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

“I’ve got a realtor that will be here in a few minutes.”

“I’ve got a client coming soon, but I’m right down the street from you. Want to swing by my office after, and we can nail down some details?”

“Sounds good.”

As they disconnected, a guy in cuffed skinny jeans with ankle boots and a button-up shirt dashed across the street toward him. “Zane?”

He extended his hand and shook, “Yep.”

“Mark Sutherland.”

He stilled, “Any relation to Asher?”

Cracking a grin, the guy nodded, “My cousin. You know him?” Damn, how many cousins did Asher have? He didn’t dare ask if he was on the same side as Freya; he already couldn’t keep track of the side of the family he’d met. Nor did he want to explain just how well he knew her.

“Yeah. He’s the one that dragged my ass to this absurdly scenic place.”

“Are you a SEAL, too?”

He nodded. “Was.”

“That’s great, man. Thanks for serving our country.”

He shrugged. What was with people in this town? They were all so nice, and, well, didn’t sound like political asses when they said it.

“You must know Asher pretty well then.”

The corners of his mouth quirked up, his head tilting as he thought about the answer to that one. Not many others could say that about either Asher or him.

“You’ll have to ask him about my bachelor party sometime,” Mark winked.

“He does feel bad about that, somewhere deep down,” he laughed, the headache he’d been brewing all morning finally starting to ease.

Mark laughed out loud, shaking his head with an exhaling smile. “So he claims. Anyway, let’s head in.” He followed Mark as he unlocked and swung open the large French-style doors that led into the cavernous building.

Most of the building had high ceilings with huge beams that would give about any architect wet dreams. The place screamed with possibility.

“What sort of business are you thinking of opening up?”

“Craft brewery.”

“Good spot for it. Locations like this don’t come up very often around here, so you’ll want to move fast.”

“I’ve done a little research. I’ll want to bring in a contractor who’s done other breweries, see what they think.”

“I can get you some names; Uncle Paul can give you a bluntly honest reference on any of the locals.”

“That’d be great.”

They toured the structure; Zane took notes on the technical aspects. The place was about perfect. Mark was right, he needed to move fast.

As promised, Tammy’s truck rumbled down the dusty drive precisely at eight Wednesday morning. Hair still wet and extra curly from the shower, muscles limber from her morning routine that took way longer than normal in a futile attempt to clear her mind of Zane, Freya slipped on a hooded sweatshirt and strolled outside in her bare feet.

Holding up a plain white paper bag, Tammy grinned. When she reached easy chatting distance, she asked, “Coffee? Thought we’d be able to visit more openly if we stayed in.”

Freya waved her in.

Tammy set the bag on the island, her feet locking in place as she saw Freya’s set-up in the dining area. The floor and table were covered in paint-stained drop cloths, her brushes were clean on a tray on the table, paints lined up in rainbow order, easels stacked in the corner except the largest with her latest still drying. Heart fluttering with an insecurity she despised when it came to her work, Freya bit down on her cheek and set the coffee to brew, keeping her eyes on her mother as she awaited the expected judgment.

Not that Tammy judged, but everyone did. Rarely was their honest opinion verbalized in front of her, but their body language said it all.

“Wow. This isn’t like anything I’ve seen of yours.” Tammy’s movements were slow, inching closer to the canvas.

That’s a nice word for, I hate it. Clenching her jaw, Freya tried to force back the heat welling behind her eyes. Insecurity was natural but stupid. “I know.”

Tammy stepped to the side, scrutinizing from a new angle. “It’s incredible.” Eyes locked on the painting, Tammy’s voice grew bolder. “The way you captured each muscle, the anguish in his posture; I can feel the grief of a war hero without even needing to see his face or uniform or any specifics, I can tell.”

And the burning started to blur her vision. She blinked away the moisture, trying to see last night’s insomniac binge work through someone else’s eyes. A figure, a man in exercise shorts sprinting down a mountain path. His body was tense, his pace rapid. A storm festered in the background, even the trees in the distance succumbed to its power, but the runner’s grief outmatched the ferocity of the weather.

She’d tossed and turned before Zane’s late-night call. After they’d hung up, she couldn’t have slept if her life depended on it. She hadn’t been able to shake the vision, the emotions he’d stirred.

Tammy turned back and wrapped her arms around Freya, tugging her close until Freya hugged her mom. “You’re a gifted artist,” she said softly as Freya slumped into her. “Your landscapes, your flowers and your grapevines are breathtaking. This… this is raw emotion I’ve never seen you project into your work.”

Ignoring her coffee, the savory pastries rapidly cooling in the bag, Tammy walked around to see the other drying. The one she’d told Zane about and… well, part of her felt guilty he didn’t get to see it first. Tammy immediately smiled. “Tell me about this one,” she said.

Freya stepped closer. “That was…” Nope, not telling her mother that had been inspired by their stolen moment in the laundry room.

“I love it. It’s like your other landscapes, except bolder, like the…” Tammy blushed, then continued, “Okay, I’m not good at this stuff, and saying it out loud