The wind picked up, warm and salt-sweet, and Bree felt something shift inside her chest. Not grief, exactly. More like permission. Like Bryn was standing beside her on this balcony, giving her that knowing smile she used to wear whenever Bree tried to deny she was interested in someone.
Live, she imagined her sister saying. Stop hiding and live.
Bree set down her brush and simply watched as Hank completed another lap, this one faster than the last. The sun caught the chrome of Julie's pipes, sending splinters of light across the track. He was good; even her untrained eye could see that. The way he handled the turns, the confidence in his movements. This wasn't just a hobby for him. This was everything.
The thought should have scared her. She'd learned the hard way what it felt like to lose someone who meant everything. But watching Hank race, seeing the pure joy in the way he moved, Bree felt something unfurl inside her. Something that had been closed tight since the day the doctor had sat them down in that sterile office and explained that Bryn's time was running out.
Hope, maybe. Or possibility. Or just the simple pleasure of watching someone do what they loved.
Hank brought Julie to a stop near the trailer, and even from her balcony, Bree could see him looking up toward the hotel. Toward her room specifically, as if he'd known all along that she was there.
Their eyes met across the distance.
Her heart did something complicated in her chest, a flutter and squeeze that made her breath catch. She should look away. Should go back to her painting and pretend she hadn't spent the last hour watching him like some lovesick teenager. But she couldn't make herself move.
Hank raised one hand in a wave, slow and deliberate, and Bree found herself waving back before she'd consciously decided to.
He pointed to the hotel, then made a drinking motion. Universal sign language for want to grab a drink?
Bree glanced at her canvas, at the half-finished painting that captured this morning better than any photograph could. Then she looked back at Hank, still waiting patiently for her answer, and felt herself smile.
She nodded.
The grin that broke across his face was worth every ounce of uncertainty churning in her stomach. He held up ten fingers, then pointed toward the hotel bar, and Bree nodded again before disappearing into her room.
Her hands shook slightly as she cleaned her brushes, her mind already racing ahead. This was just a drink. Nothing serious. Two people getting to know each other in a town neither of them called home. It didn't have to mean anything.
But as she changed out of her paint-splattered shirt and ran a brush through her hair, Bree couldn't quite convince herself that was true.
Fifteen minutes later, she found Hank waiting in the hotel bar, freshly showered and wearing a clean t-shirt that did absolutely nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders. He stood when he saw her, that old-fashioned courtesy that made her pulse skip.
"You came," he said, and there was genuine surprise in his voice.
"You invited me." She slid into the seat across from him, hyper-aware of how small the table was, how close their knees were to touching. "Though I have to say, two p.m. is early for a drink."
"Coffee, actually." He gestured to the two cups already waiting. "I figured we'd start civilized."
"How very restrained of you."
His lips twitched. "I have my moments."
They fell into easy conversation, the kind that felt effortless despite having known each other for less than two days. Hank asked about her painting, and Bree found herself telling him things she hadn't shared with anyone since Bryn died. How color felt like language sometimes, more honest than words. How the beach made her want to paint things she'd never attempted before.
"You were watching me this morning," Hank said, his dark eyes steady on hers. It wasn't a question.
Bree's cheeks warmed. "You were hard to miss. You and Julie put on quite a show."
"She's running well. Better than I hoped, actually." He traced the rim of his coffee cup, a gesture she was beginning to recognize as his tell when he was thinking hard about something. "The qualifying rounds start tomorrow. If we make it through, we have a real shot at the championship."
"When you make it through," Bree corrected. "You looked pretty confident out there."
"Confident and prepared aren't the same as guaranteed." His expression darkened slightly. "There's another team; Red Dragon Racing. They've won the Cup three years running, and their lead rider doesn't like competition."
Before Bree could respond, the bar door swung open hard enough to bang against the wall. Three men strode in wearing matching red and black racing leathers, their presence immediately commanding attention. The one in front was tall and lean, with sharp features and an uglier expression.
"Well, well," the man drawled, his gaze landing on Hank with obvious malice. "If it isn't the has-been Marine and his grandfather's hand-me-down bike."
Bree felt Hank go still across from her, that particular kind of stillness that preceded violence. But when he spoke, his voice was perfectly calm.
