“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 took his breath away, which seemed to happen about every time he looked at her. Wrapped in her towel after showering this morning, her dark hair almost wicked, the curls were sharp and decisive. In her jeans as she sipped her coffee on the couch this morning, her bare feet tucked underneath her, the dark blue nail polish teasing at her sense of adventure.
And now. With her black leggings that ended inches above her ankles, her sleek black trailrunners, topped off with the pale pink quick-dry tank top he knew was under her lightweight wool sweater. She was a constant surprise. Sometimes she strolled across the lawn in her bare feet, wearing nothing but a drapey sun dress and her hair wild, no trace of make-up, telling of the artist she was. Other times, like at the wedding, she was a fricking siren straight out of a magazine. Or like now, she was utter practicality, but always sexy as fuck.
She grinned at his dumbfounded ogle as his parents followed the host, a wanton spark in her infinite blues as she winked at him. With a sheepish grin, he tilted his head and shrugged, then picked up the pace to catch up.
His parents took a damn hour to peruse the menu, and it wasn’t that complicated. They compared whether to try the burger made from local grass-fed beef or the shepherd’s pie, reading the details to each other. Beyond hungry, his vision blurred as he stared out the window.
Freya’s stomach rumbled at his side. She pasted on a winning smile, “Why don’t you each order one of them, then you can split and share?”
Susan chuckled softly and put down her menu. “That’s what Blaire is always suggesting.”
Shit. Here we go. He figured remarrying would neatly dodge this bit. No wonder his brother didn’t even fly home for Christmas anymore. “Mom,” he warned.
“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t bring up your ex-wife, but we see her every day. It would be like you trying to tell a story without it including Archer.”
“Asher,” he muttered.
The server rescued them for a solid sixty seconds and got to deal with his parents’ arguing who would order which, before the server offered to have them plated in two separate halves.
“So, Freya,” Susan began. “What do you do for a living?” Yep, she hadn’t listened to the answer when she had complimented the painting over his dining table.
“I’m an artist.” Her tone wasn’t even sarcastic, as she’d been asked the same question a handful of times already.
“Oh,” she nodded, her cheeks were pulled so cheerfully tight, her facelift was showing. “I took quite a few art classes in school. It’s so important to be able to accurately sketch your designs. That’s probably part of why Zane never took to design.”
