“It is something,” she said. “Which is more than I have had in months.”
He let that sit for a moment. The wind shifted, bringing the faintest hint of salt and sunblock from farther down the beach. Out here, it was softer, less crowded.
“You know,” he said, “my granddad used to say the only bad laps were the ones you did not run.”
She looked over, the hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Is everything a racing metaphor with you?”
“Not everything. Sometimes I talk about coffee. Or torque.”
That pulled a quiet laugh from her. The sound threaded under his skin, warm and light.
“What would he think?” she asked. “Your grandfather. About you racing Julie in the Cup.”
Hank pictured the old man, wearing an oil-stained ball cap, and hands as nicked up as Hank’s were now. “He would tell me to keep my line clean and not let any yahoo push me around on the straightaway.” His throat tightened unexpectedly. “And he would be proud. Even if I came in last. He cared more about the run than the trophy. He and my father worked so hard to bring this Cup home. But they did it with honesty and hard work.”
Bree’s hand found his forearm, light as a bird landing. “Your dad?”
“He likes the trophies.” The answer came with a wry edge he didn’t bother to hide. “He wants that Cup on the mantel. Says the James men have been chasing it long enough.”
She rubbed her thumb once along his skin, absent and soothing. “And what do you want?”
He had been answering that question for months without really hearing himself. The Cup. Redemption. A way out. The words had worn grooves in his brain.
Right now, with her beside him and the track blessedly out of sight, the answer felt different.
“I want to know I was not done at forty-two,” he said. “That the leg, the discharge, all of it did not write the last chapter for me.”
She did not look away. “You really think one race decides that?”
“No.” He let out a breath. “I think I decided that. I just attached it to the race because it gave me something to aim at.”
Bree studied him, her expression open and clear in a way that made him feel too seen.
“For what it's worth,” she said, “you do not look done.”
His mouth tugged. “No?”
“You look tired.” Her eyes softened, taking in the lines at the corners, the shadows from long nights. “You look like someone who has carried more than his share for a long time. But you also look very alive when you are on that bike.”
He swallowed. The way she said it, like she had watched him closely enough to notice the difference, landed deep.
“Bryn would have liked you,” she added. “She always had a thing for men who fixed things. She used to say the way a man treated an engine told you everything you needed to know about his heart.”
“Smart woman,” he said.
“The smartest.” Her hand slipped away from his arm, leaving a faint warmth behind. “She and Charlie spent their honeymoon here. They came back a few times with friends. She would bring me seashells and say I needed to stop painting other people’s scenery and come see this place for myself.”
“Why didn't you?”
She looked out over the water, lashes low. “Life. Work. Excuses. I told myself I would go next year. There is always a next year until there isn't.”
He knew that one in his bones.
“Blake said Copper Moon would shake me loose,” she said. “I thought he meant… quiet mornings, long walks, that kind of thing.”
“Instead, you got pit crews and exhaust fumes.” Hank tipped one shoulder. “He wasn't wrong, though.”
“No,” she admitted. “He wasn't.”
