Her gaze flicked to the weathered post half-buried in the dune. Protected dunes, no motorized vehicles beyond this point.
“Is this you telling me we’re breaking the law?” she asked.
“More like bending it. No bikes out here, just feet.” He tipped his head toward the path. “Come on. It’s worth it.”
She hesitated only a second, then stepped beside him. The wind muffled the sounds from town; each yard they walked stole more of the noise. The low crash of waves and the whisper of grass along the dunes were all that remained after the engines, shouting, and clatter of tools faded.
Her shoulders dropped, just a bit.
“You come out here a lot?” Bree asked.
“When I need to get out of my own head.” He adjusted his pace to match hers. Her legs were shorter, and the sand fought every step. “Brian and Colby call it my disappearing act.”
“Do they know where you go?”
“Brian does. Colby pretends he doesn’t, but he’s tracked me once or twice.”
She smiled at that. “Good friends.”
“The best.”
The path curved, then opened onto a pocket of beach framed by two low rock outcroppings. The sand here lay untouched, no tire tracks, no footprints. A length of driftwood sat far enough from the waterline to stay dry, bleached silver by sun and time.
Bree stopped dead.
“Oh,” she breathed.
That one syllable hit him harder than any compliment he had ever gotten about his riding. Her eyes had gone wide, that soft green lifting to take in the curve of the rocks, the sweep of open water, the way the shoreline hooked around to make a half-circle of quiet.
“Nobody comes this far,” he said. “Tourists stop back there where the chairs are. Locals stake out the pier or the public access lot. This little corner gets forgotten.”
She turned slowly, as if memorizing every angle. “This is perfect.”
“That was the idea.” He nodded toward the driftwood. “You can set up there, stay out of the wind, still see everything.”
Bree walked to the log and brushed sand from the top with her palm. “You’ve been keeping this spot to yourself all week, and you just decided to share?”
“I figured you earned it after surviving that confrontation with Marcus.”
Her mouth twisted. “Is he always like that?”
“Pretty much.” Hank shrugged. “He thinks if he rattles everybody, they’ll make mistakes.”
“Does it work on you?”
He sank onto the driftwood, elbows on his knees. The sand under his boots shifted, giving a little, the way his leg liked. “Used to. Not anymore.”
She stayed standing, arms folded loosely at her middle, hair lifting in the breeze. “You were very calm back there.”
“Bartender would have thrown us out otherwise.”
“That is not what I meant.” She shook her head. “He went right for your leg. Your service. He wanted blood.”
“Yeah.” Hank watched the water roll in toward the rocks and break apart, clean and predictable. “Guys like Marcus, they have one move. If you let it work once, they keep using it.”
“And you just decided not to let it work.”
“Something like that.”
