The Next Day (Foothills Book 2), Carrie Thorne [easy readers .TXT] 📗

much material left over, plus we’d spent a fortune on supplies, so, well, I made use of it.”

 Despite the lightness of the conversation, the easy friendship between Asher and Zane, Freya felt the missing part of their trio tugging at her, her breath a little heavy as she resisted the urge to wrap her arms around Zane and ask if he was okay.

Shoveling in the last bite of rosemary roasted veggies, Zane popped up and cleared his plate. Having spent the last half hour sitting inches away from Freya, he needed space. His leg still burned from the moments he’d accidentally relax and bump into her. An odd aching sensation filled his fingers as he’d spent the whole damn dinner resisting the strangest urge to hold hands with her. What the hell was wrong with him? Since when did the idea of holding a woman’s hand turn him on?

Didn’t help she was a little tipsy from downing the two beers after skipping lunch; he ought to have warned her how strong this batch was. Normally, drunk people annoyed the shit out of him. Not Freya; she was hilarious. Clearly not used to it, she giggled now and again, let something slip she probably hadn’t intended.

Except when she’d trailed her fingers along the edge of his shorts, seemingly a mindless gesture for her, but it had raised the room temperature to beyond sweltering. Combining sharper hops, maybe an apricot concentrate, something to lighten the brew… he’d planned alterations to his latest recipe in his head before he embarrassed himself and let a little tenting action show.

He went in to start on dishes, but Asher stopped him. Whispering, Asher nodded to Freya, “Take this lightweight for a walk to sober her up before she tries to go to bed and ends up with a nasty hangover tomorrow.”

Glaring, Zane nudged him aside, “No.”

“Why not? I mean, no, don’t sleep with her when she’s drunk, but may as well lay down some groundwork.”

Shaking his head, Zane muttered, “Groundwork? Shit, man, that’s cold.”

“Okay. I tried. What I mean is, I’m leaving for training in three days. I’d rather spend a nice night with Sophie rather than worrying about my cousin. Come on. Wingman? I know it’s been a while.”

Zane shut off the water and dried his hands. “You owe me.”

“I thought you liked her?”

“I do. Which is why I’m not planning to lay any groundwork.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

Backing away, Zane shook his head. “Not everyone wants what you have.”

He found Freya back in her bedroom, folding a load of laundry on the neatly made bed. “Hey,” he said.

Flipping around, she caught the edge of the bed to steady herself. “Hi,” she grinned.

“Sorry, I, uh, should have warned you, that beer was about eight percent.”

Nodding, she grinned even bigger. “A bit late, thanks though. My head is officially swimming. I’m a total lightweight.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and nodded toward the exit. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

She strolled close and caught him by the waistband before he could back into the hall. Staring down, as if distracted by what she’d found, she lifted the edge of his shirt and traced her fingers over his abs. Holy shit, this was so not helpful. If he added caryophellene, that might add an earthy, citrus undertone. He breathed slowly in and out, taming things while he convinced them both this was a terrible idea.

Stilling her hands, he backed away. “Fresh air,” he muttered.

Nodding, she closed her eyes. “Worthless virgin alarm,” she muttered.

“What? Freya, are you a virgin?”

She giggled. “You’re cute.” Strolling ahead, she reached the front door and nodded for him to follow. He was in way over his head.

The evening breeze washed over his skin as he stepped outside, the lingering scents from the heat of the day fresh on the air. Swaying with the wind, her blue skirt shifted over her curves with each step. She walked to the middle of the front field and turned toward him. “Well? Are you coming?”

Shit, he shook his head and caught up to her. She held her hand out, and he stupidly took it, walking side by side across the field. As they neared the bench that overlooked the mountains beyond, no more than dark blue paper cutout silhouettes against the sunset purple glow, Freya spun in his arms, nearly knocking herself over with her momentum.

Steadying them both, he held onto her waist.

Eyes searching his, her lips parted, and he was lost. Leaning down, he took her mouth, exploring the soft velvet of her tongue, the spicy-sweet of her breath mixing with his.

A soft whimper passed her lips.

Her hands gripped his shoulders and she arched against him.

Whoa, shit. He pulled back, stunned at himself. At his recklessness. “Sorry,” he whispered on a breathless exhale.

Her mouth opened and closed, then she surprised the hell out of him again, muttering, “My baby cousin is getting married.” Dropping his hand, she crossed to the bench, sat, and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees.

“I’m sorry,” he winced as he sat down next to her.

“I have to fly down to the wedding and prove that I’m not avoiding them. That I didn’t leave the country because I was embarrassed.”

“Why would you be embarrassed?”

“Last time they saw me, I was pulling a Runaway Bride.” Grimacing, he felt the regret radiating off her.

“Mom thinks if I give them a piece of my work as a wedding gift and bring a date, I’ll show them I made the right choice and demonstrate how amazing my life is.”

“Why does it matter what they think?”

“I don’t know. It’s stupid. It doesn’t matter. But it does. I’ve been engaged three times. On that side of the family, they’re all married