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

waiting until he was out to pounce, knowing that had been the last straw that had brought on the divorce all those years ago?

“Oh. Of course. When did you get married? I mean–”

Was she offended to not get invited to his fictitious wedding? She’d missed enough damn milestones. Or was it that he hadn't married the woman she'd picked out? Again?

“Well, your father and I will still come. I would love to explore the latest earthquake designs, and we could catch up with you and meet your wife.”

Shit. Foot irretrievably in mouth. Again. Maybe Freya would return the favor and be his fake wife for a weekend. He sure as hell didn't want to face them alone anyway.

The lock disengaged, the knob turning. “We'll see. Gotta go.” He clicked off, headed back inside and dropped the phone onto the side table before he chucked it out the damn window.

Freya strolled in, an amused smile on her face. “Apparently this wedding will be one big frat party,” she laughed, slipping off her flip-flops and tossing them into the closet.

He winced. “Please tell me we don’t have to stay for the whole thing.”

Tugging her dress over her head as she strolled closer, she rolled her eyes, “I think we should make a brief appearance, then come back up here.”

Sauntering toward her, he pitched his shirt.

Their hands were busy the moment they reached each other.

9

The Aunts Go Marching

Music pumped in through the open deck door. Unraveling himself from Freya’s long limbs, her wild hair, Zane dropped his legs over the side of the bed. Grinning in loopy sex delirium like he was, she sat up and wrapped around him.

“We’ve got at least another hour,” she murmured as she trailed kisses along the back of his shoulder, her breath on his skin flooding heat through his veins. Even after an afternoon of sex, shower, a few rounds of SkipBo, then sex again.

“You said that an hour ago. Aren’t your parents meeting us here in...” he glanced at the clock, “Oh shit. Fifteen minutes?”

She squealed and threw her legs over. “Shit. We need to get ready.”

Chuckling under his breath at her bare ass dashing into the bathroom, he headed to the closet and unzipped the garment bag, pulling out his slacks and button-up shirt. No fucking way on a tie or jacket for a frat wedding.

Clanking around in the bathroom, finally dumping out her make-up bag into the sink, Freya snapped open her eyeliner and leaned into the mirror, not seeming to care in the least that he could see her “process,” as his ex had called it. She was about done by the time he was dressed. Standing next to her, he pulled his hair junk out of his bag and tried to smooth the disarray.

He glanced over, catching Freya’s hesitant, lip-biting smile in the mirror. “What?” he asked.

She moved closer and ruffled her fingers in his hair. “I like it unruly. Tame doesn’t suit you.” Slipping past him, she headed into the room and pulled her dress from the garment bag.

Checking his reflection, he didn’t mind what he saw. He ought to be offended, but she was right. Accenting the cowlick rather than flattening it looked way better.

Reentering the room, his heart lurched in his chest as he saw Freya teetering on one foot while putting on her heels. Damn, she was a work of art. Her hair was still wild, but whatever she’d done to it, now each curl was bold. Dressed in a sapphire blue slip dress that clung to all the right places with strappy, icepick heels, she strutted toward him with unabashed self-assurance. Stopping inches away, she hooked her hands in his belt and grinned at him, those intense blue eyes seeing more of himself than he did.

Tracing a finger down her silver teardrop necklace, he wanted to say a million things. Tell her how fucking gorgeous she was. How he didn’t want the weekend to end. That damn pang gripped in his chest, thundering that he was onto something.

Pulse racing, he worked up the nerve to believe it. As he opened his mouth, unsure of his next words, she placed a finger over his lips and shook her head.

A knock at the door chilled things in an instant. Leaving him high and dry, she headed to let in her parents. Glancing to the bed, he realized it looked like the sex-fest it had been since they’d checked in yesterday. Grabbing the blankets, he tossed them back on the bed, just as the door opened.

Her parents breezed in. Tammy gave Freya a light, no-wrinkle hug, saying, “Honey, you look so beautiful.”

Eamon nodded to Zane, speaking softly while Tammy walked out to watch the crowd filtering in below, he said, “Thanks for coming. I know Freya was nervous about facing everyone again.”

Thanks? No idea how to respond, he nodded.

Glancing out to ensure they weren’t heard, Eamon said, “Can’t blame her. Freya’s always been sensitive. Feels things more intensely than most.”

Okay… He wasn’t wrong, but it felt like a strange time to be having this conversation.

Eyes wandering to the single, hastily made bed, Eamon looked back at him, not indicating his judgment on the observation one way or another. “When she left Randy, it was incredibly brave. Can’t say many others would have had the nerve to listen to their heart and not go through with it under all that pressure. Broke her heart to do so. Gives her heart so readily, which has made her distrustful of the concept in general.”

Had she said her parents didn’t get her? No, they understood her remarkably well. May not have a damn thing in common, but they knew their daughter. He muttered, “I know how she feels.”

“Whatever’s going on between you two, it’s a