Until Tomorrow (Boot Creek Book 3)

by Nancy Naigle

  “Fine.” Angie cocked her head, her eyebrow arching. “Don’t go to extremes, though. It’s not all or nothing, just slow down a bit. You need to let these guys earn your trust, instead of giving it to them. Get past the dating honeymoon period so you can see any red flags. Then maybe you won’t have so much invested if the next guy turns out to be a Mr. Wrong too.”

  “Like Brandon.”

  “He was a charmer. You were a major catch for him, and I do think he liked you, but he’s a user. This place was his dream home. Once he moved in, and you were still paying him top dollar for work he’d have done for free just to hang out with you, he knew he had a first-class ticket on the gravy train . . .”

  “In his defense, he’s very good at what he does. Did you see the craftsmanship of the bathroom vanity? And I just showed him pictures of what I liked. It turned out amazing. You can’t find that kind of stuff online or at the local home improvement store.”

  “It’s beautiful. But you paid a fortune for it, and it took him five months to do it. He needed you. And he milked that job. You know it.”

  “Probably.”

  “Probably? He used you, and he never made you a priority. Remember the night you asked him to come out to dinner with us, and he said he was too busy but then texted you all through dinner?”

  Angie was right. That had ruined her fun, and she’d been downright rude to text with him while she was out with her friends. “I was an idiot.”

  “But you’re not. You’re one of the smartest women I know. That’s what makes me crazy.”

  Flynn felt tears of frustration tickle her lower lashes. She made the same mistakes over and over and over again in her personal life. “I’m great with business. I suck with men.”

  “True.”

  “And I have to take responsibility for some of that. Sure, Brandon may have had less than honorable intentions all along, but I let him take advantage of me. I had an inkling something was amiss and ignored it.”

  “When you’re lonely, anything seems better than nothing, but it’s not. And you have so much going for you. Please don’t let him shake your confidence.”

  Flynn didn’t bother to wipe the hot tear that ran down her cheek. If she did, another would likely follow anyway. “I’ve wanted to be married and have children for so long that I’ve never even reconsidered if that’s what I still want. I need to figure that out.”

  “I think that’s a great idea.” Angie placed a hand on Flynn’s arm. “Be happy alone for a while. You’re great company. Ask me. I’m your best friend. I know.”

  “Thank you.” Flynn pulled her hands into her lap. “I’m exhausted from dealing with it all.”

  “And when you think you want a houseful of kids, just come get Billy for a day or two. He’s just one kid, and he wears me out.”

  “I love Billy.”

  “I know you do, and he loves you, but a few days and you’ll find out what being tired really is.” Angie stood, folded the blue-and-red-striped lap blanket, and laid it over the side of the chair. “Get some rest. Spoil yourself a little. It’ll be cheaper than paying him . . . I didn’t say that.” She laughed. “Okay, that was my last jab at the situation. I need to get home to Jackson and Billy. You sure I can’t talk you into coming over to stay with us until you get the heat fixed?”

  “No. The fireplace will keep the chill off. I’ll sleep out here on the couch.” North Carolina was having one of those warming trends following a week in the forties. The sixty-degree temperatures were cool, but not unbearable.

  A week ago it would have been a whole different story.

  She got up and walked Angie to the door. “Thanks for coming over. I know you’re tired of hearing my romance-gone-wrong woes.”

  “You’ve had more than your fair share, but I will always be here.” Angie lifted her jacket from the wooden hall tree and slipped it on. “That’s what friends are for.”

  “Oh, wait,” Flynn said, turning and racewalking back to the kitchen. She picked up a container of brownies that she’d packed up for Angie to take home. “Here you go.”

  “And this is why Billy adores you. He loves your brownies.”

  “I think he just likes that I put blue sprinkles on the top of them.” Flynn’s phone chirped from the other room. Her insides leapt at the familiar sound of Brandon’s text tone.

  “His favorite color. Call me in the morning.” Angie glanced toward the other room. “And don’t you dare text Brandon back. He’s not worth it.”

  “Not a chance.” Flynn raised her chin, feeling strong enough to actually ignore him tonight.

  Angie waved as she jogged out to her car.

  It had been an exhausting day. At least she’d sleep well.

  As Flynn walked down the hall, the familiar text tone sounded again from her phone in the kitchen. That not a chance she’d so strongly uttered just moments ago echoed in her mind, but she was already moving toward the sound.

  She picked up the phone and stared at the message.

  Brandon: Wondering What You’re Up To Tonight . . .

  Not exactly a declaration of love or an apology. Either one would’ve wooed her right into a conversation. The lackluster text was a blessing.

  The furnace being on the fritz was a legit reason to talk to Brandon. He could probably fix it for half the price of the local HVAC guys, but was it worth it? He’d smooth-talk her right back into the situation she’d just nixed. Plus, all the way out the door he’d restated that he’d always said their relationship was meant to just be fun. And fun wasn’t what she was looking for. She could have fun with her girlfriends and spend a lot less money doing it.

  She picked up her phone and stared at the partial line of text on the display. The ellipsis taunted her. What else did he have to say? Was there anything that he could say that would matter?

  But if she looked, he’d know she’d seen the message. She took in a breath, and then laid her phone back down.

  Like the whispers from a hopeful angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, thoughts whipped back and forth.

  He’s a waste of my time.

  But he makes me laugh.

  He’s probably horny.

  But he sure is a great lover.

  He’s handy and I have stuff to fix.

  He’s not the one for me.

  What if I never find the one for me?

  Self-doubt crept in. Being with the wrong guy was not better than being alone. Maybe she’d prove that to herself if she’d ever stay alone for more than a few weeks.

  Her phone sounded again.

  Brandon: Is Something Wrong?

  Seriously? He knew very well what was wrong. They’d talked it to death this morning until she finally got him out the door and then texted about it practically all afternoon. There was no sense rehashing it.

  She turned off the sound on her phone, hoping it would be easier to ignore if she didn’t know about the messages.

  If she were smart, she’d block his number completely.

  She wasn’t there yet. A little piece of her still needed to know he wanted to talk to her to give her the strength to not talk to him.

  The relaxed feeling she’d had just a little while ago had vanished. The kitchen project she and Brandon had planned to start next would have to wait. Maybe that was for the best anyway. Now that she’d have to fix the furnace, that would bite into the money she’d set aside for the upgrades, and there was no way she’d compromise on the kitchen renovation.

  She got up and headed down the hall toward the smallest of all of the bedrooms in the house. The room that had been her mother’s room when she’d come back home after graduating college. She’d once thought about turning the carriage house into her living quarters. Close enough to take care of guests, but roomier—more private too. Then again, being here in the downstairs of her grandparents’ B&B held fond childhood memories, and there was a closeness to Mom here that she couldn’t seem to let go of.

  She stopped in the doorw
ay of her office. It had been her grandparents’ library, and Flynn had spent hours in this room as a little girl, poring through the books in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She hadn’t changed it much, except for adding a few of her own favorite books.

  In here, the thick wall of books silenced the world. This was her special spot to escape from the noisy family gatherings. Hiding in this room had been like closing herself off in the turret of a castle, or ducking into a cave to escape the bad guys, or hiding away in a cottage by the sea. She stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind her like she had all those years before, reliving, for a moment, all of those memories and imaginary friends from between the covers of these books. The room still felt safe.

  Memories of the hours spent coloring pictures in here at the heavy wooden davenport desk made her smile. With its hidden drawers on one side, the desk was magical. Her imagination would take off, inspiring creative and fantastical thoughts.

  After Mom died, it had become tradition for her to leave a drawing for her mom’s parents beneath the inclined desktop like an Easter egg waiting to be found. It was the one thing she could do that seemed to put the brightness back in her grandparents’ eyes.

  When Flynn had moved into Crane Creek Bed and Breakfast, the first thing she’d done was check the desk compartment. Three of her drawings had still been tucked inside.

  Finding those memories had seemed like a sign that she was supposed to have stepped in and taken over Crane Creek Bed and Breakfast from her grandparents when she had. She wanted to carry on the legacy for them just like they’d always planned. It was part of why she’d left most everything the way it was. Her parents’ wedding picture and several treasured others of her mom still graced the shelves.

  As a little girl she’d tallied income and receipts for her granddaddy during the summers, pretending she was the owner. Even back then she’d pictured herself running the B&B with a husband and children. One child at her side, and one on her hip. How she thought she could do all of that and run the B&B was humorous now that she knew how much work went into the day-to-day operation of this place.

  The antique desk wasn’t functionally the best choice; she could actually use a bigger desk for all she had to deal with, but the memories outweighed the practicality. This treasure deserved a place in their family forever. And since she was the last one in the family, it was hers to care for.

  And there was that familiar pang in her gut. The constant reminder that there was no one else to follow in her footsteps when she reached her last tomorrow. Yet.

  Chapter Two

  Ford Morton pulled a long-sleeve shirt over his T-shirt, then layered a hoodie, and finally his jacket. Layers were a must in Alaska in late October. His muscles felt tight after the long afternoon of work. On cold days like today, the warm temperatures inside Glory Glassworks were welcome, making the icy temperatures outside feel more like a much-needed thaw.

  In the summer, the glass shop melted off pounds as quickly as it turned solid glass into a pliable medium. Even in Alaska, glassblowing was as hot and sweaty as any full-contact sport he’d ever played. A real workout. Maybe that was part of the allure.

  Ford ducked outside, hunching forward, tucking his chin down into the collar of his jacket. Chicagoans bragged their wind could cut your face, but the wind off the Alaskan harbor made that look like a spa treatment. Today the wind sliced at his skin with every long stride he made down Factory Street, instantly cooling the sweat at his collar.

  Buildings along this block were once part of a huge fish cannery that had gone under years ago. For a while the buildings thrived from the tourism the cruise ships brought to port, selling trinkets and novelties, but over the past five years since Ford had lived here, he’d watched the businesses disappear one by one, leaving the block more empty than occupied. “For Lease” signs filled several of the windows.

  Ford’s skin reacted to the chill, feeling suddenly a size too small for his body. But the rush of fresh air into his lungs after a full day in the studio always brought an appreciation of what nature delivered on a daily basis.

  A Tennessee boy born and raised, he’d turned thirty here in Alaska, and living here was worth the expense of traveling back to spend time with family a few times a year. He’d reclaimed his soul here. In a way, he owed Alaska his sanity. If he’d stayed in Nashville practicing law, he’d have been a bitter, unhappy man. Helping big corporations beat the system and guilty people dodge justice was big-ticket stuff for the law practice his dad was so proud of, but it nipped at the edges of Ford’s moral compass. Leaving it all behind had been easy—even if it had been at the expense of his relationship with his father.

  He’d left the shop early, but days were so short this time of year that it was already dark.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets as he headed for the Manic Moose Saloon. As he acclimated to the cool weather, he picked up his walk to a jog, ducking into the side door of the saloon behind a group of guys that worked the dock.

  Ford pulled the heavy wooden door closed behind him. Hand carved by a local artisan, the same one who’d done the custom door on Ford’s house, the scene of an old, weathered fisherman standing in hip waders fly-fishing only got better with time. The wood had silvered from years of drastic weather changes. In the background, a bear eyed the shiny pink salmon swimming toward the fly dancing in the water.

  A puff of cold air followed Ford inside.

  “Hey, man. Heard you’re flying out this week.”

  Ford turned toward the comment. Chet stood talking to some folks at a corner table. Chet’s father had owned this place back when it was still called the Slippery Rascal. Now Chet and his wife, Missy, ran the joint, and lived upstairs.

  “You heard right.”

  “Abandoning us for good?” Chet made his way around the bar and pulled a draft of IPA for Ford and slid it to him.

  “You know better than that. Just going down to North Carolina to run some glass workshops for the PRIZM Glass Art Institute.”

  “That’s where you ran off to last summer when your friend got married. Right?”

  Ford took a sip of the cold beer. “I visited the glass shop while I was in town.”

  “If you don’t come back, I want first dibs on your house.” Chet poured a drink. “Not that I could afford it.”

  “I’ll be back before you realize I’m gone, just thirty days.”

  Chet eyed him. “Yeah, right.”

  “What?”

  “Seen that look before. You’re going down to find a girl.”

  He was set to argue, but that would just be a lie. “What if I am? What’s so wrong with that?”

  “Seen it too many times. Never lasts long. The only women that make it up here are the ones born and raised into it. This place ain’t for those dainty types. If you find one you like down there, I suggest you stay there.”

  “I’ll be back.” He chugged half the beer. “I’ll do some work, spend some time with friends, and then I’ll be back. One way or the other.”

  “That long-legged blonde you talked about after the wedding lives down there too, don’t she? That one of the friends you plan to spend time with?” He’d air quoted the word friends.

  Why did air quotes always make him feel awkward?

  Ford narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger in Chet’s direction. “You’re supposed to forget that stuff at closing time.”

  “Heck no. I’m going to write a book with all the shit you customers tell me, one day. Going to be a bestseller too. Probably buy the whole town with the money I’ll make and never work another day in my life. Might be how I pay for that fancy house you built.” Chet let out a laugh as raucous as a drunken pirate.

  “I hear you. You and I both know that Missy won’t be having any of that. You’ll have to work just to keep her in—”

  “I heard my name,” Missy said, swatting Ford on the butt with her bar towel. “Don’t be talking about me.”

  “Wouldn’t dare.” He rea
ched over and gave her waist a squeeze. “How you been, girl?”

  “Great. Heard you’re headed out of town.”

  He’d just made final plans two weeks ago. “Of course you did. Can’t keep a secret around here.”

  “Well, it won’t be the same without you.”

  “Glad I’ll be missed.” He loved living here. He’d never felt so alive as he did the first week he’d been in Alaska. The grandeur of the open space, the power of the seasons, and the wildlife brought out the alpha in a man’s soul.

  “Heard you’re leaving out of here for a few weeks,” a redheaded guy said as Ford peeled off his coat.

  “Just a month. Doing an in-residence stint at a glass shop down in North Carolina.” He’d be telling this story over and over until the day he left. Small towns. They were the same no matter what part of the country you were in.

  “My wife still thinks you’re like the Picasso of glassblowing or something. Congratulations. Sounds like a big deal.”

  “It’s pretty cool,” Ford admitted. “Plus, I have friends down that way.”

  “Let me buy you a going-away shot,” the guy said. Ford could not bring his name to mind. Embarrassing in their small town. “Don’t ever understand why anyone would leave this time of year. Finally got rid of the tourists and got our town back. Best time of the year if you ask me. Must have been one helluva offer.”

  “Pretty much.” Ford couldn’t argue with him; the offer had been too good to turn down. Despite the cold and snow, this was Ford’s favorite time of year too. Tourists were nonexistent, so he got to spend time on his craft and stock up on the inventory that would carry him through the next year. He needed that productive time. But being in new surroundings inspired creativity, and this year he hoped to make something that would finally separate him from the other top glassblowers.

  That restless need had been nagging at him lately.

  No more teaching tourists how to make simple glass balls, now that the cruise ships had paused their schedules until next spring. He could go wild and create new designs—real showpieces that brought in real money that would continue to grow his savings.