The Next Day (Foothills Book 2)

by Carrie Thorne

  Didn’t help she was a little tipsy from downing the two beers after skipping lunch; he ought to have warned her how strong this batch was. Normally, drunk people annoyed the shit out of him. Not Freya; she was hilarious. Clearly not used to it, she giggled now and again, let something slip she probably hadn’t intended.

  Except when she’d trailed her fingers along the edge of his shorts, seemingly a mindless gesture for her, but it had raised the room temperature to beyond sweltering. Combining sharper hops, maybe an apricot concentrate, something to lighten the brew… he’d planned alterations to his latest recipe in his head before he embarrassed himself and let a little tenting action show.

  He went in to start on dishes, but Asher stopped him. Whispering, Asher nodded to Freya, “Take this lightweight for a walk to sober her up before she tries to go to bed and ends up with a nasty hangover tomorrow.”

  Glaring, Zane nudged him aside, “No.”

  “Why not? I mean, no, don’t sleep with her when she’s drunk, but may as well lay down some groundwork.”

  Shaking his head, Zane muttered, “Groundwork? Shit, man, that’s cold.”

  “Okay. I tried. What I mean is, I’m leaving for training in three days. I’d rather spend a nice night with Sophie rather than worrying about my cousin. Come on. Wingman? I know it’s been a while.”

  Zane shut off the water and dried his hands. “You owe me.”

  “I thought you liked her?”

  “I do. Which is why I’m not planning to lay any groundwork.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  Backing away, Zane shook his head. “Not everyone wants what you have.”

  He found Freya back in her bedroom, folding a load of laundry on the neatly made bed. “Hey,” he said.

  Flipping around, she caught the edge of the bed to steady herself. “Hi,” she grinned.

  “Sorry, I, uh, should have warned you, that beer was about eight percent.”

  Nodding, she grinned even bigger. “A bit late, thanks though. My head is officially swimming. I’m a total lightweight.”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and nodded toward the exit. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

  She strolled close and caught him by the waistband before he could back into the hall. Staring down, as if distracted by what she’d found, she lifted the edge of his shirt and traced her fingers over his abs. Holy shit, this was so not helpful. If he added caryophellene, that might add an earthy, citrus undertone. He breathed slowly in and out, taming things while he convinced them both this was a terrible idea.

  Stilling her hands, he backed away. “Fresh air,” he muttered.

  Nodding, she closed her eyes. “Worthless virgin alarm,” she muttered.

  “What? Freya, are you a virgin?”

  She giggled. “You’re cute.” Strolling ahead, she reached the front door and nodded for him to follow. He was in way over his head.

  The evening breeze washed over his skin as he stepped outside, the lingering scents from the heat of the day fresh on the air. Swaying with the wind, her blue skirt shifted over her curves with each step. She walked to the middle of the front field and turned toward him. “Well? Are you coming?”

  Shit, he shook his head and caught up to her. She held her hand out, and he stupidly took it, walking side by side across the field. As they neared the bench that overlooked the mountains beyond, no more than dark blue paper cutout silhouettes against the sunset purple glow, Freya spun in his arms, nearly knocking herself over with her momentum.

  Steadying them both, he held onto her waist.

  Eyes searching his, her lips parted, and he was lost. Leaning down, he took her mouth, exploring the soft velvet of her tongue, the spicy-sweet of her breath mixing with his.

  A soft whimper passed her lips.

  Her hands gripped his shoulders and she arched against him.

  Whoa, shit. He pulled back, stunned at himself. At his recklessness. “Sorry,” he whispered on a breathless exhale.

  Her mouth opened and closed, then she surprised the hell out of him again, muttering, “My baby cousin is getting married.” Dropping his hand, she crossed to the bench, sat, and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees.

  “I’m sorry,” he winced as he sat down next to her.

  “I have to fly down to the wedding and prove that I’m not avoiding them. That I didn’t leave the country because I was embarrassed.”

  “Why would you be embarrassed?”

  “Last time they saw me, I was pulling a Runaway Bride.” Grimacing, he felt the regret radiating off her.

  “Mom thinks if I give them a piece of my work as a wedding gift and bring a date, I’ll show them I made the right choice and demonstrate how amazing my life is.”

  “Why does it matter what they think?”

  “I don’t know. It’s stupid. It doesn’t matter. But it does. I’ve been engaged three times. On that side of the family, they’re all married and having kids and are doing what they’re supposed to do. But Freya’s the oddball as usual. Can’t seem to get her act together.”

  “Seriously? From what it sounds like, you’ve been brave enough to live the adventure most people only dream about. You wanted to paint, so you made it happen, and you’re making a career out of it. Yeah, you’ve been engaged, but you didn’t settle when it wasn’t right. You’re what, thirty? There’s no rush to have kids, if you decide you want them. If you don’t want all that, there’s nothing wrong with choosing the path that appeals, even if it’s not white picket fences and two-point-five children.”

  “You sound like an inveterate singleton,” she nudged him, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

  “Maybe.”

  A wicked grin blossoming on her lips, she shifted onto his lap and pressed against him, her hand cradling the back of his neck. “I’m not opposed to all that, but not with someone like you.” Pressing her lips to his, she sighed against his mouth. “I don’t have the capacity for guys like you anymore.”

  Scowling, pulled back. “Guys like me?”

  Nodding, she tugged him closer and kissed him again. He shouldn’t have kissed her back, but he did. Hell, before Freya, he hadn’t indulged in so long, and he was rapidly losing the will to resist.

  Between teasing kisses, she whispered against his mouth, “Full of pheromones and muscles and broodiness and…” Despite the mere inches between them, she moved closer until her breasts were tight against him. Nipping his lip, she pressed her mouth against his, parting and tracing her tongue over his in a delicious torment.

  Sliding his hand up her thigh, he groaned against her mouth, indulging, deepening the kiss. Breathless as he managed to pull away to form a coherent thought, he said, “I don’t have a fucking clue what I want. But I know taking this any further won’t help either of us.”

  Her lips downright succulent after kissing his brains out, yet again, she tugged her lower lip between her teeth and looked at him like she was ready to have her way with him until he couldn’t remember his own name.

  Foolishly, in complete contrast to his words, he kissed her again. When she whimpered a sweet moan, his hand glided up her skin under her shirt, migrating toward those spectacular breasts.

  Growling against his mouth, she pulled his lower lip between her teeth, then sucked his tongue in a devastating foreshadowing of everything else that mouth could do.

  Gripping her breast in his hand, his other followed until he cupped both under the thin layer of cotton, teasing his thumbs over her taut nipples. Moaning as if halfway to the moon in response, she tightened her legs around him and leaned into his touch. Leaving her lips for the first time since they’d landed on the bench, he trailed kisses along the sharp line of her jaw, gliding his tongue over her neck.

  Freya’s phone buzzed from her pocket, a bucket of ice crashing over them.

  What the fuck was he doing? Pulling his hands free, he cleared his throat and detached.

  “Hello?” she asked as she slipped off
of him, puzzled at the unknown number, but equally grateful for the distraction. He glared at his watch. It was nearly nine o'clock, who would be calling at this hour?

  Zane didn’t bother not eavesdropping.

  “Hi, Freya?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Seth. Seth Lawless. Sorry to be calling so late, I guess I didn’t realize what time it is. Anyway, I uh, oddly enough, your mother gave my mother your number and apparently they are conspiring to hook us up.”

  Zane heard the amused chuckle on the other end mirroring Freya’s. Hook up? Jackass. Not that Zane was one to talk. He’d been a few thin layers of cotton away from turning his only friend’s drunk cousin into a thirty second hook-up, if he lasted that long.

  Rubbing his eyes, he leaned back against the bench and kicked his own mental ass. He’d been the jackass, all over the tipsy siren without any meaningful intention of stopping.

  She didn’t seem to notice his internal beratement. “It’s been a long time. I’ve been home for a week, and my mother is already trying to set me up.”

  More friendly laughing. Zane wanted to rip the phone away and chuck it over the hillside. Gritting his teeth together, he reminded himself this was a good thing.

  “Oh my god, me too. I’ve been back a month, and my mother has my whole future plotted out.”

  Grinning wide, Freya relaxed against his side. Whole new level of weird; Zane’s brain was going to fissure in half, undecided if he was going to stake his claim or dodge the bullet, neither side seeming to convince the other.

  Freya continued her conversation with the creep that was clearly looking for a way into her pants, “My mother both jumped for joy and plugged her ears when I told her we’d already been down that road.”

  “You never told her we had a thing? Hell, I was grinning like an idiot for the next week after we lost our virginity together. My parents finally pinned me down and I had to confess I’d made it with a woman.”

  Freya’s laugh sparkled as she continued to lean against Zane. Okay, he needed to get the hell out of here. He was relieved she wasn’t a virgin, but really didn’t want details.

  Closing his eyes, he let himself pretend for precisely five seconds that he was the one making her laugh so lightheartedly. And three, two, one. He jumped to his feet and mouthed, “Goodnight.” Their make-out had sobered her up enough; she’d be okay.

  Biting her lip, she nodded. “That sounds great,” she answered Seth. “I can do Friday night.”

  Rip off the damn band-aid now. Two fucking years since he’d been with anyone. Hell, he was going on three. This was exactly why. Sappy-ass romantic no matter how hard he tried.

  The lights dimmed in the corner bedroom overlooking the front yard. Nothing frantic or urgent or rushed, he caught the outline of Asher and Sophie undressing each other, savoring each touch, each kiss.

  Giving them their privacy, he headed straight home, checking from the window that Freya made it back home okay. Maybe he’d give his sister a call after all, take her up on the offer to sublet her apartment.

  6

  Drunken Burpees

  He couldn’t make himself pack again. Couldn’t drive across the damn country again, and no way in hell he was going back to the east coast. Even drunk Zane knew better.

  Checking his email, Zane shook his head. Fuck. He didn’t know why he even bothered. For all his parents knew, he was getting shot at again. Or was dead already. Would the government have tracked them down until they could deliver the information firsthand, or would they give up after multiple failed contact attempts?

  Why did he even bother trying to reach out? How many school functions had he been the kid to hitch a ride home with the neighbors? To take the subway home from football practice? They’d helped with enough of his first year of college to get him into the exclusive program but then he saddled the debt he thought they’d planned to share. They’d been heavily involved in his wedding, but hadn’t offered more than a quick condolence at his divorce.

  Just often enough to keep him coming back, they would pretend to be parents of the year. His first major deployment, they’d mailed regularly, thrilled when he’d gotten home safely. Each deployment, they seemed less interested, apparently not realizing his survivability didn’t increase with experience.

  Unkillable, he dodged every damn bullet. He’d sprained his ankle once, but that had been his own stupidity in a training exercise, showing off, jumping out of the chopper when it was too high off the ground.

  Sitting on the top step outside his apartment, overlooking the driveway and the moonlit front yard, he didn’t have the guts to sit on the bench he knew Freya favored. Hell, he’d hardly slept the last few nights, imagining what might have happened if she hadn’t been drunk. If that prick hadn’t called to ask her out.

  If she hadn’t been wearing panties. If he’d had the guts to pull her onto his lap, to peel that top off and appreciate those spectacularly rounded breasts without any fabric between them.

  Groaning, he closed his eyes and fought the image, yet again. He glared at the empty beer bottle, and the two behind him. Shit, wait, it was three behind him. Four. And another that had rolled down the steps, miraculously unshattered. When had he downed so many?

  No longer on active duty. Not beholden to anyone, why the hell not? He hadn’t touched a drop the night Jack died.

  His eyes welled at the awful memory. The call that his friend was septic in the ICU not two days after Zane was out of the Navy. That Jack had been fucking with heroin.

  He’d been dodging Zane’s calls, usually responding with a quick text that he was fine, that they’d get together and celebrate Zane’s honorable discharge next weekend. The back of his throat burned with stupid fucking mucus, salty tears coating his cheeks. How many surgeries had Jack had to go alone while Zane was too busy, waiting on the damn discharge to go through so he could take care of his friend? If he’d just held on a few more days.

  Looking over Jack’s pasty corpse in the ICU, his ribs crushed from failed attempts to revive him, the machines dark now that he’d gone, Asher hadn’t let Zane stew. Said he had two weeks to get his ass to Foothills.

  Head swimming, throbbing from the fucking cryfest, Zane tugged his shirt over his head and cleaned the soaked mess of his cheeks. Leaning to round up a few bottles, his head spun from the awkward movement and he nearly upchucked his lack of dinner.

  At long fucking last, he heard Seth’s practical sedan coming down the drive. No dust kicked up, he drove politely over the freshly filled potholes that Zane had courteously taken care of that morning.

  Coming to a stop, perfectly calm, good-natured Seth leaned across the center console. Freya met him halfway. Too pansy-assed to kiss her properly, Zane watched through the windshield as they exchanged a polite peck on the cheek.

  Grinning as she climbed out of the car, Freya waved at her boytoy.

  She headed toward the house, then paused when she caught sight of Zane. He drained the last of his beer and air toasted. Fuck, she looked so damn good. The black dress draped low in front with a taunting cowl, a crisscross laced back let him know she’d ditched the bra. Those long, shapely legs were on full display, the dress ending just below her mid-thigh, her heels defining those fucking spectacular calves. A few weeks ago, he would have claimed he was a boob guy through and through. Might be a leg guy now. But damn, even braless, that was a perfect–

  Freya shook her head, turning and walking toward him. He bit his lip as she strolled up the stairs, tilting his head in the foolish hope she wasn’t wearing any panties. The movement nearly knocked him over, his head swimming from too much to drink.

  “Alright, Sailor. Let’s get you to bed,” she grinned, reaching forward to give him a hand up.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he winked, waggling his eyebrows up and down to let her know he was fully on board.

  Eyeing the empty bottles behind him, she tucked her wild hair behind her ears and set his empty bottle with the rest, and then gave
him a hand up. “Oh boy, and here I felt silly for drinking too much. I was tipsy. You’re hammered.” While he stumbled along in front, she leaned around him to open his front door.

  “Hey, I haven’t been drunk since…” he closed his eyes, trying to remember. The ground rose to meet him as he crashed onto the doormat, his palms stinging as the rough fibers dug into his skin.

  “I see that. You’re a bit heavy, so I’m not going to even try to catch you if you fall again.”

  Moving his hands in for a push-up, he found his body completely uncooperative and couldn’t manage the simple exercise he’d done a few dozen of this morning. “You may be right. I’m slashed,” he slurred.

  She laughed, “Slashed?”

  Gritting his teeth, he forced a few quick push-ups, bounced up from the ground, then steadied himself against the doorjamb before his nose touched the doormat again. Calculating, he nodded, “Yeah. Somewhere between smashed and sloshed and… trashed.”

  Gripping her hands on his hips, she pushed him gently forward like the sexiest damn train he’d ever been a part of. Fuck, he zinged at the sensation. Couldn’t get it up right now if he tried, but might be worth the effort. “In you go,” she urged. “To bed.”

  He grinned. “You going to tuck me in?”

  Driving him toward the bedroom, she chuckled as they reached the threshold. She steadied him when his head started swimming again, “Maybe you should drink some water first,” she winced.

  “Good idea.” Without waiting, he crashed face down on the bed. A few moments later, a water glass appeared in front of his face. Dopey grin tugging at his cheeks, he dragged his ass up and sat on the side of the bed. “Thanks,” he said breathlessly after gulping down the entire contents of the glass.

  “Alright. Sleep it off sailor. I’ll be back to check on you in the morning.”

  Chortling, he reached for her hand. “You’d better sleep here to make sure I’m safe all night.”