The Next Day (Foothills Book 2) by Carrie Thorne (christmas read aloud TXT) 📕

recalled every touch. His hands on her, his mouth. Damn, he was a really, really good kisser.

“Okay, so he implied something about he liked you, therefore he wasn’t going to do anything about it. Now you’re saying the same stupid thing. What is wrong with you people?”

“From what it sounds like, he fell in love once and it was awful and he’s not risking it again. I, on the other hand, have been in love many times, and always manage to get my heart broken because I’m too caught up to see the forest for the trees. I’m not getting engaged again. Fool me once, you know. Fool me three times, and I fold.”

Asher winced, letting out a less-than-sympathetic laugh. “I’m sorry. But… can I be there to watch when you two get your heads out of your asses and realize that’s a load of bullshit?”

“I’m not risking getting tied up again.”

Asher grinned wickedly. “You might like it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Shut up. You know what I mean. You and Sophie have found this great balance. Not everyone has that ability.”

“You’re scared. And that’s not like you.”

“I am scared. Of getting my heart broken. Again. I’m tapped out.”

“Just keep telling yourself that. Randy was convenient, that wasn’t love. I didn’t get to meet Vince or Giovanni, but trust me, Zane is twice the man they are.”

“He is a good guy, I can feel that. But–”

Asher shook his head. “Nope. Stop arguing with yourself. You do what you need to do to protect yourself, and Zane will do the same. Do me a favor? Don’t fight it, and see what it can be like with a good guy.”

She smiled, “You’re a good guy, too. Sophie’s lucky.”

“I know,” he winked. “Goodnight.”

Freya tugged off her heels and carried them back to her bedroom. She slipped off the pretty black dress she’d stolen from Sophie’s closet, quite a bite shorter and fitted on her than it was on Sophie, but she didn’t mind showing a little leg. Pulling on yoga pants and an old t-shirt, she slid her feet into an easy pair of sandals and packed a bag with a change of clothes, toothbrush, hairbrush, and grabbed a pillow and blanket, unsure if he had the basics yet. Not exactly the overnight she’d been picturing with him; with how drunk he was, she might be there half of tomorrow too, if he hadn’t sobered up yet or slept with his head over the toilet bowl.

Crossing through the blue glow over the driveway, she quietly entered his apartment and set her bag by the couch, quickly throwing together a makeshift bed. Before crawling into the blankets, she checked on Zane, finding him out cold, mouth open.

Watching him sleep on top of the blankets, his long limbs sprawled and making the queen-sized mattress look like a toddler bed, she resisted to the nagging hollow in the pit of her stomach, aching to get crawl in with him and make everything okay. To make sure he knew that he was a good guy. One of the best, she suspected.

Scowling, she kicked herself, dragging herself back to the couch. Dropping onto the cushion, she punched her pillow fluffy and threw the blanket over her legs. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. She was doing it again. What was wrong with her? A few good kisses with a gorgeous man, and she was flashing forward to snuggling and white picket fences, not giving a damn what it did to her.

How was that going to work when she went on gallery tours? When he was no longer a muse, but a brick that smashed her creativity? Or when he realized she wasn’t what he’d wanted after all? That she was needy and moody and opinionated? Getting caught up in the fireworks was blinding; and she’d been burned so bad by the blasts of her past.

She sealed her eyes shut and tried fruitlessly to not imagine indulging, just to experience what she knew they would be capable of together. She was great at casual dating, sex, enjoying the company of a decent man. But there were those few she had met, like Zane, that set her heart on fire.

By late morning, Zane stumbled out of the bedroom, head in his hands to block the chipper birds and bright sun. She’d showered, brushed, changed, and curled up with a book. Cozy in the corner of the couch, Freya adjusted her coffee and set her book down.

He scowled when he saw her, “You didn’t have to crash here.”

“Yes, I did. You looked like hell.”

While he stopped in the bathroom, she poured him a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice. Pulling out a frying pan, she got started on a big greasy breakfast to absorb some of that liquor.

Feet shuffling across the floor, he looked like a beat-up sexy teddy bear, all drippy from the shower, rumpled and ripped. He parked at the stool where she’d set out his hangover coffee and juice. After a testing sip of coffee, he looked up at her, “You don’t have to make me breakfast, too. Bad enough I acted like an ass last night.”

“The worst you did was call me pretty and compliment your own kissing skills.”

“I remember. It takes a hell of a lot more than that to make me forget a gorgeous woman in a little black dress,” he grinned, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

She cracked the eggs and added some milk and cheese, fluffing them up, enjoying the sizzle as she poured the savory mixture into the pan. “I suspect you needed to let go a bit. When’s the last time you did something reckless? Alcohol-related or otherwise?”

He snorted, then gulped down the juice until only the lingering pulp coated the side of the glass. “Long time.”

“You were due. Sometimes