Chapter 25
The morning was quiet. No threats. No meetings. No brothers needing Channel for prospect duties that would soon be patched brother duties.
Just them.
Reagan climbed onto the back of his bike and wrapped her arms around his waist, feeling the engine rumble to life beneath them. She'd learned to love this—the vibration, the wind, the way the world blurred past while she held onto the man she'd chosen.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Somewhere I want to show you."
He didn't elaborate. She didn't push.
The lake roads unwound beneath them, winding through hills she was starting to recognize. Past the turn to the compound. Past the access road to where the safe house sat empty and waiting. Deeper into territory she hadn't explored yet.
Channel knew every curve by heart. She could feel it in the way he leaned into turns, anticipated straightaways, navigated without hesitation. These roads were part of him—carved into his memory the way the price of vintage jewelry was carved into hers.
They crested a ridge and the lake opened up below them, morning sun turning the water to hammered silver. Channel slowed, then pulled off onto a gravel overlook.
Reagan climbed off and stretched, looking around. The spot was beautiful—a bluff overlooking a quiet cove, trees framing the view, a dock visible in the water below.
"This is it," Channel said.
"This is what?"
He pointed to the house nestled at the water's edge. Modern construction, all glass and sharp angles, nothing like the rustic cabins scattered across Ridgerunner territory.
"That's where I grew up."
Reagan looked at the house with new eyes. She knew the story—parents divorced, house sold, nothing familiar when he came home. But seeing it made the story real.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"Different owners now. They tore down my dad's workshop, built that extension on the east side." He shrugged, but she could see him cataloging the changes. "The dock's new too. Aluminum, floating platform. Mine was wood—built it with my father the summer before I enlisted."
Reagan took his hand. "Does it hurt? Seeing it like this?"
"Used to." He was quiet for a moment, watching the sun play across the water. "I used to come here after I got discharged. Sit on this ridge and stare at someone else's house, wondering why my parents couldn't hold onto anything while I was gone."
"And now?"
"Now I've got something better to look at." He turned to face her, something soft in his expression. "Something that's actually mine."
Reagan's throat tightened. "Smooth talker."
"Just honest." He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her from behind so they both faced the view. "I wanted you to see it. Where I came from. What I lost."
"Why?"
"Because you showed me yours." His chin rested on her shoulder. "Your store, your past, the folding table that started everything. You let me into the back room of your life. Figured I should return the favor."
Reagan leaned into him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against her back. Below them, the lake sparkled. The house where he'd grown up sat quiet and foreign, full of strangers living lives he'd never be part of.
But he wasn't bitter. She could feel the absence of it—the anger that had probably lived in him for years, finally faded.
"What changed?" she asked. "When did it stop hurting?"
"When I stopped looking for what I'd lost and started looking at what I'd found." His arms tightened around her. "The compound. The brothers. You."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not. But some things are worth the work."
They stood there until the sun climbed higher and the morning chill burned off. Then Channel pointed toward the water, toward a red light blinking in the distance.
"See that channel marker?"
"The red one?"
"Yeah. I used to swim to it when I was a kid. Eight years old, couldn't even do a proper stroke yet, but I'd kick my way out there and back every summer." He laughed softly. "My mom would stand on the dock and yell at me to come back before I drowned."
Reagan could picture it. A small boy with deployment eyes that didn't exist yet, pushing himself to reach something just because it was there.
"That's how you got the name."
"The channel marker was my goal. Still says a man's road name should mean something." His voice was warm with memory. "When I told him that story, he said I was still swimming toward markers. Still trying to reach something everyone else said was too far."
"And now you've reached it."
"Almost." He kissed her temple. "Patch vote's tomorrow. If that goes through, then yeah. I've reached it."
Reagan turned in his arms to face him. "It's going to go through."
"You sound certain."
"Because I am." She cupped his face. "You've earned every bit of it. The brothers know it. Still knows it. Tomorrow is just making it official."
Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes—the boy who'd lost his home, still afraid of losing what he'd found.
"Stay with me tonight," he said. "Before the vote. I want to wake up next to you."
"Where else would I be?"
He kissed her, slow and deep, there on the ridge where he used to watch strangers live in his childhood home. When he pulled back, the vulnerability was gone, replaced by the steady certainty she'd come to love.
"Come on," he said. "We've got somewhere else to be."
They rode back through the lake roads, and Reagan realized where they were heading before they got there. Main Street. Tourist traffic picking up for the season. And there, on the corner where her old storefront used to be—
Second Chances.
Or the beginning of it.
The new location was twice the size of the old one. Reagan had found it three days ago—an empty retail space that had been a furniture store before the owners retired. Big windows, good lighting, room for everything she'd dreamed of building.
The contractors were already inside. She could see them through the glass, framing walls, running electrical. The folding table sat out front like a monument, holding her pricing gun and inventory notes.
Channel parked across the street and she climbed off, staring at her future.
"You found good contractors," he said.
"Proof recommended them. Said they'd done work at the compound." Reagan crossed the street, her feet pulling her toward the store. "They're ahead of schedule."
"That's what happens when people know who's backing you."
She didn't argue. Being under Ridgerunner protection had its benefits—contractors who showed up on time, suppliers who didn't argue about pricing, neighbors who understood that this store was off-limits to anyone with bad intentions.
The foreman saw her coming and set down his drill. "Ms. Sadler. We're about ready for those display cases if you want to direct placement."
"Already?"
"Walls are framed, electrical's roughed in. We can position the big pieces before we hang drywall."
Reagan turned to Channel. "The display cases are in my truck at the compound."
"I'll get them." He was already pulling out his phone. "Proof can help me load."
Within an hour, Channel was carrying the first display case through the door.
Reagan watched him navigate the narrow entrance, muscles straining under the weight, his face set in concentration. The case was salvage wood and glass—one of the few pieces she'd managed to save from the original store, repaired and refinished during her time at the compound.
"Where do you want it?" he asked.
"Against the east wall. Natural light will hit the glass in the morning."
He positioned it exactly where she pointed, then went back for the next one.
They worked together through the afternoon, Channel carrying and Reagan directing. The contractors moved around them, adjusting to the flow of furniture and fixtures. By the time the sun started to set, the bones of Second Chances were taking shape.
"That's the last one." Channel set down a vintage dresser she'd found in compound storage. "Where?"
"Corner, next to the window." Reagan stepped back, surveying the space. "We'll need more inventory. Another month before I can open."
"You'll get there."
"I know." She smiled at the walls, at the cases, at the folding table still sitting out front like a sentinel. "It's bigger this time. Better."
"Just like you."
She turned to look at him. He was leaning against the doorframe, sweaty from carrying furniture, sawdust in his hair. But his eyes were soft, watching her with the particular attention that still made her heart skip.
"Thank you," she said. "For today. For all of it."
"Haven't done anything except carry furniture."
"You showed me where you came from. Let me into the back room." She crossed to him, took his hand. "That matters more than furniture."
"Yeah, well." He pulled her against him, not caring about the sawdust or the watching contractors. "You're worth showing."
They stood there in the half-finished store, sunlight fading through windows that would soon display her inventory. Tomorrow, Channel would have his patch vote. Next month, Second Chances would open its doors. The future they'd talked about was becoming real, one day at a time.
"Hungry?" Channel asked.
"Starving."
"Cookout at the compound tonight. Brothers want to celebrate before the vote."
"Then we should go." She rose up on her toes and kissed him. "Can't have the guest of honor arriving late."
They locked up the store—her store, finally, again—and climbed onto his bike. The lake roads were gold in the evening light, winding toward a compound that felt more like home every day.
Reagan held on tight and let herself feel it. The wind. The warmth. The man in front of her, solid and real and hers.
Tomorrow he'd have his patch. Next month she'd have her store. The pieces of their lives were falling into place, not by accident, but by choice.
She'd spent nine years building alone.
This was better.