Seven Years Since The Motel Ch. 07

"You, Alessandro Conti, are a cruel, lying, seducing, asshole!" Maisie whispered, her finger poking his chest with every insult.

Alessandro's mouth dropped open. His pulse raced, though whether from panic that he'd done something terrible or annoyance at her accusation, he didn't know.

"What, not going to own up to it?" Maisie let out a short, angry laugh. "Tough. I promised not to run last night, and you're in luck; I'm keeping that promise, and I'm going to tell you exactly what I think of you."

"What the hell are you talking about, Maisie?"

"You know what I'm talking about. This is the second time you've done this." Her eyes flared as she emphasized the "second time" with another tap to his chest. "I fell for it once seven years ago, and snuck away like a wounded puppy. But not this time, you evil, manipulative bastard."

Alessandro placed his hands on his hips to keep himself from swatting her hand away; the pokes that had accompanied "evil, manipulative bastard" had nearly pushed him over the edge. And how did she manage to both yell and whisper at once? he wondered. He had a feeling his whisper made him sound like a schoolboy sneaking a conversation in a library.

"Slow down, Maisie. You're not making any sense."

"Not making any sense?" Her eyes flared. "Do I need to repeat your words back to you?"

"That might be a good idea, since I'm pretty sure I said nothing to deserve this level of pissiness from you," he hissed.

"Pissiness?" She narrowed her eyes and balled her fists at her side. "How could I have not seen what an ass you are?"

Her voice had dropped, and it no longer carried the overlay of shouting that had accompanied her earlier words.

She was, he realized with a shudder, like the quiet before the storm; her blue-green eyes sparked with fury, and her strawberry-blond hair—while a beautiful, majestic crown around her head in the orange light of morning—reminded him of the haze that hovered above the ocean, just before the waves whipped up.

What was the old wives' tale the gray-bearded fisherman had told him as a boy? "Red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky in morning, sailors take warning."

Why hadn't he insisted on talking last night? How could he have let lust and short-sightedness take over? Because if that old fisherman was right, waiting until morning had been a terrible idea.

It took him a few moments to realize that Maisie had turned and headed back to the bedroom, and was searching for her clothes.

"Oh, no you don't." Alessandro strode over and grabbed the sleeve of the shirt—his shirt—that she'd thrown on before confronting him. "You aren't running away from me again. Don't you dare."

"Take your hand off me," she hissed as she wrested her arm away.

He watched as Maisie picked up her bra and shirt from the floor, turned away from him, pulled his shirt over her head and tossed it behind her, and began to dress.

His lips thinned, and he pulled on his jeans. He grabbed the discarded t-shirt, formulating a plan.

He sat on the bed and waited; given her need to don both her bra and overly-complex top, he was dressed and ready before she'd finished tying the bow behind her back.

Maisie glanced around the room before resting her eyes on him, her expression unreadable. "Where are my jeans?" she whispered in that awful flat tone.

"I'm sitting on them."

Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. He watched as her head nodded up and down several times; she was counting in her head, he realized.

"Give me my jeans." She held out a hand and glared. "Now!"

He glared back. How dare she lash out at him with cryptic accusations while preparing to storm out without explaining herself? How dare she accuse him of being a liar? Of seducing her? Of whatever else she'd said? She'd flirted just as much as he had, and she'd been a more-than-willing participant last night.

"You haven't changed a bit, you know that?" She dropped her hand and balled her fists by her sides again. "You're still the selfish jerk you were in high school, expecting me—"

"Enough!"

He winced as his shout reverberated through the room.

Maisie narrowed her eyes. "Give me my jeans."

"No."

"What the hell are you doing, Alessandro?"

"You mean, what are we doing?" He took a deep breath. "We are going to talk. About what happened, both seven years ago and this morning. About why you're angry with me."

"Did you think I was going to let you off the hook and not tell you what I thought of you?" Maisie gave him an incredulous look. "Did you think we weren't going to talk?"

"You're getting dressed to leave. What the hell am I supposed to think?"

"I'm getting dressed because I don't want to have this conversation here." She swung her arm around, indicating his room.

He glanced around the room. "Why not?"

"Because when I tell you what I think of you, I don't want to have to whisper."

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Maisie pulled on her jeans, shooting Alessandro dirty looks whenever their glances met.

She couldn't believe what an asshole he'd been. Or what a fool she'd been.

She raised an eyebrow as she closed the top button, and made an exaggerated "after you" motion towards Alessandro.

With a roll of his eyes he opened the door to the hallway, then took some time glancing around the corridor.

"Come on," he whispered.

She glared at his back as she shuffled behind him on the Oriental rugs. That whisper of his was starting to grate on her; why did his angry whisper have to sound so similar to the sexy whisper he'd used the previous evening?

Just count to ten, Maisie instructed herself as she crept down the staircase behind Alessandro. Stay quiet, and count to ten. When we get outside, you can let him have it. And then you can work on forgetting this awful morning.

Her breath hitched as they turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs, and her stomach clenched as they stepped into the kitchen.

It was hard to walk through the room and not feel sick. She'd talked with Carolina and Gemma here last night, and had become convinced that she'd misunderstood Alessandro seven years ago. Being in the room again reminded her of her choice to go upstairs to see Alessandro, and of her later choice to ignore her instincts to talk first.

It hurt, she thought with a sigh as they left the kitchen and entered the mudroom.

And it was more than the hurt of just one night.

Alessandro leaned against the doorframe to the mudroom, and she ignored him as she sat on a bench and pulled her boots towards her.

When she'd wakened and heard Alessandro's words, it had been a repeat of seven years ago. The words hadn't been exactly the same, but the sentiment had been, and that was all that had mattered.

She looked up and glared at him as she zipped up her boot, and Alessandro snorted and looked away.

She shook her head as she zipped up her other boot. It had been a terrible mistake to sleep with him seven years ago, and it had been an equally terrible mistake to sleep with him last night.

Only this time, she'd let him know it.

She stood as Alessandro walked towards the door and held it open for her. She grabbed her jacket from the hook on the wall, and walked out into the sunshine.

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They walked for several minutes without speaking, following the path away from his house that led to the fields. Alessandro had no idea where they were going, and one glance at Maisie's furious face made him wonder if she had a plan, or was just walking to get away from the house.

"Just let me know when we reach this perfect place for this conversation," Alessandro drawled, unable to stop his irritation from showing through his words. "I'd hate to have an argument in an inconvenient location."

Maisie whirled around. "What about here, then? Is this a convenient place?"

"It's fine with me." He crossed his arms. "Go ahead then. I'll wait my turn. Tell me what you're so pissed about."

Maisie balled her hands into fists, then planted them on hips. Her entire body seemed tense, as if she wanted nothing more than to lash out and punch him in the face.

"I'm pissed about what you said seven years ago, I'm pissed about what you said this morning." She let out a wordless yell of frustration. "It's like Groundhog Day, with the same fucking thing happening again."

"And there you go, speaking in cryptic phrases again." He ground his teeth. "And it's a little late in the year for Groundhog Day, Maisie."

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't. Hence my comment about the cryptic phrases." He put his hands on his hips, mimicking her, as she stared at him without speaking. "Explain. Pretend I'm an idiot who needs things spelled out."

She shook her head. "I can't believe I listened to your sister when she said I must have misunderstood your words at the motel. There was no way I misunderstood this morning."

"Slow down." He put his hands up as if to stop her, but was unable to stop the level of his voice from rising to a yell. "I can only argue about one morning at a time. Pick one: the motel, or last night."

"Why?" she shouted. "They're the same damn thing! You said the same damn thing, on two different mornings! Don't you get it?"

"No." His voice was as loud as hers; he couldn't remember ever being this angry, ever shouting as loudly as he was now. "That's the problem, Maisie. I don't get it—you have to spell it out for me. All I know is that you left me. You left me then, and this morning . . . . "

He trailed off as he drew in a much-needed shaky breath.

"And this morning," he continued, trying to control his voice. "It seems like you're going to scream at me and leave again, giving me no more explanation than you did the last time around." He rubbed his forehead. "And I never liked that movie."

"I don't understand." Like his, her voice had quieted, and like him, she seemed confused. "I don't understand why you're being like this, why you just won't admit to things."

"You're a terrible arguer, Maisie." The release he'd felt from shouting at her had replaced his anger with a feeling of despair. "Just tell me what I did, tell me what the problem is. We can't get past this unless we talk about it."

She stared at him for a long time, her face expressionless. He wanted to plead with her to tell him what was wrong, but he forced himself to remain silent and wait.

"Less, I . . . ." She broke off, staring across the fields.

Following her gaze, Alessandro saw two men kneeling in the strawberry fields. Their hair made it impossible not to realize who they were: Tim and Brian, the two Barnes brothers in between Ben and Maisie.

Alessandro turned back to Maisie. She wasn't looking at him or at her brothers, but was scanning the fields.

"Maisie? Everything OK?"

"I have to go." She turned and started jogging towards her house.

The sight made him feel sick.

"Wait!" He raced after her, then slowed to match her pace. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." Her eyes were wide, and she looked panicked. "They never work on the farm, not unless there's an emergency. They didn't even work this past week when we were short-staffed. I have to go, find out what's wrong, see how I can help."

Alessandro looked around at the fields again, only then seeing what she'd seen: no Ben, and no one else in the fields except Tim and Brian.

"OK," Alessandro said as they reached the porch to the farmhouse. "We can talk while I help."

Maisie nodded and climbed the porch steps, then stopped and turned to face him. "No."

"No what?"

Maisie shook her head and bit her lip. "This isn't a good idea."

"What isn't? Me helping you?"

"Yeah." She chewed her lip.

"What?" Alessandro stared at her, clenching and unclenching his jaw. "Fifteen minutes ago you promised to tell me exactly what you thought of me. And now you're hiding behind . . . what? My potential incompetence with rutabagas?"

"I'm not hiding behind anything. And there are no rutabagas at this time of year." Maisie took a deep breath. "But if there's a problem—and knowing how this farm runs, I'm sure there is—I need to be able to help. I'll need to pay attention to what I'm doing. I can't do that if I'm dealing with you. And I think," she paused, taking a deep breath. "I think we should cool off a bit."

"Cool off?" Alessandro shook his head. "We aren't putting this off, Maisie. We waited years last time. I don't want either of us to leave this place with things left unsaid, to—"

"I know!" she shouted, then glanced behind her at the house, rubbing her forehead.

She looked tired. As angry as he was at her accusations, as annoyed as he was at her incomprehensible arguing, all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and give her a place to rest her head. He wanted her to unload her problems on him, and then he wanted to solve them for her.

"We need to talk, Maisie. We can't put this off."

His words were quiet, even to his ears, and he held his breath, waiting for her reply.

"I know," she mumbled, wrapping her arms around herself. "What, you don't want to be idiotic nineteen-year-olds again and refuse to speak to each other for seven years?"

Alessandro let out a long, slow breath. The joking, the hint of mischief he'd seen in her eyes . . . maybe they weren't a lost cause after all?

"No. I don't." He reached out and touched her shoulder. "And that's why I want to do this now."

She sucked in an unsteady breath, and seemed to sway into him before giving her head a little shake and stepping back.

Go on, a voice whispered in his head. Give her something to think about while she's working. Don't let her go away completely angry with you.

"Look, Maisie, I don't know what I did this morning, but I can't help but think that maybe . . . ." He shook his head. "I don't regret what we did last night, at all. Whatever this issue is between us now, we'll figure it out. We need to figure it out, so we can get back to heading . . . wherever it was we were heading." He groaned and closed his eyes. "God, I suck at words. That made no sense."

"It was fine, Less." He opened his eyes as he felt her hand on his elbow. "But I need to help, and then I want to shower."

"OK. Why don't we meet back here in an hour? Don't forget; the twins' graduation party is at noon."

"Um." She squinted at the fields, and he followed her gaze; Brian and Tim were staring at them. "No, not here. Can we meet at the boathouse? Say, in a couple of hours?"

"OK." He searched her face, hoping to find a reaction to his words, but found none.

"I'll see you later then."

And with that, she turned and headed into the house, the screen door banging shut behind her.

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Alessandro stuck his hands in his pockets. He closed his eyes and leaned against the boathouse wall, wondering how much longer he'd have to wait for Maisie. It was almost nine now, more than two hours since they'd parted.

He peeked around the corner to look for her, then cursed when he saw no trace of her. The feelings he'd had all morning—of remorse for missed conversations, of regret over poorly planned actions—hit again as he glanced up at the building.

He remembered coming here with Maisie on Monday, after she'd admitted to him how she'd made the twins not tell him anything about her. She'd been nervous, and had asked him the same question twice. Then they'd sat on the bench and chatted for what seemed like hours, watching the boats come and go from the harbor.

Then he'd kissed her.

He pushed the memory out of his mind; realizing that his "lust first, talk later" attitude had persisted all week wasn't helping.

Not this time, he promised himself. When they went upstairs, they would talk.

Everything would be out in the open. He just hoped that, in getting everything out in the open, they'd be OK.

He peeked around the corner again, then kicked the building at the Maisie-less sight that greeted him. He winced; the rock foundation hurt like hell.

When the building had been constructed, it had been fashionable for ladies to take tea on the upper floor in the warm summer months, above the stored supplies for sailboats and rowboats on the first floor. Besides the cool ocean breezes, the building's harbor-facing, six-foot-tall windows and ornate metal balconies—while utterly impractical and in constant need of repair, given the salty ocean spray from below—made for one hell of a view.

He'd heard that parties of a more raucous nature had been held during the roaring twenties, as once a lookout gave the warning signal, contraband alcohol could be tossed out the window and into the ocean, leaving the partygoers with nothing but soda water in their hands when the Prohibition officials arrived.

Nothing so exciting had happened in years, unless he counted the fierce battles of hide-and-seek he and Maisie had played as children.

Instead of tea tables, the second story now featured a large, airy space, sometimes used by his mother as an art studio. She'd outfitted the room with daybeds and chaises for guests to use, should the need arise for more space than the main house could handle.

It would be the perfect place to talk.

He leaned back against the building after checking for Maisie again. Where the hell was she? he wondered, staring at the dirt path that curved around the back of the boathouse, the same one he'd walked along with Maisie on Monday.

He was about to shut his eyes when he caught a flash of golden-red. He straightened and looked again, making sure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him.

It wasn't.

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Maisie stopped as she saw Alessandro standing by the side of the boathouse. She grasped the skirt of her dress as she approached, partly to keep the ocean breeze from whipping it up and over her waist, but also to stop from fidgeting.

"Is that what you're wearing?" The words were out of her mouth before she'd realized she'd spoken her thoughts aloud.

Alessandro raised an eyebrow in question. "Apparently."

She grimaced. "No, I mean, is that what you're wearing to your sisters' party?"

"Yes." He looked down at his printed gray t-shirt and dark jeans. "I thought this would be fine."

"Oh, it is." Maisie shook her head. In fact, it was more than fine. He may have been wearing a t-shirt and jeans, but on him, the clothing—which she had a feeling had cost several times as much as her dress—made him look as if he'd just emerged from the pages of a fashion magazine. "It's just not fair that men can get away with jeans and a t-shirt while women have to dress up."

"Right. Sorry." He flashed her a sheepish grin. "You look better than I do."

She felt her face warm, and fought against the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. This was the same man who'd kicked her out of his bed hours before, she reminded herself. The same man who'd whispered sweet lies to her on the porch last night. Was he just trying to get in her good graces, or did he really mean what he'd said?

She didn't know anymore; doubts had crept into her mind during the cooling off period. This morning, she'd assumed he was kicking her to the curb, just as he had seven years ago. But now?

He'd seemed honestly confused when she'd confronted him this morning, and last night, Carolina had suggested that she must have misinterpreted his words. Did that mean she'd misinterpreted what he'd meant, twice?

She shook her head. No, she hadn't misinterpreted. How else could she have interpreted his words, besides "get out, now"?

Focus, she chastised, tamping her doubts down and drawing on the morning's anger. You're having this conversation, Maisie Barnes. Remember what he said this morning? Remember how he treated you? You aren't going to melt at a compliment and sweep the entire morning into the dustbin of your mind. You're going to stand up for yourself, be the woman you should have been seven years ago.