Chapter 8
Hank watched Bree's sandals sink into the softer sand as the boardwalk ended and the narrow path opened up between the dunes.
“This is where people usually turn around,” he said. “They see the sign and decide it’s too much effort.”
Her gaze flicked to the weathered post half-buried in the dune. Protected dunes, no motorized vehicles beyond this point.
“Is this you telling me we’re breaking the law?” she asked.
“More like bending it. No bikes out here, just feet.” He tipped his head toward the path. “Come on. It’s worth it.”
She hesitated only a second, then stepped beside him. The wind muffled the sounds from town; each yard they walked stole more of the noise. The low crash of waves and the whisper of grass along the dunes were all that remained after the engines, shouting, and clatter of tools faded.
Her shoulders dropped, just a bit.
“You come out here a lot?” Bree asked.
“When I need to get out of my own head.” He adjusted his pace to match hers. Her legs were shorter, and the sand fought every step. “Brian and Colby call it my disappearing act.”
“Do they know where you go?”
“Brian does. Colby pretends he doesn’t, but he’s tracked me once or twice.”
She smiled at that. “Good friends.”
“The best.”
The path curved, then opened onto a pocket of beach framed by two low rock outcroppings. The sand here lay untouched, no tire tracks, no footprints. A length of driftwood sat far enough from the waterline to stay dry, bleached silver by sun and time.
Bree stopped dead.
“Oh,” she breathed.
That one syllable hit him harder than any compliment he had ever gotten about his riding. Her eyes had gone wide, that soft green lifting to take in the curve of the rocks, the sweep of open water, the way the shoreline hooked around to make a half-circle of quiet.
“Nobody comes this far,” he said. “Tourists stop back there where the chairs are. Locals stake out the pier or the public access lot. This little corner gets forgotten.”
She turned slowly, as if memorizing every angle. “This is perfect.”
“That was the idea.” He nodded toward the driftwood. “You can set up there, stay out of the wind, still see everything.”
Bree walked to the log and brushed sand from the top with her palm. “You’ve been keeping this spot to yourself all week, and you just decided to share?”
“I figured you earned it after surviving that confrontation with Marcus.”
Her mouth twisted. “Is he always like that?”
“Pretty much.” Hank shrugged. “He thinks if he rattles everybody, they’ll make mistakes.”
“Does it work on you?”
He sank onto the driftwood, elbows on his knees. The sand under his boots shifted, giving a little, the way his leg liked. “Used to. Not anymore.”
She stayed standing, arms folded loosely at her middle, hair lifting in the breeze. “You were very calm back there.”
“Bartender would have thrown us out otherwise.”
“That is not what I meant.” She shook her head. “He went right for your leg. Your service. He wanted blood.”
“Yeah.” Hank watched the water roll in toward the rocks and break apart, clean and predictable. “Guys like Marcus, they have one move. If you let it work once, they keep using it.”
“And you just decided not to let it work.”
“Something like that.”
Bree looked at him for a long moment, then eased onto the driftwood beside him. She left a polite few inches between them, but he could feel the heat of her body along his arm.
“I’m not used to men shrugging off that kind of thing,” she said. “My brother-in-law, Charlie, would still be pacing and planning comebacks.”
“He has kids. Different pressure.” Hank nudged a small shell with the toe of his boot. “Besides, I’m used to people staring at the limp. Since I’ve finished with therapy and was told there wasn’t anything more that could be done for me, I’ve learned to live with it. It’s part of who I am.”
Her gaze dipped automatically to his right leg, then back up. “Is it still painful?”
“Depends on the day.” He rolled his ankle once, easing a tight pull in the muscle. “Shrapnel took out more than they could fix. The docs did what they could. The rest is just noise I work around.”
“Noise.” She tasted the word, thoughtful. “And racing quiets it?”
“Sometimes.” He glanced at her. “Sometimes it turns it up. But out there, at least I know what I’m fighting.”
Bree rested her hands on her thighs, fingers laced loosely. “I get that.”
He waited. She didn’t look like she was sure she wanted to explain, but she did it anyway.
“After Bryn died, everyone kept telling me to keep painting,” she said.
“Like it was a faucet I could turn on to feel better. ‘Do what you love, Bree, it will help.’” Her voice softened into imitation.
“Only every time I picked up a brush, all I could see was the hospital room. Her hands. The way she looked at me when she asked me to be okay.”
His chest tightened.
“I started avoiding my studio,” she continued. “I told myself I would go in tomorrow, then the next day. Then I just stopped saying anything about it at all.”
“How long?” he asked quietly.
She blew out a breath. “Almost a year. The stuff I did try to paint was… wrong. Muddy. Like I was painting with fog instead of color.”
He thought of the sunrise outside her window, of her on the balcony that morning, brush moving in small, sure strokes. “The canvas you had up there today did not look wrong.”
“It surprised me.” She traced a small knot in the wood between them. “I was just blocking in shapes at first. When I looked back at it, there you were. You and Julie on the track. I did not mean to put you in it.”
He tilted his head. “Is that good or bad?”
“It is something,” she said. “Which is more than I have had in months.”
He let that sit for a moment. The wind shifted, bringing the faintest hint of salt and sunblock from farther down the beach. Out here, it was softer, less crowded.
“You know,” he said, “my granddad used to say the only bad laps were the ones you did not run.”
She looked over, the hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Is everything a racing metaphor with you?”
“Not everything. Sometimes I talk about coffee. Or torque.”
That pulled a quiet laugh from her. The sound threaded under his skin, warm and light.
“What would he think?” she asked. “Your grandfather. About you racing Julie in the Cup.”
Hank pictured the old man, wearing an oil-stained ball cap, and hands as nicked up as Hank’s were now.
“He would tell me to keep my line clean and not let any yahoo push me around on the straightaway.” His throat tightened unexpectedly.
“And he would be proud. Even if I came in last. He cared more about the run than the trophy. He and my father worked so hard to bring this Cup home. But they did it with honesty and hard work.”
Bree’s hand found his forearm, light as a bird landing. “Your dad?”
“He likes the trophies.” The answer came with a wry edge he didn’t bother to hide. “He wants that Cup on the mantel. Says the James men have been chasing it long enough.”
She rubbed her thumb once along his skin, absent and soothing. “And what do you want?”
He had been answering that question for months without really hearing himself. The Cup. Redemption. A way out. The words had worn grooves in his brain.
Right now, with her beside him and the track blessedly out of sight, the answer felt different.
“I want to know I was not done at forty-two,” he said. “That the leg, the discharge, all of it did not write the last chapter for me.”
She did not look away. “You really think one race decides that?”
“No.” He let out a breath. “I think I decided that. I just attached it to the race because it gave me something to aim at.”
Bree studied him, her expression open and clear in a way that made him feel too seen.
“For what it's worth,” she said, “you do not look done.”
His mouth tugged. “No?”
“You look tired.” Her eyes softened, taking in the lines at the corners, the shadows from long nights. “You look like someone who has carried more than his share for a long time. But you also look very alive when you are on that bike.”
He swallowed. The way she said it, like she had watched him closely enough to notice the difference, landed deep.
“Bryn would have liked you,” she added. “She always had a thing for men who fixed things. She used to say the way a man treated an engine told you everything you needed to know about his heart.”
“Smart woman,” he said.
“The smartest.” Her hand slipped away from his arm, leaving a faint warmth behind. “She and Charlie spent their honeymoon here. They came back a few times with friends. She would bring me seashells and say I needed to stop painting other people’s scenery and come see this place for myself.”
“Why didn't you?”
She looked out over the water, lashes low. “Life. Work. Excuses. I told myself I would go next year. There is always a next year until there isn't.”
He knew that one in his bones.
“Blake said Copper Moon would shake me loose,” she said. “I thought he meant… quiet mornings, long walks, that kind of thing.”
“Instead, you got pit crews and exhaust fumes.” Hank tipped one shoulder. “He wasn't wrong, though.”
“No,” she admitted. “He wasn't.”
They sat there, side by side, while the waves rolled in and out in their steady rhythm. A kid’s laugh drifted faintly from the far end of the public beach, then faded again. Here, the silence settled softly rather than heavily.
Bree nudged his knee with hers. “So this is your hideout.”
“Yeah.”
“And you just handed it to me.”
“It seemed like you needed it more today.” He looked at her profile, the stubborn line of her jaw, the freckles across her nose that the sun had brought out. “You did say you came here to paint.”
Her mouth curved. “I did.”
“Bring your easel tomorrow,” he said. “Come early. Before the rest of the teams finish breakfast and turn the place into a circus.”
“While you are on the track,” she guessed.
“While I am on the track,” he confirmed. “You can paint without worrying about stray motorcycles.”