. Cameras, alarms, smart locks. None of that has to be ugly.”
“Jason said the same,” Bree said. “If my studio looks like a prison cell, I’m out. But if we can hide the security in the bones, I can live with that.”
“We can,” Colby said. “I’ll talk to Jason about wiring and camera placements when we walk the place.”
“Speaking of,” Brian said, checking his watch, “you’re meeting him when?”