"You invited me." She slid into the seat across from him, hyper-aware of how small the table was, how close their knees were to touching. "Though I have to say, two p.m. is early for a drink."
"Coffee, actually." He gestured to the two cups already waiting. "I figured we'd start civilized."
"How very restrained of you."
His lips twitched. "I have my moments."
They fell into easy conversation, the kind that felt effortless despite having known each other for less than two days. Hank asked about her painting, and Bree found herself telling him things she hadn't shared with anyone since Bryn died. How color felt like language sometimes, more honest than words. How the beach made her want to paint things she'd never attempted before.
"You were watching me this morning," Hank said, his dark eyes steady on hers. It wasn't a question.
Bree's cheeks warmed. "You were hard to miss. You and Julie put on quite a show."
"She's running well. Better than I hoped, actually." He traced the rim of his coffee cup, a gesture she was beginning to recognize as his tell when he was thinking hard about something. "The qualifying rounds start tomorrow. If we make it through, we have a real shot at the championship."
"When you make it through," Bree corrected. "You looked pretty confident out there."
"Confident and prepared aren't the same as guaranteed." His expression darkened slightly. "There's another team; Red Dragon Racing. They've won the Cup three years running, and their lead rider doesn't like competition."
Before Bree could respond, the bar door swung open hard enough to bang against the wall. Three men strode in wearing matching red and black racing leathers, their presence immediately commanding attention. The one in front was tall and lean, with sharp features and an uglier expression.
"Well, well," the man drawled, his gaze landing on Hank with obvious malice. "If it isn't the has-been Marine and his grandfather's hand-me-down bike."
Bree felt Hank go still across from her, that particular kind of stillness that preceded violence. But when he spoke, his voice was perfectly calm.
"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."
