She watched, fascinated despite herself, as he turned to his motorcycle. With a couple of grunts and an impressive display of strength, he hauled the machine upright. The kickstand went down with a metallic snap, and he leaned the bike over onto it before pulling off his leather gloves with sharp, angry movements.
Then something changed. His hands, she noticed, became gentle as they moved over the motorcycle, checking for damage with the tenderness of a parent examining a hurt child. He brushed sand from the sections that weren't hot from the engine, his touch reverent, loving even. He shook his head slowly from side to side, and she could hear him murmuring something under his breath.
Understanding dawned slowly, and with it came a mix of emotions she couldn't quite sort out. "Wait," she said, her brows drawing together in confusion. "Julie is... your... bike?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked slowly around the motorcycle, his fingers touching gauges, checking cables, and examining every inch of painted surface that had come into contact with the sand. His inspection was thorough, methodical, and filled with obvious concern.
When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its angry edge, replaced by something that sounded like pride mixed with deep affection. "I'll have you know, this here is a 1942 Crocker. It was my grandpa's bike, then my dad's. Now it's mine. This year, Julie is going to help me win the Copper Moon Cup. She's all I have, and she's the most important thing in the world to me."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning she couldn't quite grasp. Bree's lips pressed into a thin line as she processed this information. The morning breeze picked up, carrying with it the faint smell of fish and salt water, swirling her sandy hair across her face again.
"What's the Copper Moon Cup?" she asked, genuinely curious now.
Hank straightened from his inspection and looked at her, really looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. He shook his head slowly, a gesture that seemed to encompass disbelief, frustration, and something that might have been amusement.
"Do you mean to tell me," he said, walking toward her with measured steps, "that you're here in Copper Moon this week, race week, and you don't know what the Cup is?"
Heat bloomed in her cheeks, a blush she could feel spreading down her neck. "My friend, Blake, made the reservation for me here. He told me Copper Moon would be good for me."
A smirk tugged at one corner of Hank's mouth, transforming his face from angry to almost roguish. "So your boyfriend made a reservation for you, but didn't tell you that the race for the Cup was going on? And how long ago did he make this reservation?"
"He's not my boyfriend," she said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "We're friends. And he made the reservation last week. What difference does that make?"
"He famous or something?" The question came out sharp, and she saw his jaw tick with tension. There was something else in his tone now, something that sounded almost like... annoyance? Jealousy?
She winced at his tone, bending to retrieve her broken canvas, which had blown back toward them on the breeze. The canvas was ruined, torn in three places with a tire track across its center. "He manages bands and knows a lot of people all over the place. One of his bands plays in this area a lot."
"A musician," Hank muttered, the words barely audible but clearly dismissive.
"He's not... never mind, it doesn't matter." She examined the tattered canvas, mourning its loss for a moment before looking back up at him. "I'm sorry about your... Julie." A soft smile curved her lips at the name, finding it endearing despite everything.
Hank moved around the bike again, giving it one more visual inspection. His tone had shifted to something more practical, almost concerned. "Be more careful around here. Today, all the other teams will be showing up, and bikes will be running up and down the beach to test conditions. Not a good place to be throwing your stuff down."
He took a few steps toward her, and that's when she noticed it: a slight hitch in his gait, the way he seemed to favor his right leg.
"Are you injured? You're limping."
His response was curt, defensive. "I'm fine."
He looked toward the hotel then, and she followed his gaze to see two men approaching across the beach. One was massive, all blonde hair and bulging muscles, built like a Viking warrior. The other was leaner, sandy-haired, moving with the controlled grace of someone accustomed to physical work.
Hank bent to retrieve his helmet, his fingers roughly brushing at the scuffs the impact had left on its shiny black surface. There was something in his movements now, a tension that hadn't been there before, as if the approaching men brought complications he wasn't ready to deal with.
Bree found herself studying his hands as he worked on the helmet. They were rough, calloused, with small scars across the knuckles and what looked like old burns on one thumb. Working hands. Hands that knew machinery and labor and, apparently, how to gentle a vintage motorcycle like a skittish horse.
His temper had cooled completely now, replaced by what looked like genuine concern, though whether for his bike or the situation in general, she couldn't tell. As he raised his head to watch the approaching men, a furrow appeared between his brows, deepening the worry lines that suggested this wasn't his first stress-inducing week.
His posture stiffened, shoulders squaring as if preparing for battle. He pulled off his leather jacket in one fluid motion, laying it carefully across the motorcycle's seat. The gray T-shirt he wore underneath stretched across his back and chest in a way that made her mouth go dry. He was lean but muscled, his body speaking of strength earned through use rather than a gym. The shirt tapered down to a narrow waist before tucking into jeans that... well, jeans that fit him exceptionally well.
She was staring at his backside, she realized with a start. And it was, objectively speaking, a mighty fine backside.
He turned and caught her looking. Their eyes met, and the knowing grin that spread across his face made her cheeks flare so hot she was surprised her hair didn't catch fire. His eyebrows rose, disappearing beneath that touchable lock of dark hair that had flopped forward over his forehead.
"Okay. Well, I'm going then," she said quickly, her voice pitched higher than normal. She turned and started walking toward her scattered painting supplies, needing distance, needing to think, needing to stop noticing how well those jeans fit.
But as she walked, something that had been nagging at the back of her mind suddenly surfaced. Something about the way he held himself, the set of his shoulders, even the way he'd swung his leg over the motorcycle. It was familiar in a way that had nothing to do with their morning encounter.
She stopped and turned back toward him. "Are you Hank James?"
