She dressed quickly but carefully, choosing cream-colored capri pants that Bryn had bought for her last birthday and a soft-blue sleeveless button-up blouse that had been Bryn's. The clothes still smelled faintly of her sister's favorite fabric softener, a small comfort she wasn't ready to wash away. She unpacked the items she'd been too exhausted to unpack last night. She heard her mother's voice: "A cluttered space means a cluttered mind, girls." It brought a smile to her lips.
Stepping out of her room, she made her way to the elevator, then through the lobby, where April was still at her post, looking remarkably fresh for someone who'd been working all night. They exchanged waves, April's smile bright despite the early hour.
Outside, the morning air wrapped around her like a cool, salty embrace. She popped the trunk of her car with the key fob, the electronic chirp seeming too loud in the morning quiet. Her painting supplies were organized in the trunk with the same meticulous care she applied to everything: canvas in protective sleeves, her paint tote with each tube in its designated spot, her easel folded neatly and compact.
She gathered her supplies, the familiar weight of them comforting in her arms, and headed across the road toward the beach. Her leather sandals made soft whisking sounds against the pavement, then transitioned to a gentle swoosh as she stepped onto the sand. The breeze played with her newly shortened hair, the bob cut swaying and tickling her neck in a way she still wasn't used to. She'd cut it three weeks after the funeral, needing to change something, anything, to mark the transition from before to after.
Looking down the beach, she noticed something odd. The meticulously raked section ended abruptly, giving way to smooth, hard-packed sand that looked almost like concrete. The texture difference was striking; soft and groomed on one side, compressed and worn on the other. The morning waves rolled up the hard-packed section, their foam fingers reaching only a few feet before retreating back to the sea.
Her artist's eye was drawn to a rock formation ahead, its top worn flat by centuries of wind and weather. "Perfect," she whispered, already envisioning how she'd set up her easel there, using the natural platform to steady her supplies.
The beach sounds created a symphony around her: waves lapping in rhythm, birds beginning their morning songs, the distant croak of frogs from some hidden marsh. This was what Bryn had tried to describe, this sense of being held by nature, of being part of something both ancient and immediate.
Then she heard it: a sharp, mechanical roar that shattered the morning peace like a hammer through glass. An engine revving, growing louder, angrier. She turned back toward the road, frowning, waiting to see what kind of person would destroy such perfect quiet at this ungodly hour. The sound grew closer, the pitch changing as gears shifted, but she saw nothing on the road. No car, no truck, nothing.
Shaking her head at the invisible disturbance, she continued toward the rocks. She was just stepping onto the hard-packed sand, navigating around the far edge of the formation, when she saw him.
Time seemed to slow, the way it does in dreams or accidents. A motorcycle was bearing down on her, its rider leaning into the speed, the machine itself a blur of chrome and color. She had perhaps a second to process what was happening: the bike was on the beach, not the road; it was racing directly toward her; she was in its path.
She squealed, a high, frightened sound she'd never made before, and dove sideways. Her painting supplies flew from her arms as she hit the sand hard, rolling twice before coming to a stop. She could feel sand in her mouth, in her hair, coating one side of her face like gritty makeup.
The motorcycle's brakes screamed in protest, the back wheel sliding sideways, leaving a dark scar in the pristine sand. The rider fought for control, his body language speaking of barely contained disaster. Finally, impossibly, he brought the machine to a stop some thirty yards away.
But even as Bree pushed herself up on her elbows, spitting sand and trying to process what had just happened, she saw her canvas. The wind, aided by the motorcycle's passage, had caught it like a sail. It tumbled end over end down the beach, directly toward the rider who was now turning his bike around.
"No, no, no," she whispered, watching in horror as the inevitable unfolded.
The rider, his attention divided between controlling the bike and looking at her, didn't see the canvas until it was too late. It hit him square in the chest just as he accelerated. His hands came off the handlebars instinctively, trying to bat it away. The motorcycle, suddenly without guidance, lurched sideways and went down hard, sliding several feet before coming to rest on its side.
The sound of metal on sand was horrible, a grinding scrape that made her teeth ache. But worse was the stream of profanity that followed. The rider ripped his helmet off and hurled it at the ground, where it bounced twice before rolling to a stop. His curses were creative, extensive, and loud enough that she was certain they could hear him back at the hotel.
Despite everything, despite nearly being run over, despite being covered in sand and having her peaceful morning shattered, Bree found herself running toward him. "Are you okay?" she called out, her voice high and worried.
The man turned to look at her for the first time, really look at her, and she felt the full force of his anger like a physical blow. His eyes were dark, furious, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscles jumping beneath the skin. He planted his hands on his hips in a stance that screamed confrontation.
She stopped short, suddenly uncertain. "I'm so sorry. Are you hurt?"
"You're sorry?" His voice was rough, gravelly, as if he'd been gargling sand. "That's all you have to say? I could have been killed. What the hell are you doing, throwing this shit around the beach?" He gestured wildly at her scattered supplies. "And why in the hell did you step in front of me? For crying out loud, you must have heard me coming."
The sympathy she'd been feeling evaporated like morning dew under his harsh tone. Being scolded like a misbehaving child flipped a switch in her that she didn't know existed. Her own hands found her hips, mirroring his stance, her chin lifting in defiance.
"I'll have you know, Mr. Mayor," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she made exaggerated air quotes around the title, "that I wasn't throwing 'shit' around the beach. I was trying to paint, which is a perfectly reasonable thing to do at sunrise on a public beach. And while we're at it, why didn't you honk your horn or something when you saw me so I would get out of the way?"
"Really? What?" He raked both hands through his dark hair, leaving it standing in frustrated spikes. When he raised his voice, she could hear the frustration giving way to incredulity. "I was racing. And it's a racing bike. It doesn't have a horn." He slammed his hands back on his hips, his stance widening as he stared her down. "And what would you call that?" He pointed at her broken canvas, now twisted and torn beyond repair. "And why in the hell did you call me Mr. Mayor?"
Despite their height difference, she was maybe five-four to his six feet, Bree refused to be intimidated. She tilted her head back, meeting his glare with one of her own, noting absently that his eyes weren't black as she'd first thought but a deep brown with flecks of gold, like tiger's eye stones.
She tossed her head, trying unsuccessfully to get her sand-coated hair out of her face. "I called you, Mr. Mayor, because you act like you own this beach. I don't know your name, and frankly, you're being an ass."
Something shifted in his expression at her words, a flicker of what might have been amusement quickly suppressed. He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell motor oil and leather and something else, something warm and masculine that made her stomach do an unexpected flip. They were nose to chest now, and she had to crane her neck back at an uncomfortable angle to maintain eye contact, but she'd be damned if she'd back down first.
"My name, Miss Sassy Pants," he said, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, "is Hank. I act like I run this place because any fool can see how clean this beach is, and you don't throw trash on a beach." His voice rose again on the last words. "And you made me dump Julie. Do you even know how much time and effort I have to put in to get Julie ready for this week?"
Bree's mind went completely blank for a moment. She looked around the beach, searching for another person, this Julie he was so concerned about. When she saw no one, her confusion gave way to a different kind of concern. The man was clearly unhinged. Crazy equaled trouble in her world, trouble she didn't need.
She took a strategic step backward, trying for a placating tone. "Well, Hank, I'll let you get back to Julie." Despite her best efforts, a smirk tugged at her lips, and then a giggle escaped, high and slightly hysterical.
His expression darkened to something approaching thunderous. "You're laughing at the fact that Julie might be damaged?"
