"No, no, no," she whispered, watching in horror as the inevitable unfolded.
The rider, his attention divided between controlling the bike and looking at her, didn't see the canvas until it was too late. It hit him square in the chest just as he accelerated. His hands came off the handlebars instinctively, trying to bat it away. The motorcycle, suddenly without guidance, lurched sideways and went down hard, sliding several feet before coming to rest on its side.
The sound of metal on sand was horrible, a grinding scrape that made her teeth ache. But worse was the stream of profanity that followed. The rider ripped his helmet off and hurled it at the ground, where it bounced twice before rolling to a stop. His curses were creative, extensive, and loud enough that she was certain they could hear him back at the hotel.
Despite everything, despite nearly being run over, despite being covered in sand and having her peaceful morning shattered, Bree found herself running toward him. "Are you okay?" she called out, her voice high and worried.
The man turned to look at her for the first time, really look at her, and she felt the full force of his anger like a physical blow. His eyes were dark, furious, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscles jumping beneath the skin. He planted his hands on his hips in a stance that screamed confrontation.
She stopped short, suddenly uncertain. "I'm so sorry. Are you hurt?"
"You're sorry?" His voice was rough, gravelly, as if he'd been gargling sand. "That's all you have to say? I could have been killed. What the hell are you doing, throwing this shit around the beach?" He gestured wildly at her scattered supplies. "And why in the hell did you step in front of me? For crying out loud, you must have heard me coming."
The sympathy she'd been feeling evaporated like morning dew under his harsh tone. Being scolded like a misbehaving child flipped a switch in her that she didn't know existed. Her own hands found her hips, mirroring his stance, her chin lifting in defiance.
"I'll have you know, Mr. Mayor," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she made exaggerated air quotes around the title, "that I wasn't throwing 'shit' around the beach. I was trying to paint, which is a perfectly reasonable thing to do at sunrise on a public beach. And while we're at it, why didn't you honk your horn or something when you saw me so I would get out of the way?"
"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?
