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

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.

Persephone 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