"Marcus. Nice to see you've maintained your winning personality."
"Save the pleasantries, James." Marcus moved closer, his friends flanking him like well-trained dogs. "We both know you don't stand a chance tomorrow. That antique you're riding might look pretty, but she'll fall apart the second you push her hard."
"Julie's tougher than she looks."
"Maybe." Marcus's smile was sharp and cold. "But are you? Word is you've still got a limp from Afghanistan. Hard to race when your body can't keep up."
Bree's hands clenched in her lap, anger flaring hot and immediate. How dare this man talk to Hank like that? How dare he weaponize war wounds like they were ammunition? Hank was a Marine. He is all that embodies a hero.
But Hank simply stood, his movements controlled and deliberate. He was taller than Marcus by at least two inches, and when he stepped closer, the other man actually took a step back.
"The track will answer your questions tomorrow," Hank said quietly. "Until then, you might want to work on your trash talk. This amateur hour routine is getting old."
Marcus's face flushed red, but before he could respond, the bartender cleared his throat loudly.
"Gentlemen. This is a family establishment. Take the pissing contest outside."
For a long moment, nobody moved. Then Marcus sneered, spat something crude under his breath, and stalked out with his entourage trailing behind.
The bar seemed to exhale collectively.
Hank sat back down, his jaw tight but his hands steady as he reached for his coffee. "Sorry about that. Marcus likes to play mind games before races. Thinks it gives him an edge."
"Does it work?" Bree asked, surprised by how fierce her voice sounded.
"Not on me." Hank met her eyes, and something in his expression made her stomach flip. "I learned a long time ago that the only opinion that matters is my own."
"Good." She meant it. "Because that man is clearly an ass, and anything he says is suspect at best."
Hank's smile was slow and genuine, reaching his eyes in a way that transformed his entire face. "You defending my honor, Spencer?"
"Someone has to." She took a sip of her coffee, trying to ignore how much she'd wanted to throw something at Marcus's smug face. "Besides, I've seen you ride. You're going to crush him tomorrow."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence."
"It's not confidence. It's observation." Bree leaned forward, surprising herself with her intensity. "That man talks like someone who's afraid. And fear causes people to make mistakes."
Hank studied her for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. When he spoke, his voice was softer. "You're something else, you know that?"
"Is that good or bad?"
"Very good." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers in a touch so light it might have been accidental. Except it wasn't, and they both knew it. "Want to get out of here? I know a place on the beach where the tourists don't go."
Bree should say no. Should go back to her room and her painting and the safety of keeping her distance. But Bryn's voice echoed in her head again; live, stop hiding and live.
"Yes," she said. "I'd like that."
As they left the bar together, Bree caught sight of Marcus outside, watching them with cold calculation. A shiver ran down her spine, but Hank's hand found the small of her back, steady and warm, and the fear dissolved into something else entirely.
Tomorrow would bring the race and whatever games Marcus wanted to play. But right now, walking into the sunshine with Hank beside her, Bree felt more alive than she had in a year.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Chapter 8
Hank watched Bree's sandals sink into the softer sand as the boardwalk ended and the narrow path opened up between the dunes.
“This is where people usually turn around,” he said. “They see the sign and decide it’s too much effort.”
