He fell into step beside her again. The distance between them had shrunk somehow, close enough that their arms brushed now and then. When her knuckles bumped his, she didn't pull away. The third time it happened, he turned his hand, rough fingers curling around hers.
She looked down, then up at him.
“Hank.”
“If you want me to let go…”
Her hand tightened around his instead. “I'll let you know.”
He nodded, something warm and dangerous settling low in his chest.
They walked the rest of the way hand in hand. At the boardwalk, she stopped and looked back at the little hidden stretch of beach, eyes bright and thoughtful.
“I'm going to paint the rocks first,” she decided. “Then the water. I'll save the sky for last.”
“Why the sky last?”
“Because it changes the most.” She smiled up at him. “Like people.”
He thought of the man he had been when he rolled into Copper Moon three days ago, carrying nothing but pressure and old ghosts. Then he looked at the woman standing in front of him, paint under her nails, grief in her eyes, hope just starting to show through the cracks.
“Yeah,” he said. “Like people.”
Back at the hotel steps, he forced himself to release her hand. “I need to go check in with Brian and Colby, make sure they haven't picked a fight with anyone they can't take.”
“I should rinse sand out of places it doesn't belong.” Her mouth quirked. “If I set up on the balcony later, you'll see me.”
“I'll keep an eye out.”
She turned to go, then pivoted back and rose on her toes, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. It was brief, soft as a brushstroke, but it landed like a jolt.
“Good luck tomorrow,” she said. “Not that you need it.”
He touched the spot as she walked inside, fingers resting there like he could hold the warmth a little longer.
For the first time since he'd signed up for this season’s circuit, Hank James headed back to the track thinking about something other than the Copper Moon Cup.
He was thinking about a painter with sea-green eyes, and a hidden strip of beach that didn't feel like his alone anymore.
Chapter 9
Hank tightened the last bolt on Julie’s rear set and sat back on his heels. The afternoon sun had climbed high enough that heat baked off the packed sand of the pit area; sweat slid down his spine under his T-shirt. Around him, the controlled chaos of race prep had settled into a steady rhythm. Engines revved, air guns chattered, and someone shouted for a torque wrench.
He liked this part. The checklists, the mechanics, the way everything had a place and a purpose. It kept his mind focused; it kept the noise in his head down to something manageable.
“You keep crawling around on the ground like that, old man, we’re going to need a crane to get you up,” Brian said.
Hank glanced over his shoulder. Brian leaned against the trailer, water bottle tipped up, sweat darkening his ball cap. Colby sat on a folding chair with a laptop balanced on his knees, logging times and adjustments from the morning runs.
“Keep talking, Viking,” Hank said. “I’ve got a list of jobs with your name on them.”
“Make sure one of them is a taste tester when those food trucks open.” Brian crumpled his empty bottle and lobbed it toward the trash can. It hit the rim, bounced out, and rolled. “Close enough.”
Colby didn’t look up from the screen. “You’re a disgrace to the Navy. Pick it up.”
“You’re a disgrace to fun,” Brian shot back, but he bent to snag the bottle anyway.
Hank grinned and stood, stretching his back until his spine popped. The familiar ache in his right leg complained, but it was a background grumble now; he could work with that.
