“It might be.” She rose from the driftwood and brushed sand from the back of her jeans. “Come on. If I stay here any longer without a canvas, I will start sketching in the sand like a kid.”
He pushed to his feet, careful with the shift of weight. The leg gave him one quick protest he ignored. “You ever do that? When you were younger?”
“Draw in the sand?” She started along the waterline, walking where the tide had packed the ground firm. “Bryn and I used to fill the whole driveway with chalk. Our mother hated it. The neighbors loved it. Kids we barely knew would come over just to scribble.” Her smile went soft. “Bryn always drew suns. Big, bright, impossible-to-miss suns.”
“And you?”
“I drew houses.” She looked up at him from the corner of her eye. “And trees. And one unforgettable portrait of our dog that looked more like a meatloaf.”
He laughed. “Poor dog.”
“She was offended. Refused to sit for me after that.”
They walked in easy silence for a few strides. The water swept up to kiss Bree's toes; she stepped out of reach on instinct, then went back to the firmer line with a quiet huff.
“You okay out here?” he asked. “You are not a fan of getting wet, I take it.”
“I like water. I don't like unexpected cold feet.” She wriggled her toes in her sandals. “You?”
“Spent enough time being wet and cold deployed. I pick my battles now.”
That earned him another of those small, true smiles. “So racing on a wet track is out.”
“Not my favorite.” He shaded his eyes to glance up the beach, where the hotel roofline was just visible above the dunes. “We should head back. I told the guys I wouldn't be gone all day.”
She slowed, then stopped altogether. “Hank?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For this.” She swept a hand around, taking in the little stretch of empty beach. “For not trying to fix anything. Just… showing me a place where I can breathe.”
He shifted closer, drawn in before he could think better of it. “Some things don't need fixing, Bree. They just need space.”
Her throat worked. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
A gull cried overhead, cutting the tension, and she cleared her throat. “If I paint out here tomorrow, you aren't allowed to sneak up on me.”
He lifted his right hand like he was taking an oath. “No sneaking.”
“Good. Because I would hate to accidentally knock you off your feet with a canvas.”
“Now that,” he said, “I would like to avoid.”
They started back toward the path. The sand grew softer again, grabbing at her sandals. She stumbled once on a hidden dip; his hand shot out, fingers closing around her waist.
For a second, he held her there. Her hands landed on his chest, eyes wide, breath caught. The world narrowed to the warm press of her body against his and the faint tremor under his palm.
“Got you,” he said quietly.
“I noticed.”
Neither of them moved away.
Her fingers curled slightly in his shirt, bunching the cotton. Color climbed her neck. “You can let go now.”
“Right.” He eased his grip, but his hand dragged along her waist before he forced it back to his side. “Sorry.”
“Don't be.” She stepped past him, voice lighter than the flush on her cheeks. “It would have been very dramatic if I'd face-planted.”
