The Next Day (Foothills Book 2)

by Carrie Thorne

  “Oh. But we came to see you.”

  A derisive laugh pushed out from his throat. “Of course. You’ve graced me with your presence and think I should rearrange my life for you. No. I need to be with my wife.” He took a slow breath, then added under his breath, “I just need to convince her to keep me around.”

  His mother’s eyebrows raise, her unwavering polite smile twitching. “Oh.”

  He didn’t have time for this bullshit. Dashing to the bedroom, he packed his garment bag and his backpack.

  Standing in the doorway behind him, his mother said, “I’m sorry.”

  Without glancing her way, he asked, “For what?”

  “We missed you. It was easy when you wanted to be an architect like us. When you were with Blaire, and she was like a daughter to us. When you turned your back on all that to join the Navy, the SEALs of all things, and risked your life day in and day out, well, we let you down. It was scary and we couldn’t handle it. But we should have.”

  He brushed past her and stuffed his toothbrush and supplies into his bag. “Yeah, you should have,” he uttered, not bothering to put any effort into the admonishment.

  “And now you’ve moved across the country, are becoming a beer maker, of all things, and married some moody artist. I guess we’ve missed so much, that we don’t know you.”

  He shoved past her again and grabbed his bags. “Not sure you ever did.”

  Craig cleared his throat and pushed his shoulders back. “You’re right. I would never have dreamed my son would be capable of what he did this morning.”

  Fuck. Not this again. His stomach churned as he readied himself for another lecture about who and what he was supposed to be.

  His dad continued, “You were right. You’re not an architect. Not the partner Blaire wanted. Nor are you the agreeable son we’d hoped for.” Eyes softening, his gray eyebrows pulling together, Craig sighed. “You’re so much more. If some monster had come threatening your mother or one of you kids? I… I couldn’t have done what you did. And you didn’t even break a sweat or look worried or scared. Steady. I guess we had no idea you were built for… that.”

  Zane snorted. What the hell do you say to that?

  His mother inched closer, hesitant, then finally wrapped her arms around him. “We’re so proud of you,” she whispered, her voice broken.

  Burning acid welled behind his eyes. Picked a shitty time to decide to be attentive parents. “I have a flight to catch.”

  Susan pulled away and nodded, wiping the gooey tears from her eyes. “We’ll lock up on our way out tomorrow. Let us know if you need anything.”

  “Sure,” he muttered, hoisting his backpack over his shoulder.

  Craig put his arms around Susan and nodded. “Maybe on your way back through, you could stop and visit us. We’d like to get to know you better.”

  Zane halted with his hand on the door. Knowing he needed to say it, he turned and said, “Maybe next time. It’s going to take more than recognizing that I can handle a hostage situation, or drinking my beer and complimenting it.”

  “What will it take?”

  He let out a heavy exhale, adjusting his backpack tighter. “You can start by asking me what I want. By letting it sink in that I’m not you. I fucking hate boardrooms and presentations and schmoozing to impress people that I don’t care about, and I have no interest in designing shit for other people to judge and tweak. I joined the Navy because I wanted to. I’m starting a damn brewing company because I like it. And I’m flying to Rome to tell the woman I love that she’s incredible, to stand by in case she needs back up and make her know that I always will.”

  “Okay.” She glanced to the photographs of the wedding. “She’s a lovely woman.”

  “She is. I’ve got a flight to catch.”

  Dozens of flutes of prosecco swished in the hands of the dazzling patrons, each bubble reflecting the glowing pendant lights and created a starlit ambience. Blinding heat from the summer sun had yet to fade, the crisp air conditioner struggling to keep up. Freya twisted her ring on her finger, her hair tickling her upper back as she held her head high and watched the crowd.

  In the center of the gallery’s entrance was a sculpture of a warrior woman with a babe on her breast and a sword drawn in challenge. A grainy, muted color photograph of a modern soldier down on one knee, a reflective tear on his cheek took up much of the entry. Some of the pieces were bereft with dark emotion, others were achingly uplifting, depicting the recovery period, the why of war, and the heart of the soldiers.

  Persephone, the gallery owner, sauntered toward her with a pair of crystal flutes, a magical flick of each swing of her hips in the mile-high heels. Freya had wondered about her when they’d first met, as she appeared so vain, but Freya quickly learned she adored daring fashion like she treasured passionate art. “Freya, darling, I am so happy you agreed to come on such short notice.”

  Exchanging cheek kisses, she accepted the offered prosecco and let the bubbles loosen her voice. “Are you kidding? It was such a risk, sending you that painting. You were expecting my traditional serenity, but I sent you my soldier.”

  “That’s what I love about you and what makes your work so beautiful. And why I will continue to always have a Freya Marks piece in my gallery. Every piece you have brought me is pure love.” Dark hair slicked back in a high ponytail, Persephone nodded deeper into the gallery. “May I introduce you to some of my favorite patrons?”

  “You know I am a nervous wreck around potential critics, but as this is my favorite gallery and I am honored to be here, by all means.” Some were hailed as mysterious, broody artists. In her early days, Freya had thought them self-absorbed. As her stomach threatened to wretch out the prosecco that battled with the gallon of espresso she’d attempted to battle the jetlag with, she yet again acknowledged her premature judgment in others. She’d much rather be home with Zane, curled up and reading and sketching on the couch together. Not self-absorbed, but terrified of revealing such a critical piece of her.

  As they reached the favored patrons, she slowed her pace, hoping to hear a secret opinion as they openly discussed her painting. Even though she knew that painting like her own body, the freckles on her cheeks, the feel of the cold Foothills breeze ruffling the fine hairs on her arms, the permanent curl where she parked her hair behind her ears when she forgot not to, she knew the painting more. Each brush stroke was passed from her soul through the paint, the subject’s emotion, the curve of his jaw, the precise angle where deltoid met tricep, and the grief that drove his punishing run.

  In his Versace tuxedo and her Dolce and Gabbana gown, the patrons held warm smiles as they examined her work. “Can you feel it?” the woman asked her husband.

  “The burn in his muscles from the run?”

  “Yes, that, but I can almost taste the salty sweat of his skin, and almost see the tremble in his muscles from the exertion. And that mountain behind him? We need to find out where that is.”

  Persephone rested her hand on the woman’s shoulder, “Jacqueline?”

  The woman turned, lit up and embraced Persephone. “What a wonderful show you’ve put on this evening. I have ensured the charities highlighted tonight will receive an equal match on your donations.”

  Freya held back, pinching her lips together and keeping her heels locked as the absurdity of the conversation made her feel that much more out of place. Yes, this was technically her world, but it really wasn’t. Which was why she’d moved back home. Her worlds were so different, and she knew where her heart lived.

  As soon as Persephone made the introductions, Freya was tossed in cheek-kiss after cheek-kiss, dozens complimenting her work, the edginess of this new piece, inquiring when she would be sending more, could they commission a piece… Inhaling slow and steady, she kept her pulse at a tolerable level, her knees only occasionally threatening to give out, but her stomach remained too tightly clenched to even consider trying one of the prosciutto-wrapped mozzarellas.

  P
ersephone remained at her side, at one point whispering, “You’re doing great. In another hour, you can head back to your hotel and relax. I’ve arranged for your room to be stocked with wine, antipasto, plus some dark chocolate and raspberries. Please say you’ll stay a few nights?”

  She felt a pang in her chest that set her heartbeat on edge. About to refuse the offer, she took another small sip of prosecco and looked to the door, craving the serenity of home. Of curling up with Zane under the stars.

  Of not leaving Zane to go to court alone to invalidate their marriage.

  Shattering the fear, victorious thrill pumped through her veins, weakening her knees in the best way possible as the best damn vision of her existence strolled in the door. Larger than life, flipping gorgeous, she laid eyes on the Norse god, superhero, Italian model, Navy SEAL… sweet, sincere man that bit his tongue to avoid the argument, but wouldn’t hesitate to risk his life to save another.

  Where he’d worn simple slacks and a button-up to the wedding, tonight he wore a slick tuxedo that hugged his broad shoulders. His gait powerful, controlled like a wolf in the night, he stood illuminated in the bold light.

  At her side, Persephone swallowed loudly, “Oh my. Is that your soldier?”

  Breath still caught in her throat, Freya nodded.

  “Well. I’ll leave you to it,” she gave Freya’s shoulder a squeeze and left her alone.

  Unable to move as her body had turned into a timeless statue, she waited. Striding across the gallery floor, he stopped just out of reach. His head tilted to the side, and a shy smile tugged at his lips.

  She exhaled carefully, hoping sound came out when she spoke, “You came.”

  “Of course.”

  “But your parents?”

  “You’re more important.”

  “You hate to fly.”

  “I do.”

  “And you hate crowds.”

  “I do, but I’ll make an exception when they’re here to talk about how amazing you are.”

  “How did you get in?”

  He winked, “I look an awful lot like the guy in the painting by tonight’s featured artist.”

  “What about our annulment?”

  Had she said something about a superhero before? Thundering in her chest, tiny lightning blasts healed the lingering fractures in her heart as he knelt down on one knee. “I got the pictures back. It was a gorgeous wedding. Your parents were there.”

  “What? Those jerks, they didn’t say a thing,” she laughed, throwing her head back as she felt a giddiness take over that had nothing to do with the prosecco.

  He grinned, “They didn’t want us to feel pressured. Freya, I don’t care what it took for us to get married, because I’m so glad we did. I would never have dared trying it again. I was so terrified of marrying someone that didn’t believe in me, of not believing in myself. But you… you want me to be me. And I want you to be you. I love you so damn much. Please, please stay married to me.”

  “Get up here,” she pulled on his hands and dragged him to his feet. Standing inches away, she breathed him in, his homey scent, warmed like a soothing aromatherapy in the spotlights and summer evening. Searching his eyes, falling into the forest of them, she let the lava pump through her veins and bring a thrill she’d never known. “I love you.”

  “That’s a yes?”

  “Hell yes.”

  He leaned in and brushed his lips over hers, placing a soft kiss on her lower lip, gliding his tongue along the crease of her lips before she gripped the back of his neck and poured all of her into him, accepting everything in return. Breathless, he pulled away enough to look her in the eyes, alert and steady.

  Cheers erupted from the gallery. Toasts and words of wisdom and love echoed around them.

  Glancing around at the crowd, Freya found Persephone beaming at her, a subtle nod said the night had gone brilliantly, and she mouthed a thank you, which Freya returned before lacing her fingers with Zane’s and leading him back to the hotel.

  22

  Epilogue

  Sure as shit, Pippa was a ridiculously effective planner. Frightening, quite frankly. But the brewery looked incredible.

  Exactly as he’d imagined, the outdoor tables held small fireplaces and heaters to combat the chill of the November evening. Forming weatherproof roofs overhead, connected glass and timber beamed gazebos kept the rain off them, and left the dining area welcome no matter the weather. The outdoor furniture and gazebos were a weird-as-fuck gift from his parents, but it showed their support in a way their self-absorbed dialogue couldn’t.

  Asher and Grady sat joking at one of the smaller round tables, leaning back and ragging on each other with some inside joke. Pippa looked quite the hostess at the invitation-only opening, dressed in a flowered dress, ensuring the guests were happy. Of course, he knew everyone here, but Pippa insisted on perfection for the beta night. Sophie and Lincoln were touring inside, sipping from sampler glasses with the Black Op Brewing Company logo emblazoned on the side. Asher’s parents were exploring inside with Tammy and Eamon.

  Over the door, the Black Op Brewing Company sign matched the glasses. Edgy and bold to match the logo, it was designed by a top graphic designer in Phoenix that Grady’s brother knew.

  Dressed in the sexiest damn blue dress that matched her eyes, topped off with her Italian heels and a leather jacket, Freya’s hips swayed with each step as she joined him. “Sorry I’m late,” she apologized breathlessly as she crossed through the iron gate and linked her hand with his.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  She grinned, “Great. My online presence is paying off. The gallery in Seattle has asked me to be one of their permanent featured artists and added a link to my website.”

  One of the servers, Miles, greeted them both with a sampler glass of the blackberry brew he’d decided to be one of his first featured. Miles grinned, “Wow, Zane. This place is awesome. Half of Foothills has already called to see if you accept reservations or sell growlers and kegs. I’m betting the other half are trying to get through.”

  He accepted the sampler glass and shook Miles’ hand. “Fantastic. You letting anyone know if they want something we don’t have, we’ll work on it? I like experimenting with new recipes.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Freya watched with a sappy grin on her face. “Thanks, Miles,” she nodded. Once he walked outside with another round of samplers for everyone else, Freya whispered, “I dated his brother in high school.”

  “Seth?”

  She squeezed his hand, “You’re too cute. Nope. But we’re not going to dwell on the many times Freya Harris has thought herself in love.”

  “Harris? I thought you were keeping your name.”

  “Professionally, yes. Personally? In a few years, when we have a house and are bored with sex all day, maybe we should have some kids, and I want them to have the same last name as their parents. But I’m hoping you like Marks for a middle name?”

  That pang was no longer a pang, but a steady beat in his heart that filled his veins with safety and security… and a thrill that everything was going to be okay. After stealing a savoring kiss, he pulled back. “Hell yeah I’ll take your name, too. Come on, I have a surprise for you.”

  “As if all this isn’t impressive enough?” She followed him upstairs. She’d seen all of this before, but he hadn’t let her see the offices until the finishing touches were nailed down.

  The hollow he knew would never fully heal knocked about in his brain like a ping pong ball as he passed the photographs that lined the stairs. Jack with a comically panicked expression as he tried a glass from Zane’s first attempt. Another of the three of them in the plaid and pastel Jack had picked out for them to try out golf; it hadn’t gone well, especially when they wrecked the golf cart, but they’d had a hell of a lot of fun. Another of the three of them just coming back from the worst sort of op; exhausted and aching and heartbroken. A few more of the whole team, in their gear and relaxing on the beach waiti
ng for their ride home. The collection supported the name of the business of course, but also included a sign with information on how to support wounded veterans.

  Without a word, Freya studied each photograph with him, her expression matching the tone of each, her heart broken for him. How the hell had he gotten so lucky?

  He dragged her up the stairs, past the central workspace. They stopped in Grady’s office; he bit his cheek as he grinned at the romance novel he’d left on the desk for his new partner as a little thank you gift. About a spoiled attorney falling for completely the wrong woman. It had been easier to find than he thought, apparently, some people enjoyed sexy books about spoiled rich guys too.

  Freya checked out his office, promising to fulfill a few fantasies he hadn’t even come up with yet, behind and on top of that desk. Then he pulled her back into the room she’d fallen in love with. Shiplap wall and tranquil blue walls, consistent lighting, and an easel in the center of the room to demonstrate.

  She strolled to the middle and spun in a circle. “For me?”

  “Is it okay? I mean, you can work wherever you want…”

  “But it’s your building. This is the nicest space in the building. Don’t you want the better office?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and a flash of red heated his cheeks. “You kidding? Maybe I’m a little codependent, but I love the idea of getting to work next to each other. But if you want your own space, no problem, we’ll find or build a studio wherever you want. As long as you keep doing what you love.”

  “It’s perfect.” She strode toward him and tugged him close by the waistband of his jeans. “Really. You astonish me at every turn. You see me.”

  Wrapping his arms around her waist, he leaned his forehead against hers. “Ditto. Whatever you need.”

  “You. I need you.” She kissed him and smiled against his mouth.

  The End

  ~

  Ready for the next in the series? Here’s a sneaky peek (caution: this is still in draft form!) A Day Late. Enjoy!