The Next Day (Foothills Book 2)

by Carrie Thorne

  “No wonder that’s what you studied in school.”

  “I’m a glutton for punishment?”

  “No. It’s what you grew up with. Probably how your brain works.”

  “I guess. Sometimes it comes in handy. Like the damn building that blew up around Jack and the other guys; one wrong move and the whole thing could have come down. And Sophie and Asher already showed their contractor some of my ideas. I have to confess, I’m looking forward to nailing down the details of the brewhouse.”

  “Did it go through already?”

  “Almost. Mostly formalities now, but I’m leaving that to Grady.”

  “Brewing takes a lot of design.”

  “Without having to present my idea to dozens of people ready to rearrange every fine detail and criticize every nuance, then when something’s half an inch off, it all falls on the architect.” He shifted their joined hands up but didn’t let go. Or move closer. Sadly. “But with beer? They can drink it or not, no skin off my back. Think it’ll be fun to design the menu, too. Mostly snacks and stuff to munch while folks can hang out all night. Relaxed, no pressure environment. Maybe distribute to local places first.”

  Freya felt her grin widening, a flutter in her chest as he spoke. “I’d say you’re moving forward on a pretty great dream.”

  He chuckled softly. “Yeah, you may be right.”

  The flutter morphed into a gnawing ache as she realized his dreams didn’t include her. Relief. Nausea. A gripping pain as she craved inclusion. But wasn’t this what she wanted? Independence? Individuality? Non-codependence?

  Randy had big dreams. A house and a career and living the picture perfect, white picket fence life. Freya had even quit her birth control a few weeks before the wedding, ready to get started on his dream. Midway through that awful bridal shower that had turned so distasteful, her poor mother and Aunt Denise trying to bring it back to the realm of tolerably appropriate, Freya snuck outside and curled up in a blanket on the grassy slope as darkness enfolded around the Sutherland’s property.

  Paul had just picked up Asher from the airport. When Asher saw her sitting outside, he came out and plopped down at her side. “Big day tomorrow.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you get your tickets to Italy for the honeymoon?”

  “No.” She wiggled her toes in the sharp cut grass. “We’re going to Hawaii instead.”

  “Hawaii’s nice.” Long pause. “What about after?”

  “There’s a house for rent a few blocks from Main.”

  “Good studio space in it?”

  “No.” Cackling resonated from the house. “I, uh, Uncle Paul hired me, and I’ll be taking some online classes to finish my degree, so I won’t have much time to paint anyway.”

  Freya closed her eyes and refused to keep reliving it. Nor to picture the tiny studio she’d lived in with Vince, how he’d taken over the space near the window because he needed more natural light to complete his nudes. Or how Giovanni had been too busy to fly home with her for Pippa’s wedding; the impetus for the break-up.

  19

  Paradise… or Something Like It

  Paradise was exactly as the name implied. Wildflowers dotted the slopes, trails zagged across the hillside, and the clouds below created the illusion they were atop a mythical island in the sky. On one side of the massive parking lot, a modern visitor center stood ready to teach. Opposite and at the foot of the slope, the century-old lodge paid tribute to the early days of alpine tourism. Zane parked the truck in the crowded lot. Dozens of hiking boots, quick-dry bucket hats, and fleece jackets were already heading up the hill toward the paved trails.

  His parents piled out and were off, aimed straight for the lodge. Closing his door, Zane strolled to the front of the truck and took Freya’s outstretched hand. “You were right. This is the spot to bring out-of-town guests.”

  She shrugged, a smug-ass grin on her face, dimple in full-force. “I used to come up here alone when I first got my driver’s license. Most kids would sneak off to parties or something, but I’d sneak off to secret places to paint. Not that I didn’t sneak out for all those other reasons too.” They started walking in the direction of his parents. “One perfect morning, I saw a marmot off the trail and sat and sketched the little guy for an hour before we were interrupted, then he dove back into his burrow.”

  “We’ll have to come up here some morning before the crowds.” His parents had spent half the damn morning on the phone for work, so it was near lunch by the time they arrived. Not much changed. He didn’t rush to join them.

  Inside the lodge, he found his mother staring up at the old growth timber beams, his father checking out the fireplace big enough to stand in. They were nudging each other and remarking on the caliber of the job, impressive for so long ago. At least they got along well with each other. Actually, he rather suspected they had merged their conscious minds when they got married. Had they ever dissented on anything? It couldn’t be healthy.

  Freya’s stomach rumbled so loudly, it nearly matched her giggle that erupted at the sound. “Think we can have lunch before going for a hike?”

  Taking a long inhale, he caught a whiff of something savory. Didn’t care what, he was starving. His mother had offered to fix breakfast, and the tasteless biscuits and lumpy gravy had left him feeling hollower than before they’d eaten. Damn, he did not miss his mother’s cooking. At least she hadn’t attempted pancakes; hers were famously pasty and tasteless and left an inexplicable gurgle in the intestines for days after.

  He gave the host their name, and had about ten minutes to kill before their table was ready. Freya snuck off to the bathroom while he wandered the gift shop. There was a collection of cobalt blue, handmade ceramic pitchers, bowls, and mugs by a local artist. He picked out two mugs that were just the right size for Freya’s fancy instant espresso. Maybe he’d pick up a real espresso machine one of these days and see what she thought. By the checkout, he grabbed a hokey magnet of a pair of adorable marmots poking their heads out of a hollow log for Freya.

  When the host called his name, he waved to his parents to join. Freya was strolling back from the bathrooms, looking so damn sexy, she took his breath away, which seemed to happen about every time he looked at her. Wrapped in her towel after showering this morning, her dark hair almost wicked, the curls were sharp and decisive. In her jeans as she sipped her coffee on the couch this morning, her bare feet tucked underneath her, the dark blue nail polish teasing at her sense of adventure.

  And now. With her black leggings that ended inches above her ankles, her sleek black trailrunners, topped off with the pale pink quick-dry tank top he knew was under her lightweight wool sweater. She was a constant surprise. Sometimes she strolled across the lawn in her bare feet, wearing nothing but a drapey sun dress and her hair wild, no trace of make-up, telling of the artist she was. Other times, like at the wedding, she was a fricking siren straight out of a magazine. Or like now, she was utter practicality, but always sexy as fuck.

  She grinned at his dumbfounded ogle as his parents followed the host, a wanton spark in her infinite blues as she winked at him. With a sheepish grin, he tilted his head and shrugged, then picked up the pace to catch up.

  His parents took a damn hour to peruse the menu, and it wasn’t that complicated. They compared whether to try the burger made from local grass-fed beef or the shepherd’s pie, reading the details to each other. Beyond hungry, his vision blurred as he stared out the window.

  Freya’s stomach rumbled at his side. She pasted on a winning smile, “Why don’t you each order one of them, then you can split and share?”

  Susan chuckled softly and put down her menu. “That’s what Blaire is always suggesting.”

  Shit. Here we go. He figured remarrying would neatly dodge this bit. No wonder his brother didn’t even fly home for Christmas anymore. “Mom,” he warned.

  “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t bring up your ex-wife, but we see her every day. It would be like you trying to t
ell a story without it including Archer.”

  “Asher,” he muttered.

  The server rescued them for a solid sixty seconds and got to deal with his parents’ arguing who would order which, before the server offered to have them plated in two separate halves.

  “So, Freya,” Susan began. “What do you do for a living?” Yep, she hadn’t listened to the answer when she had complimented the painting over his dining table.

  “I’m an artist.” Her tone wasn’t even sarcastic, as she’d been asked the same question a handful of times already.

  “Oh,” she nodded, her cheeks were pulled so cheerfully tight, her facelift was showing. “I took quite a few art classes in school. It’s so important to be able to accurately sketch your designs. That’s probably part of why Zane never took to design.”

  Zane answered before Freya could, “Her work is sold in galleries all over the world. Remember, the painting in my apartment?”

  “Right, of course. That painting is delightful. I guess I didn’t realize you were serious that art was her occupation and not her hobby.” Long silence. His father refolded his napkin, draping it over his lap at a slightly different angle.

  After a painfully awkward pause, their food arrived, and the excuse for continued silence was well timed. Smoked duck over a spring mix, plus a side of chowder; he was thrilled they shut up long enough for him to enjoy his meal. By the time he’d downed everything on his plate and ate the last of Freya’s fish, his father had finished a quarter of his half-burger.

  Swallowing a bite, his mother asked, “Zane, are you planning to go back to school?”

  Brow scrunched in utter confusion, he shook his head. “No…”

  “Oh. Okay. I wondered. I mean, I would imagine that you are too rusty to go straight back into architecture, and there’s probably not much demand for such specialized expertise in Foothills, but you could work remotely.”

  “I don’t want to be an architect now, any more than I did fourteen years ago.”

  His father set down his burger and dabbed the cloth napkin on the corner of his mouth. “Then why did you study architecture? I mean, I know you joined the Navy for time to reflect and to save some money, but we always assumed you would return to the field.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Zane folded his arms over his chest and chewed his cheek to keep his mouth shut. His gaze shifted out the window, watching the tourists hike up the paved trail.

  Again the enthusiastic duo that had encouraged him to study architecture to begin with, his mother took her turn. “If Foothills is where you want to settle, then you’ll make it work. I mean, you already have the degree, plus we would be happy to help you get started. You could commute or even start your own business. We would be happy to hire you on as a remote designer and fly you out to the sites when needed.”

  He could hear Freya’s teeth grinding at his side. She sat up in her chair, her back straightening as she inhaled to deliver a volcanic defense. He rested his hand over her thigh, letting her know it wasn’t worth the fight. For now, she bit her lip and stayed quiet.

  The rest of lunch dwindled to awkward silence. No one felt like much of a hike after. They roamed the visitor center, but at their own pace.

  Far from Foothills, Zane had no qualms about public handholding with Freya. Despite the awful morning and even worse lunch, she was a breath of fresh air. He’d wanted to skip the science lesson and wait outside, maybe sit on a shady park bench and make out for a bit. Nope, Freya had dragged him through the exhibits.

  Right about the time he caught sight of his parents standing by the window in a pathetic attempt to find cellphone service, Freya jumped on the seismometer and whooped at her power, that dimple in her cheek flashing her delight. Dragging him over, she raised her eyebrows and bit her lip in gleeful challenge. Rolling his eyes, grinning like an idiot, he leaped into the air and slammed down onto the meter, making the biggest line of the day.

  Flashing her a wink, he laced his arm around her waist and pulled her close. Sliding his hand into her hair, he cradled her against him as he softly pressed his lips to hers. Fluidly, without pause, she kissed him back. When they ended the kiss, she nuzzled against his neck and inhaled. Arms wrapped around her, he buried his face in her wild hair, breathing her in.

  On the drive back, winding down the narrow fishhook turns, Zane counted the hours until his parents left. Three nights hadn’t sounded so bad, but his head might explode if he had to attempt polite conversation with them much longer.

  The bustling on Main Street was particularly peppy today. Zane plotted how he might avoid talking for the rest of the visit. Maybe they could watch a movie or something that didn’t require speaking.

  Freya could chill when the situation called for it, like no other. But she also seethed like no one else he’d met. Bottling up whatever she held on the tip of her tongue seemed to be festering into the air. She nodded to an empty stretch ahead, “Let’s hop out.”

  Without argument, he parallel parked, then turned to see what the hell had prompted the impromptu stop. He tilted his head in subtle question.

  She quietly cleared her throat, “When do you get the keys?”

  “Seriously? No,” he winced.

  “Trust me?”

  He exhaled slowly, hating where this was going. “I got them yesterday morning.”

  She scowled, whispering, “Seriously? I didn’t think the loan had been finalized yet.”

  His father leaned in, visibly eavesdropping where there was no need in the cramped space. This was a conversation he’d planned to have with her after they’d left. His stomach lurched as he accepted how much he was about to share with his parents. And their inevitable “constructive criticism.”

  “I didn’t end up needing such a big loan.” He’d been miserable, not being able to talk to Freya sooner about all this. To not drag her over to show her the building, his plans. But that was more serious than handholding, than quickies in the laundry room… than consummating. Fuck, that pang clenched and screamed and told him to stop being a fucking idiot. But Freya didn’t need another selfish asshole in her life, determined to force her to live his dream, when hers was so big and beautiful and fragile.

  “What? How?”

  “Grady.”

  “He did?” Her smile grew wide, her eyes downright sparkly blue like the fricking Mediterranean on an August afternoon.

  “Yeah,” he chuckled as he accepted the strange turns his life was taking. “In part to piss off his mother, and, apparently, because he hates his job. And I hate the damn schmoozing end of things, the nuances of running a business, so he’s no longer my attorney. We’re full partners.”

  She reached across and squeezed his hand, grinning from ear to ear and showing off that dimple.

  His mother’s head leaned in and knocked into his fathers, but they managed to stay quiet. The effort seemed to be killing them, their eager faces clenched tight with phony smiles.

  “Come on,” he nodded for her to hop out. He turned to face his parents, “Since we’re here, I’ll show you what I’m up to.”

  Before they could respond, he took advantage of the lull in traffic and climbed out of the truck, meeting Freya at the sidewalk and accepting her extended hand. His chest tightened then released, the building–his building, standing proudly before them. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the thrill of possibility less terrifying than it had been a few short weeks ago.

  Shattering his moment, his parents came up from behind. “Well?” his mother asked in her bright tone.

  “This is it,” he shrugged. “Black Op Brewing Company.”

  His father scowled, his dull green eyes squinting against the bright sun. “Oh. The building has good structure.”

  Zane could see it. A welcoming gate and fencing he planned install so they could serve drinks outside. Outdoor tables with built-in fireplaces, plus propane standing heaters in the cooler months, navy blue umbrellas in the summer. Globe string lights overhead
. He’d paint the trim the same navy blue and white, but finish the cedar siding to age naturally.

  Inside, he could envision the copper tabletops over dark-stained plank floors that would only improve with wear. He could practically smell the oaky hops. As his parents wandered, he asked Freya, “Hey, do you know Scott and Brenda Halseth?”

  Hand still linked with his, a sweet smile didn’t leave her lips, her gaze taking in every inch of the place. “Of course. Halseth’s Smokehouse and Pub is one of my favorites. Have you been?”

  He nodded. “I grabbed lunch there the other day. Scott heard about my business plan and we chatted for a bit. He wants to carry Black Op beers on tap, and in exchange, I’ll use some of their smoked goods in some of the recipes and maybe even sell some. Apparently, he has started carrying Cascade Bakery’s desserts, she’s using some of their meats and cheeses in her savory quiches and other baked goods, and he’s wondering if I want to join in their system. Promoting each other symbiotically rather than competing.”

  “Of course Scott would think of that. Good family. You’d like them. His son plays for the San Francisco Fire.”

  “Seriously? Finn Halseth is from Foothills?”

  She grinned. “Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to get an autograph. Anyway, yes, the Halseths and Perrys are great people. Teaming up with them is a surefire way for this place to hit the ground running.”

  Ignoring his parents and their banter as they inspected every beam and pillar in the place, he showed Freya the rest. Like the walls and floors, the stairs were unfinished and the walls nothing more than a shell upstairs.

  Releasing his hand, she floated across the area he had envisioned for offices. Spinning in the diffuse light, she spread her arms wide. “The lighting in here is perfect. Some shiplap on that wall, a subdued sky blue on the others, and these windows.”

  Hovering halfway to the ceiling, she looked like a fairy in her element. Fucking contagious. He crossed the distance between them and slipped his arm around her waist.