The Next Day (Foothills Book 2) by Carrie Thorne (mind reading books .txt) 📗

but that’s the PTSD talking,” he shrugged, hoping she didn’t think he was totally nuts.

“No, that was a first. But I haven’t been back in the States long; must be all the talk about everyone having guns around here,” she rolled her eyes at herself, her mouth turned up in a soft smile.

“Well, I’m not leaving until we know the coast is clear.”

She brushed past him, hopping onto the far side of the bed and propping up her pillow against the headboard. Leaning back, she stretched those long legs and took a deep breath that drew the tank lower. Patting the spot next to her, she waved him over. “You can stand there or get comfy.”

Rubbing a hand over his face, he willed away the fucking rock-hard erection at the sight of her inviting him to bed. As she rested another pillow in the spot she’d saved for him, he held his breath, hoping his jeans were snug enough that she wouldn’t notice how desperate he was.

“Really, I feel terrible waking you for a figment of my imagination. No qualms about waking my cousin, but you I feel bad about. Besides, if this wasn’t my imagination, and you just risked your life for a panicky woman that couldn’t just lay low and call the police?”

Shaking his head, he found that rusty smile taking over his face again. He relented to the inevitable and plopped down on the bed next to her and kicked off his shoes. Leaning against the headboard, he glanced at her, then back out the window. Going to be a long fucking night… he suppressed an inappropriate laugh vibrating under his ribs at his poor word choice. No fucking tonight. Sadly. “You mentioned jetlag?”

“I just got home.”

“From?”

“Italy.”

“Fun trip?”

“I lived there.”

His brow furrowed as a distant bell was ringing in the cobwebs of his memory. “Painter. The sunset in Asher’s apartment.”

Grinning, she pulled her legs up and rested her arms on her knees as she relaxed into the cushy headboard that matched his own, suspecting Paul and Denise had spoiled her return, too. Must get a nice discount through the store. “That’s me.”

He glanced around the room, noting the lack of other furniture and personal possessions in the room. “I heard you were making a living at it. Are you still? I mean, Foothills doesn’t seem like a good spot to be for a professional artist.”

“No shit,” she muttered, glaring at the window.

And he’d stepped in it, as usual. Biting his lips together, he watched out the window, willing the gunmen to return. At least that was something he knew what to do about. Polite conversation? Not so much.

She sighed, “Sorry. I mean, I know I’m going to need to travel a lot and it’s a huge risk, moving home. Marketing and social networking and all the crap I hate about pimping out my passion. But I’d been gone for too long. You ever get the draw to return home? That nowhere else in the world will suffice?”

He snorted, wishing more than ever for that damn shooter to reappear. “Not really.”

Exhaling heavily, she rested her chin on her knees.

Goddammit. Half the damn reason he’d joined the military rather than following the path his parents and Blaire had planned for him, was so he wouldn’t have to deal with communicating like normal people expected. Clearing his throat, he tried to redeem himself, “I mean, my parents have moved like six times since I left the house, and I hate New York. So not home, no, but I get the desire for familiar.”

Her satin pink lips drew up in a quiet smile. Watching the dark night, she said, “Asher is familiar.”

He nodded, a knot swelling in his throat. “Yep. Dragged my ass up here for good reason. I don’t exactly have much going for me these days.” Turning his head, he looked over at her.

Voice musically light, she said, “Sometimes you need to start over to find out where you want to be.” Her bottom lip pulled into her teeth, breath coming fast as her infinite blues locked on and searched his muddy green.

Like a fucking idiot, he leaned in.

A distant crack struck the air.

Ricocheting around in his skull, bringing him right back to too many firefights, Zane looped his arm around Freya and rolled her off the bed with him.

Knocking the wind out of him, his back hit the ground and he absorbed their combined weight. Without pause, he flipped their positions, so he covered her body with his. Ears tuned in to every noise, unblinking as he watched out the window for the slightest shadow, he stilled. Pulse beating slow and steady under his skin, he listened.

Nothing. Would have to be a pretty unlucky random shot to get them inside the house, with how far away that shot was. But better safe than sorry with all the unknowns. Like why the hell someone was shooting a gun in the middle of the night in nowhereville.

Beneath him, Freya’s chest rose and fell as she caught her breath. Alert, panic under control, she watched him rather than peering out the window.

No more gunshots. The night was dead quiet.

He rose to his elbows, looking down to see her expression easing from stunned to amused, her wicked blue eyes flashing with merriment. From somewhere in his brain, his chest, he blushed and grinned and shook his head at the absurdity. “I, uh. Yeah. Sorry. I’ve been shot at a few times.”

“Impressive reaction time.” As the moment quieted, her fishhook grin widened. “I was hoping we’d end up in this position eventually.”

Chuckling, he parked his tongue between his teeth as he considered what to make of her.

Sighing like she was settling in for the evening, arms resting over her abdomen, she asked, “All okay?”

He nodded, relenting to an