The Next Day (Foothills Book 2)

by Carrie Thorne

  Freya had talked him down last night, but he couldn’t call her every time he opened the damn closet. The run had burned off a lot of it. About a mile in, he’d felt the blissful sensation of an empty mind, cool air flowing in and out of his lungs, muscles burning with the lactic acid of escapism.

  Then he’d seen the empty garage spot that Freya would eventually be filling with a car; a bleak reminder that she was in a tough place in life. Teetering on the edge of success and failure, her lifelong dreams at risk of shattering on impact, she didn’t deserve to be dragged down by a needy ex-SEAL that didn’t even have a dream. He didn’t have anything to fill that void she needed filling, and he loved that she would kick his ass for implying she didn’t have all her shit together.

  The headache hit as he’d dashed up the stairs, each footfall echoing off the hills in the distance and pinging right back into his pulsating skull. After slamming the front door, egging on his headache, he’d mindlessly kicked his shoes into the closet. Crashing into the tin can, he’d nearly spilled the ashes across the floor… ashes. Fuck that. Ground up carcass that was too damn stubborn to burn.

  Searing hot brine coated his eyes as he shifted his shoes to the side. Staring down at the latest set of muddy footprints to tarnish the can, he growled, “Come on, man. Asher was the goof-off playboy. I was the quiet, socially awkward one. You were the heart of us. The guy that knew when to laugh, when to grit his teeth and dig in harder, and when to go with the flow.”

  He dropped to his knees, the impact vibrating into his hips, his ribs, his pounding head. “Asher blames himself for us leaving you guys. Not his fault; he followed his gut and it was the right thing to do. Your stubborn ass said we should go check it out, that you’d keep all those family men safe while we risked our expendable asses.”

  Boiling down his sweat-encrusted cheek, the tear trailed down and sloshed onto the floor. “Dumbshit. You knew. Maybe not consciously, but you knew staying was a fucking death sentence, and you pushed us to get the hell out of there. Too damn stubborn to die that day, you let me drag your ass back to the LZ. Fuck, man. If you couldn’t keep it together, couldn’t tolerate the pain, living with the quiet of life on the outside, how do you expect me to?”

  His throat raw, vision useless from the damn watery coating, he wiped the shit that drained from his nose and rose to his feet. He picked up his phone and texted Asher, Pick a spot; we’re scattering next time you’re home.

  A few minutes later, his phone buzzed. K.

  Turning to hit the shower, he caught sight of the time. Stupidly, recklessly, he drifted to the window. As he’d hoped, or dreaded, Freya strolled barefoot across the lawn, yoga mat tucked under one arm. She unrolled the mat and gazed out at the endless vista, feet anchored to the ground while the wind tossed her hair around in a turbulent mass. From afar, he breathed with her, letting his brain calm enough to go about his day.

  He stalked to the shower and let the hot water rush over his skin. Sandalwood and tangy grapefruit with bits of oatmeal formed a refreshing foam as he scrubbed the morning away. The corner of his mouth quirked up at the oddity; while he’d been at the barber, Freya had, apparently, not only found an irresistible lotion of black tea and honey that he’d licked off her the other night in an indulgence that shouldn’t have happened, but she’d picked up a bar of soap that “made her imagine him naked.”

  Hell, even if they could make this work, she was so far out of his league it wasn’t funny. Sure, they’d both traveled the world. He’d inhaled the top of the sky in numbing freefall, felt the pressure of the bottom of the sea threaten to crush his skull, broken his heart rescuing the darkest parts of humanity… while she’d reveled in the light, from painting and sketching from hills upon hills of grapevines, to smiling children where smiles were priceless, and even to one of his favorite goofy sketches of her own feet.

  Full-on smile taking over his face as he resolved to ask her for the self-portrait foot sketch for the lonely spot on the bathroom wall, he tipped his head back and rinsed the suds from his body. Hand trailing down, goosebumps forming in his wake, he let himself enjoy one of the solo aspects of married life before it was gone. Closing his eyes, he relived the heat, the exquisite pull of her mouth on his cock. Not a trace of shyness, she’d shown him just how sheltered of a life he’d led before meeting her. How much he’d craved her without knowing what had been missing.

  After drying off and pulling on an ancient pair of cargo shorts and a black t-shirt, Zane slipped on a pair of sneakers. No way was he sitting inside today. Too much time in his head already.

  What, he’d been up for two hours, and had already pushed his body beyond anything he’d done in months, cried his fucking eyes out, debated the safest way to end his mistake of a marriage, then jerked off at the very thought of the woman that he really, really shouldn’t have in his life. Maybe he should go back to the Navy. At least then he knew… well, he knew what to do when he got up in the morning, what his day would look like, and would be so wrecked from exhaustion that he’d sleep through the night.

  As his feet hit the gravel at the base of the steps, he saw Freya wandering across the field, her cheeks flushed from her favorite way to welcome the day. She glanced his direction and offered a soft smile that tugged at that stupid pang again, a pathetic hope that her heart was doing the same fricking pitter patter that his was.

  Pushing past the burning in the hollow cavern of his chest, he nodded toward his truck and said, “Need a ride into town this morning? I can wait.”

  She shook her head as she continued toward the main house. “No, thanks though.”

  Firing up the engine, the sound of its powerful rumble vibrated into his veins. Easing down the driveway, he halted at the main road. Staring down the empty road to the left, he ignored the lazy drive that beckoned to him; his brain couldn’t handle anymore quiet. To the right, he could just make out the sign announcing Foothills was only a mile ahead.

  Tires crunching over the gravel, he took the right. A couple that had to be pushing a hundred was already out for a walk, decked out with their sun hats, Keens, and what looked to be a picnic in their backpacks, probably headed for the Riverside Trail for a well-deserved scenic breakfast. As he passed a driveway on the left, a guy in a suit behind the wheel of a BMW gave him a neighborly wave, then pulled onto the road behind him as he headed to work.

  Nearing town, the driveways became closer together, and eventually there were a few smaller neighborhoods with settled houses on large lots. Across from the downtown park, Zane parked on the side of the street; not enough folks out yet to necessitate parallel parking the beast of a rig. Puffing his cheeks out, he exhaled through pursed lips.

  Strolling along, he passed Sutherland’s Hardware, not daring to go in, as he had gotten the distinct impression that Paul would rope him into some temp work in an effort to woo him into the role he wished Asher had taken. Nope. Not living someone else’s dream, even for a man he respected. Smoky scents wafted out of a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, Halseth’s Smokehouse and Pub, but the sign said they didn’t open until eleven. Too bad; something smelled good.

  Larissa’s Diner was bursting at the seams with people from all walks of life. A vivacious southern woman was hollering to someone inside as she propped the door open to let in the morning air. His stomach growled, reminding him he’d been too tied up to eat anything this morning.

  “You must be Asher’s friend. Come on in,” she waved him in before he had a chance to say no.

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Honey, I know everyone in town, and I can spot a tourist a mile off. Plus, you’ve got that look he does. Eyes that have seen too much, a heavy burden on that heart.”

  Was she a therapist or a psychic or diner owner? He suspected a little of all three. “You’re not wrong. You know Asher pretty well?” He followed her to a seat at the bar, sliding onto a shiny chrome stool with a blue vinyl cushion.

  “Known that kid since he was in diapers.” She st
rolled around the bar and grabbed a pot of coffee, flipping his cup over and filling it to the brim. “What can I get you for breakfast?”

  Rather than opening the menu, he glanced around at the crowded restaurant. “That hash looks great.”

  “It’s the best. Avocado gruyere or sausage cheddar?”

  “Avocado.”

  She scooted away and disappeared into the kitchen. A familiar voice stood out from the crowd behind him. Turning, he saw the neighbor.

  Turning, she caught sight of him and granted him a smile as warm as a toasty fire on a snowy day. “Zane, right?”

  He nodded, not having a damn clue what to say that wouldn’t come across as the misogynistic crap that Freya accused him of that day. “Yeah.”

  “Thanks again for that pie. I’ve been meaning to return the favor with some cookies or something. You like chocolate chip?”

  “My favorite.”

  “I’ll bring some by sometime.”

  He couldn’t help it; he studied her face, noting the yellow at the edge of her jaw that told of a healing bruise. As she turned away, he added softly, “Sienna?”

  “Yeah?” Her expression fell heavy as she took in the gravity of his look. Damn, he was obvious; he needed to tuck a few positive life experiences under his belt. “I know what you’re going to say. I’m okay.”

  “Please, Freya and I are a few hundred yards away. Don’t hesitate.”

  She squeezed her lips together and looked around. “Thank you. Really. But I don’t need any heroes in my life.”

  He nodded in acceptance and turned around to find Larissa delivering his hash. Rescuing him from even more unsettled thoughts while he ate, Larissa stopped by and chatted between customers, filling him in with local gossip, plus a few stories of Asher rabble-rousing in his younger days.

  After Larissa ran his card and gave him a friendly wave as he strolled out, he looked up and down the street. He could barely see Grady and Lincoln’s practice a few blocks down, Sophie’s across the way, but he wasn’t sure he was in the mood for company. Across the road, the park was a little too cheerful. And he wasn’t ready to sit and feed the birds like the old guy with a gnarled cane, seated serenely on the bench under a massive dogwood tree.

  So, he walked north. Didn’t make it far when a green and blue sign in front of a cedar and steel building blocked his path. Turning, he looked at a large, empty patio, in through the expansive glass windows at a two-story-plus industrial-meets-northwest style vacant building. Flip-flopping in his chest, his heart beat deafeningly.

  He pulled out his phone and dialed the number on the sign. A polished charm answered immediately.

  Finding his voice, Zane cleared the frog from his throat and asked. “What can you tell me about the building for sale across from the park on Main in Foothills?”

  “Glad you asked. The property went on the market this morning. A couple from Denver had it built for their daughter to open a café and gift shop, but, apparently, she had other plans and moved to DC to become an environmental lobbyist. Or that’s the story anyway. You interested?”

  “Thinking about it,” he admitted.

  “Are you working with a realtor yet?”

  “No. I’m really not even in the market, just brewing some ideas.”

  “How about this. I’ve got a buddy, decent guy, that’s right down the street from the property and can show you around, and, if you decide to make an offer, if you want, he can represent you.”

  “Sounds fine.”

  After ending the call, Zane’s phone buzzed in his pocket no more than sixty seconds later and he had an appointment. In twenty minutes. There goes the time to think it over.

  Instead of feeding the birds, he leaned against the fence and did some quick research on the basic specs he’d need; space, plumbing, electrical. As much as he had no desire to follow in his parents’ footsteps, his degree was suddenly coming in handy.

  Brain swimming with millions of details, more seeming to add on each time he found a new piece of info, he sealed his eyes shut to still the mental vertigo. Dammit. He swiped up his dialer and hit send.

  “Hey, Zane,” Grady answered. “Please tell me you’re behaving yourselves.”

  He rolled his eyes and let out a weak laugh. “Mostly. Actually, I’m not calling as a client, but… What do you know about running a craft brewery?”

  “I don’t know squat about beer. But I know enough about business.”

  “So, no pressure or anything. But Asher mentioned you’re bored and need a project.”

  “Hey, Asher’s just pissy because the bathroom’s a mess and I’ve been refusing to clean it until he realizes there’s nothing wrong with the toilet, the black grime is the result of no one cleaning it for an extended period of time.”

  Crossing his feet as he relaxed against the fence, he laughed, “Don’t tell him about toilet brushes or bleach tablets.”

  Grady laughed out loud mirthlessly, “That’s brilliant. Seriously though, I’m not exactly bored, but my job satisfaction is low, and I need something interesting to do.”

  “I fucking hate talking to people. I’m decent with numbers and projections and all that bullshit, but I’d rather make good beer and maybe even design a menu and, hell, even use that stupid-ass architecture degree for something and make a place people can come to drink the beer, have some food while they do, and maybe hang out and relax.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been thinking this through.”

  “I’ve been letting the idea bounce around since you brought it up at Ahab’s.”

  “I can talk to people. And run numbers, projections, market, network. Interested in taking on a business partner?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  “Or you could get me drunk. But no backing out after I've signed the dotted line.”

  “Hey, I fully blame Freya’s cousin for getting me trashed. And I have no intention of backing out.”

  “On the marriage or the partnership?”

  “Fuck. I’m not looking for a damn therapist.”

  “And I have no interest in being your therapist, but I’ll be happy to give you shit when you need to get your head out of your ass.”

  “That I can handle. So I’m looking at the place on Main. Owners backed out.”

  “The new construction? That place is nice. Great location, appealing design.”

  “I’ve got a realtor that will be here in a few minutes.”

  “I’ve got a client coming soon, but I’m right down the street from you. Want to swing by my office after, and we can nail down some details?”

  “Sounds good.”

  As they disconnected, a guy in cuffed skinny jeans with ankle boots and a button-up shirt dashed across the street toward him. “Zane?”

  He extended his hand and shook, “Yep.”

  “Mark Sutherland.”

  He stilled, “Any relation to Asher?”

  Cracking a grin, the guy nodded, “My cousin. You know him?” Damn, how many cousins did Asher have? He didn’t dare ask if he was on the same side as Freya; he already couldn’t keep track of the side of the family he’d met. Nor did he want to explain just how well he knew her.

  “Yeah. He’s the one that dragged my ass to this absurdly scenic place.”

  “Are you a SEAL, too?”

  He nodded. “Was.”

  “That’s great, man. Thanks for serving our country.”

  He shrugged. What was with people in this town? They were all so nice, and, well, didn’t sound like political asses when they said it.

  “You must know Asher pretty well then.”

  The corners of his mouth quirked up, his head tilting as he thought about the answer to that one. Not many others could say that about either Asher or him.

  “You’ll have to ask him about my bachelor party sometime,” Mark winked.

  “He does feel bad about that, somewhere deep down,” he laughed, the headache he’d been brewing all morning finally starting to ease.


  Mark laughed out loud, shaking his head with an exhaling smile. “So he claims. Anyway, let’s head in.” He followed Mark as he unlocked and swung open the large French-style doors that led into the cavernous building.

  Most of the building had high ceilings with huge beams that would give about any architect wet dreams. The place screamed with possibility.

  “What sort of business are you thinking of opening up?”

  “Craft brewery.”

  “Good spot for it. Locations like this don’t come up very often around here, so you’ll want to move fast.”

  “I’ve done a little research. I’ll want to bring in a contractor who’s done other breweries, see what they think.”

  “I can get you some names; Uncle Paul can give you a bluntly honest reference on any of the locals.”

  “That’d be great.”

  They toured the structure; Zane took notes on the technical aspects. The place was about perfect. Mark was right, he needed to move fast.

  As promised, Tammy’s truck rumbled down the dusty drive precisely at eight Wednesday morning. Hair still wet and extra curly from the shower, muscles limber from her morning routine that took way longer than normal in a futile attempt to clear her mind of Zane, Freya slipped on a hooded sweatshirt and strolled outside in her bare feet.

  Holding up a plain white paper bag, Tammy grinned. When she reached easy chatting distance, she asked, “Coffee? Thought we’d be able to visit more openly if we stayed in.”

  Freya waved her in.

  Tammy set the bag on the island, her feet locking in place as she saw Freya’s set-up in the dining area. The floor and table were covered in paint-stained drop cloths, her brushes were clean on a tray on the table, paints lined up in rainbow order, easels stacked in the corner except the largest with her latest still drying. Heart fluttering with an insecurity she despised when it came to her work, Freya bit down on her cheek and set the coffee to brew, keeping her eyes on her mother as she awaited the expected judgment.