"The Copper Moon Cup." She nodded. "My friend Blake failed to mention it was happening this weekend when he booked my trip."
"You didn't come for the race?"
"I came for peace and quiet." Her laugh was soft and self-deprecating. "Shows what I know about planning."
"To be fair, Copper Moon is usually quiet. Just not this week."
"So everyone keeps telling me." She took a sip of her coffee. "That bike you were working on this morning, is that the one you're racing?"
He shouldn't be surprised she'd seen him. The hotel overlooked the track, and he'd been out there since dawn. Still, knowing she'd been watching sent an unexpected warmth through his chest.
"Julie," he said. "1942 Crocker. She belonged to my grandfather."
"Julie." Bree's expression softened. "That's right. You named her after someone?"
"My grandmother. She was," he paused, "the reason my grandfather started racing in the first place. He wanted to impress her."
"Did it work?"
"They were married for fifty-three years, so I'd say yes."
Bree smiled, but something in her eyes shifted. A shadow passed across her face, there and gone so quickly he almost missed it. Grief, he realized. The kind that surfaced unexpectedly, triggered by stories of long marriages and lifelong love.
"Your sister," he said quietly. "Bryn. I remember her from high school. She was," he searched for the right words, "hard to forget."
Bree's eyes widened slightly. "You knew Bryn?"
"Not well. But enough to know she was the kind of person who made everyone around her better." He held her gaze, letting her see he meant it. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you." Her voice came out rough, and she cleared her throat. "She loved Copper Moon. Talked about it all the time. I thought," she paused, "I thought being here might help me feel close to her again."
"Is it working?"
"I don't know yet." She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "This morning I've been thinking about her a lot, contemplating on why I'm here, this week of all weeks, and what I should do about it."
"That makes sense." He meant it. "What do you paint?"
"Landscapes, mostly. Nothing professional, just," she shrugged, "something I've always done."
"You should keep doing it. Especially if it helps."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the noise of the café fading into background static. Hank couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this settled around someone new, this willing to just be present without needing to fill every second with words.
"Are you all right?" he asked finally. "After yesterday, I mean. Really, all right?"
"I'm fine. Promise." She studied him with those too-perceptive green eyes. "Are you?"
The question caught him off guard. Most people didn't ask if he was all right. They saw what they wanted to see: a former Marine, a racer, someone who had his life together enough to chase a championship. They didn't see the nights he couldn't sleep, the phantom pain in his leg, the weight of knowing this race was his last shot at something better.
"I'm good," he said, because it was easier than the truth.
Bree's expression suggested she didn't quite believe him, but she didn't push. Instead, she changed the subject.
"So what happens next? With the race, I mean."
"Qualifying rounds start tomorrow. Then eliminations, then the final on Sunday."
"And you're confident? With Julie?"
