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.
