Chapter 8 #2
“I do like that part of the plan.” She angled toward him a little. “You're sure you don't mind?”
“If I minded, I would have taken the long way around and lost you in the dunes.”
Her eyes sparked. “You couldn't lose me if you tried, James.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
“It might be.” She rose from the driftwood and brushed sand from the back of her jeans. “Come on. If I stay here any longer without a canvas, I will start sketching in the sand like a kid.”
He pushed to his feet, careful with the shift of weight. The leg gave him one quick protest he ignored. “You ever do that? When you were younger?”
“Draw in the sand?” She started along the waterline, walking where the tide had packed the ground firm.
“Bryn and I used to fill the whole driveway with chalk. Our mother hated it. The neighbors loved it. Kids we barely knew would come over just to scribble.” Her smile went soft.
“Bryn always drew suns. Big, bright, impossible-to-miss suns.”
“And you?”
“I drew houses.” She looked up at him from the corner of her eye. “And trees. And one unforgettable portrait of our dog that looked more like a meatloaf.”
He laughed. “Poor dog.”
“She was offended. Refused to sit for me after that.”
They walked in easy silence for a few strides. The water swept up to kiss Bree's toes; she stepped out of reach on instinct, then went back to the firmer line with a quiet huff.
“You okay out here?” he asked. “You are not a fan of getting wet, I take it.”
“I like water. I don't like unexpected cold feet.” She wriggled her toes in her sandals. “You?”
“Spent enough time being wet and cold deployed. I pick my battles now.”
That earned him another of those small, true smiles. “So racing on a wet track is out.”
“Not my favorite.” He shaded his eyes to glance up the beach, where the hotel roofline was just visible above the dunes. “We should head back. I told the guys I wouldn't be gone all day.”
She slowed, then stopped altogether. “Hank?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For this.” She swept a hand around, taking in the little stretch of empty beach. “For not trying to fix anything. Just… showing me a place where I can breathe.”
He shifted closer, drawn in before he could think better of it. “Some things don't need fixing, Bree. They just need space.”
Her throat worked. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
A gull cried overhead, cutting the tension, and she cleared her throat. “If I paint out here tomorrow, you aren't allowed to sneak up on me.”
He lifted his right hand like he was taking an oath. “No sneaking.”
“Good. Because I would hate to accidentally knock you off your feet with a canvas.”
“Now that,” he said, “I would like to avoid.”
They started back toward the path. The sand grew softer again, grabbing at her sandals. She stumbled once on a hidden dip; his hand shot out, fingers closing around her waist.
For a second, he held her there. Her hands landed on his chest, eyes wide, breath caught. The world narrowed to the warm press of her body against his and the faint tremor under his palm.
“Got you,” he said quietly.
“I noticed.”
Neither of them moved away.
Her fingers curled slightly in his shirt, bunching the cotton. Color climbed her neck. “You can let go now.”
“Right.” He eased his grip, but his hand dragged along her waist before he forced it back to his side. “Sorry.”
“Don't be.” She stepped past him, voice lighter than the flush on her cheeks. “It would have been very dramatic if I'd face-planted.”
He fell into step beside her again. The distance between them had shrunk somehow, close enough that their arms brushed now and then. When her knuckles bumped his, she didn't pull away. The third time it happened, he turned his hand, rough fingers curling around hers.
She looked down, then up at him.
“Hank.”
“If you want me to let go…”
Her hand tightened around his instead. “I'll let you know.”
He nodded, something warm and dangerous settling low in his chest.
They walked the rest of the way hand in hand. At the boardwalk, she stopped and looked back at the little hidden stretch of beach, eyes bright and thoughtful.
“I'm going to paint the rocks first,” she decided. “Then the water. I'll save the sky for last.”
“Why the sky last?”
“Because it changes the most.” She smiled up at him. “Like people.”
He thought of the man he had been when he rolled into Copper Moon three days ago, carrying nothing but pressure and old ghosts. Then he looked at the woman standing in front of him, paint under her nails, grief in her eyes, hope just starting to show through the cracks.
“Yeah,” he said. “Like people.”
Back at the hotel steps, he forced himself to release her hand. “I need to go check in with Brian and Colby, make sure they haven't picked a fight with anyone they can't take.”
“I should rinse sand out of places it doesn't belong.” Her mouth quirked. “If I set up on the balcony later, you'll see me.”
“I'll keep an eye out.”
She turned to go, then pivoted back and rose on her toes, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. It was brief, soft as a brushstroke, but it landed like a jolt.
“Good luck tomorrow,” she said. “Not that you need it.”
He touched the spot as she walked inside, fingers resting there like he could hold the warmth a little longer.
For the first time since he'd signed up for this season’s circuit, Hank James headed back to the track thinking about something other than the Copper Moon Cup.
He was thinking about a painter with sea-green eyes, and a hidden strip of beach that didn't feel like his alone anymore.