The morning light painted Copper Moon Beach in shades of honey and rose, the kind of palette that made Bree's fingers twitch for her brushes. She'd set up her portable easel on the balcony of her room, her canvas angled to catch both the water and the distant racetrack where Hank had been working since dawn.
She told herself she was painting the landscape. The way the sun gilded the waves, the weathered pier jutting into the lake like an old friend refusing to leave. But her brush kept drifting toward the track, toward the small figure bent over a vintage motorcycle, his movements precise and purposeful even from this distance.
The breeze carried the scent of fresh air and motor oil, an oddly appealing combination that reminded her of yesterday's near disaster on the beach. Her cheeks warmed at the memory of Hank standing over her, all concern and quiet intensity, those dark eyes studying her like she mattered.
"You're being ridiculous," she murmured to her canvas, mixing cerulean blue with a touch of burnt sienna. "You came here to paint. To heal. Not to moon over some brooding motorcycle racer you just met."
But even as she said it, her gaze drifted back to the track.
A gull cried overhead, sharp and insistent, and for a moment Bree could have sworn she heard Bryn's laugh on the wind. Her sister had always loved the beach, had talked endlessly about Copper Moon after her visits here. The way the light changed throughout the day. The sound of the waves at night. The feeling that anything was possible when you stood at the edge of the water.
"I miss you," Bree whispered. "God, Brynie, I miss you so much."
The paint on her palette blurred slightly. She blinked hard, refusing to let tears fall. She'd promised herself she wouldn't cry today. Wouldn't let the grief swallow her whole the way it had for months after the funeral.
Instead, she focused on the canvas, letting her brush move with muscle memory rather than conscious thought. Bryn had always said that painting was Bree's way of processing the world, of making sense of things too big for words. Maybe that's what she needed now. To paint her way through the loss, through the loneliness, through the terrifying prospect of a future without her sister's laughter.
The motorcycle's engine roared to life on the track, a deep purr that seemed to vibrate through the morning air. Bree looked up in time to see Hank guide Julie around the first turn, his body moving with the bike like they were one creature. Even from here, she could see the concentration in his posture, the way he leaned into the curve with absolute trust.
It was beautiful. Dangerous and reckless and absolutely beautiful.
She added a slash of crimson to her canvas, then another, building the shape of the motorcycle against the pale morning light. The painting was becoming something she hadn't intended; not just a landscape, but a moment. A feeling. The strange pull she felt watching Hank race, the way her heart seemed to speed up in time with Julie's engine.
"You'd like him," she told Bryn's memory. "He's stubborn and serious, and he named his motorcycle after his grandmother. You always said I needed someone who wasn't afraid of commitment."
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.
