"I appreciate the vote of confidence."
"It's not confidence. It's observation." Bree leaned forward, surprising herself with her intensity. "That man talks like someone who's afraid. And fear causes people to make mistakes."
Hank studied her for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. When he spoke, his voice was softer. "You're something else, you know that?"
"Is that good or bad?"
"Very good." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers in a touch so light it might have been accidental. Except it wasn't, and they both knew it. "Want to get out of here? I know a place on the beach where the tourists don't go."
Bree should say no. Should go back to her room and her painting and the safety of keeping her distance. But Bryn's voice echoed in her head again; live, stop hiding and live.
"Yes," she said. "I'd like that."
As they left the bar together, Bree caught sight of Marcus outside, watching them with cold calculation. A shiver ran down her spine, but Hank's hand found the small of her back, steady and warm, and the fear dissolved into something else entirely.
Tomorrow would bring the race and whatever games Marcus wanted to play. But right now, walking into the sunshine with Hank beside her, Bree felt more alive than she had in a year.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Chapter 8
Hank watched Bree's sandals sink into the softer sand as the boardwalk ended and the narrow path opened up between the dunes.
“This is where people usually turn around,” he said. “They see the sign and decide it’s too much effort.”
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.”
