Chapter 3 #2
"Really? What?" He raked both hands through his dark hair, leaving it standing in frustrated spikes.
When he raised his voice, she could hear the frustration giving way to incredulity.
"I was racing. And it's a racing bike. It doesn't have a horn.
" He slammed his hands back on his hips, his stance widening as he stared her down.
"And what would you call that?" He pointed at her broken canvas, now twisted and torn beyond repair.
"And why in the hell did you call me Mr. Mayor? "
Despite their height difference, she was maybe five-four to his six feet, Bree refused to be intimidated.
She tilted her head back, meeting his glare with one of her own, noting absently that his eyes weren't black as she'd first thought but a deep brown with flecks of gold, like tiger's eye stones.
She tossed her head, trying unsuccessfully to get her sand-coated hair out of her face. "I called you, Mr. Mayor, because you act like you own this beach. I don't know your name, and frankly, you're being an ass."
Something shifted in his expression at her words, a flicker of what might have been amusement quickly suppressed.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell motor oil and leather and something else, something warm and masculine that made her stomach do an unexpected flip.
They were nose to chest now, and she had to crane her neck back at an uncomfortable angle to maintain eye contact, but she'd be damned if she'd back down first.
"My name, Miss Sassy Pants," he said, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, "is Hank.
I act like I run this place because any fool can see how clean this beach is, and you don't throw trash on a beach.
" His voice rose again on the last words.
"And you made me dump Julie. Do you even know how much time and effort I have to put in to get Julie ready for this week? "
Bree's mind went completely blank for a moment.
She looked around the beach, searching for another person, this Julie he was so concerned about.
When she saw no one, her confusion gave way to a different kind of concern.
The man was clearly unhinged. Crazy equaled trouble in her world, trouble she didn't need.
She took a strategic step backward, trying for a placating tone. "Well, Hank, I'll let you get back to Julie." Despite her best efforts, a smirk tugged at her lips, and then a giggle escaped, high and slightly hysterical.
His expression darkened to something approaching thunderous. "You're laughing at the fact that Julie might be damaged?"
She watched, fascinated despite herself, as he turned to his motorcycle.
With a couple of grunts and an impressive display of strength, he hauled the machine upright.
The kickstand went down with a metallic snap, and he leaned the bike over onto it before pulling off his leather gloves with sharp, angry movements.
Then something changed. His hands, she noticed, became gentle as they moved over the motorcycle, checking for damage with the tenderness of a parent examining a hurt child.
He brushed sand from the sections that weren't hot from the engine, his touch reverent, loving even.
He shook his head slowly from side to side, and she could hear him murmuring something under his breath.
Understanding dawned slowly, and with it came a mix of emotions she couldn't quite sort out. "Wait," she said, her brows drawing together in confusion. "Julie is... your... bike?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked slowly around the motorcycle, his fingers touching gauges, checking cables, and examining every inch of painted surface that had come into contact with the sand. His inspection was thorough, methodical, and filled with obvious concern.
When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its angry edge, replaced by something that sounded like pride mixed with deep affection.
"I'll have you know, this here is a 1942 Crocker.
It was my grandpa's bike, then my dad's.
Now it's mine. This year, Julie is going to help me win the Copper Moon Cup.
She's all I have, and she's the most important thing in the world to me. "
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning she couldn't quite grasp. Bree's lips pressed into a thin line as she processed this information. The morning breeze picked up, carrying with it the faint smell of fish and salt water, swirling her sandy hair across her face again.
"What's the Copper Moon Cup?" she asked, genuinely curious now.
Hank straightened from his inspection and looked at her, really looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. He shook his head slowly, a gesture that seemed to encompass disbelief, frustration, and something that might have been amusement.
"Do you mean to tell me," he said, walking toward her with measured steps, "that you're here in Copper Moon this week, race week, and you don't know what the Cup is?"
Heat bloomed in her cheeks, a blush she could feel spreading down her neck. "My friend, Blake, made the reservation for me here. He told me Copper Moon would be good for me."
A smirk tugged at one corner of Hank's mouth, transforming his face from angry to almost roguish. "So your boyfriend made a reservation for you, but didn't tell you that the race for the Cup was going on? And how long ago did he make this reservation?"
"He's not my boyfriend," she said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "We're friends. And he made the reservation last week. What difference does that make?"
"He famous or something?" The question came out sharp, and she saw his jaw tick with tension. There was something else in his tone now, something that sounded almost like... annoyance? Jealousy?
She winced at his tone, bending to retrieve her broken canvas, which had blown back toward them on the breeze. The canvas was ruined, torn in three places with a tire track across its center. "He manages bands and knows a lot of people all over the place. One of his bands plays in this area a lot."
"A musician," Hank muttered, the words barely audible but clearly dismissive.
"He's not... never mind, it doesn't matter." She examined the tattered canvas, mourning its loss for a moment before looking back up at him. "I'm sorry about your... Julie." A soft smile curved her lips at the name, finding it endearing despite everything.
Hank moved around the bike again, giving it one more visual inspection.
His tone had shifted to something more practical, almost concerned.
"Be more careful around here. Today, all the other teams will be showing up, and bikes will be running up and down the beach to test conditions.
Not a good place to be throwing your stuff down. "
He took a few steps toward her, and that's when she noticed it: a slight hitch in his gait, the way he seemed to favor his right leg.
"Are you injured? You're limping."
His response was curt, defensive. "I'm fine."
He looked toward the hotel then, and she followed his gaze to see two men approaching across the beach. One was massive, all blonde hair and bulging muscles, built like a Viking warrior. The other was leaner, sandy-haired, moving with the controlled grace of someone accustomed to physical work.
Hank bent to retrieve his helmet, his fingers roughly brushing at the scuffs the impact had left on its shiny black surface. There was something in his movements now, a tension that hadn't been there before, as if the approaching men brought complications he wasn't ready to deal with.
Bree found herself studying his hands as he worked on the helmet.
They were rough, calloused, with small scars across the knuckles and what looked like old burns on one thumb.
Working hands. Hands that knew machinery and labor and, apparently, how to gentle a vintage motorcycle like a skittish horse.
His temper had cooled completely now, replaced by what looked like genuine concern, though whether for his bike or the situation in general, she couldn't tell.
As he raised his head to watch the approaching men, a furrow appeared between his brows, deepening the worry lines that suggested this wasn't his first stress-inducing week.
His posture stiffened, shoulders squaring as if preparing for battle.
He pulled off his leather jacket in one fluid motion, laying it carefully across the motorcycle's seat.
The gray T-shirt he wore underneath stretched across his back and chest in a way that made her mouth go dry.
He was lean but muscled, his body speaking of strength earned through use rather than a gym.
The shirt tapered down to a narrow waist before tucking into jeans that.
.. well, jeans that fit him exceptionally well.
She was staring at his backside, she realized with a start. And it was, objectively speaking, a mighty fine backside.
He turned and caught her looking. Their eyes met, and the knowing grin that spread across his face made her cheeks flare so hot she was surprised her hair didn't catch fire. His eyebrows rose, disappearing beneath that touchable lock of dark hair that had flopped forward over his forehead.
"Okay. Well, I'm going then," she said quickly, her voice pitched higher than normal. She turned and started walking toward her scattered painting supplies, needing distance, needing to think, needing to stop noticing how well those jeans fit.
But as she walked, something that had been nagging at the back of her mind suddenly surfaced. Something about the way he held himself, the set of his shoulders, even the way he'd swung his leg over the motorcycle. It was familiar in a way that had nothing to do with their morning encounter.
She stopped and turned back toward him. "Are you Hank James?"
He froze in the middle of checking something on the bike, his whole body going still before he straightened slowly. "Yeah. How do you know that?"
For the first time since their collision, she smiled, a real, genuine smile that transformed her face. She took a couple of steps back toward him, the morning suddenly feeling full of possibility rather than disaster.
"I think we went to high school together. I'm Bree Spencer. I was a sophomore when you were a senior. You played football, as I recall. Quarterback, right? You threw the winning touchdown at homecoming."
Something shifted in his expression as he studied her, his eyes moving over her face as if trying to reconcile the woman before him with a memory from decades past. He brushed his hands together absently, a nervous gesture that seemed at odds with his earlier confidence.
"You have a sister?" he said finally. "Bryn, I think."
The name hit her like a physical blow, the way it always did when spoken by someone who'd known her sister in the before times. Her smile turned wistful, tinged with a sadness that had become her constant companion.
"Yeah. I did." She rubbed her hands nervously on her hips, a self-soothing gesture she'd developed over the past year, and bit her lower lip before continuing. "She died last year."
She watched his face transform, the curiosity replaced by something softer, more genuine. His lips twitched, then turned down into a frown of genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry. As I recall, she was very sweet. She dated my friend Charlie."
"She married him, too," Bree said, finding comfort in talking about the life her sister had built. "They have two kids, Bobby and Carly. Twenty-two and twenty now. They look just like her."
"That must be hard for Charlie." There was understanding in his voice now, the kind that suggested personal experience with loss. "I lost touch with most of the folks back home."
"Yeah. Me too." The words came out softer than intended, carrying the weight of all the relationships that had fallen away after Bryn's death, all the people who didn't know what to say to her anymore.
She busied herself with picking up her wooden easel, needing something to do with her hands, needing to move past this moment of unexpected connection. The easel had survived the morning's chaos intact, its worn wood smooth under her fingers.
She looked back at Hank just as his friends arrived, close enough now that she could see their faces.
The blonde one had bright blue eyes and dimples, the kind of face that probably had been getting him out of trouble since kindergarten.
The sandy-haired one looked more serious, his expression already suspicious as he looked between her and Hank.
"Sorry our reintroduction was... abrupt," she said, attempting a smile. "Good luck with the race."
She nodded at the other two men as she began walking toward the hotel, her arms full of salvaged art supplies.
She could feel Hank's eyes on her as she walked, could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.
Unable to resist, she bent forward to pick up her paint case from where it had landed, taking perhaps a bit longer than necessary, aware that her capri pants were probably providing quite a view.
When she straightened and glanced back, she caught him looking. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes, a heat that made her stomach flutter in a way it hadn't in a very long time.
Behind him, the beach was coming alive with the morning sun, the copper light turning everything it touched into something magical.
She could hear his friends approaching, could hear the questions that would surely come.
But for just a moment longer, it was just the two of them, standing on a beach at sunrise, connected by shared history and an almost-accident that had somehow become something else entirely.
She thought about the broken canvas in her hand, about how she'd planned to paint the sunrise, to capture the peace and beauty of Copper Moon Beach.
Instead, she'd nearly been run over by a man on a motorcycle named Julie, a man she'd known in another lifetime, in the before times when her sister was alive, and the future seemed certain.
Maybe Blake had known exactly what he was doing when he sent her here.
Maybe Copper Moon Beach, with its copper light and racing motorcycles and men who named their bikes after women, was exactly what she needed.
Not peace, perhaps, but something else. Something that made her feel alive in a way she'd forgotten was possible.
As she walked back toward the hotel, she could hear Hank's friends reaching him, could hear the low rumble of male voices discussing the morning's events. She didn't look back again, but she knew, with a certainty that surprised her, that this wasn't over.
This was just the beginning.