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

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