Seven Years Since The Motel Ch 02

This is an edited version of the original chapter. I've fixed the grammatical errors and made minor alterations to the text. Since I resisted making major changes, the chapter is still quite wordy.

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Maisie Barnes rolled over in her lumpy twin bed and squinted at the clock on the old bedside table.

5:00 am.

She pulled a pillow over her head and groaned, hoping to stop the morning's first rays of sunshine from reaching her eyes. Her head hurt way too much for light right now.

Stupid Maine. Stupid eastern edge of the time zone. Stupid early summer sunrise.

"Maisie, are you up? Come on, it's time to get up and pick," her brother Ben barked from behind the closed bedroom door.

"Mmmph."

Maybe he would go away if she ignored him?

"Maisie! Get up and out of bed, now! I mean it! You know those strawberries need to be picked early in the morning, and you know we are short on labor right now. We need you in the fields, so get your ass up and out of that bed." This time a few bangs accompanied his voice.

Maisie didn't answer. She prayed that some excuse would pop into her head to get her out of picking.

More bangs.

She groaned again. "I'm up, I'm up, ok? I'll be down in a few minutes." Her assertion was somewhat ruined by the muffling effect of the pillow. Perhaps he wouldn't notice?

"Bullshit. That's what you said ten minutes ago, and I know full well that you went back to sleep. Get your ass out of that bed and into the kitchen right now, or else I'll come in there and grab you and toss you in the ocean. And in case you've forgotten, the water temperature is still in the 50s." He paused, giving his words time to sink in.

Maisie threw the pillow back away from her head, cursing to herself as she did so.

"Ok, ok. Tell mom I'll be down for breakfast in five minutes," she replied grumpily.

Ben was the oldest of Maisie's three older brothers, and had been in charge of waking her up for as long as she could remember. He'd tossed her into the ocean so many times over the years that she no longer took the threat idly. She would have to get up.

"We start in fifteen minutes. I've marked you down for the east fields today," she heard him say as his steps faded down the back stairs.

She hated mornings. How she could have grown up on a family farm and never become accustomed to morning chores had always been a humorous mystery to the family. Waking up at 6:30 for her job in the city was bliss compared to this.

Ben had inherited the farm when her father died three years ago, and now ran it with his wife. He hired help each summer, mostly high school kids looking to pick up a few extra hours to supplement their tourism-oriented summer jobs in the harbor, but the local high school was still in session due to a record number of snow days the previous winter. Classes wouldn't end for another week because of the makeup days, so his hired help could only work for an hour or so before heading off to school. Her other brothers had been rotating through in the interim, but helping out on the farm was hard for them since they now had their own jobs and families.

So even though it was her vacation this week, she had offered to help. She would be up at five each morning; it was the least she could do for her room and board. At least she could sleep in on Saturday, since the high school students could stay all morning. And thankfully, they didn't pick on Sundays.

Not that the thought of sleeping in five days from now was much comfort. She lay in bed until the clock said 5:10 before throwing back the covers.

She shivered as the morning air hit her. God, it was cold!

She grabbed her ancient, mustard-brown Carhartt pants and pushed her legs through, cursing those extra pounds she'd put on over the past few years. In recent years her hips, upper thighs, and rear had all filled out, making her old pants a bit tight.

She hopped across her room's faded old rag rug as she struggled to pull them on; after buttoning them up, she reached for her socks. She couldn't see her work boots anywhere, and hoped they were downstairs by the back door.

She whipped her shirt off and threw it across the room into the hamper, only to regret her actions as soon as the shirt left her fingertips. The unseasonably warm daily highs had reached the 80s, but the nighttime lows were still in the upper 40s and their old farm house didn't have a lot of insulation.

She whimpered when the drafty cold air hit her chest. Why had she taken off her shirt before finding her bra? And where the hell was that cursed piece of clothing?

She crossed her arms against her chest and felt her teeth chatter. She looked around the room through her mass of matted reddish-blond hair, but it was no use—she had no idea where it was.

She looked at the clock: 5:13. She was running late. Ben would be back soon, and her pounding head could only take so much yelling and banging this morning.

Giving up, she pulled on a tight-fitting tank top, a long sleeved shirt, and a fleece in rapid succession. It would have to do. Her breasts were larger than they had been in high school, but were still small enough to allow her to go without a bra if she wore a tight-fitting tank top. Yet another place those extra pounds had gone, she supposed.

She grabbed a hair tie and tossed some aspirin into her mouth before stumbling down to the kitchen. Her head throbbed as she grabbed the homemade breakfast bar and mug of coffee her mother held out for her in the mudroom. She was too late for the bacon, eggs, and toast she could still smell in the kitchen, but she wasn't sure she could handle a full breakfast anyway. She had slept precious few hours last night, and her raging headache—a result of too many glasses of wine the evening before with her youngest brother, Rob, and his wife—wasn't helping matters.

She thought her head would split open as she leaned over to lace up her old boots, and almost cried when she realized she wouldn't be lucky enough to escape her fate in the fields with the excuse of a split-open head. Instead, here she was, heading straight out into the sunrise in the morning chill, ready to start a morning of picking at 5:15.

How many glasses of wine had she consumed? Two or three, at most. And why, at the age of 25, was she still such a lightweight with alcohol?

Better yet, why did he have to come home? Yesterday's confused emotions had pushed her to have that final glass of wine, and she blamed that last glass—and hence, him—for her current condition.

Why did he have to take that damn train? Maisie had been settled in her seat on the train with a book on her lap, looking forward to seeing her family for the first time since Christmas, only to glance up and see him walk past. His head had been down but she would know him anywhere, even from behind.

She had been forced to look at the back of his head for the entire ride. He hadn't even noticed her, or if he had, he had ignored her.

Typical of their years of interaction in high school, really.

As she sat on the train and remembered him mastering the art of ignoring her in high school, that entire night had come rushing back to her. He certainly hadn't ignored her then, had he?

She had relived it all on the ride from Boston to Portland: her surprise at running into him that night, her initial nervousness and awkwardness around him, the subsequent mind-blowing pleasure she had found with him, and the bliss of snuggling together throughout the night.

Then she had remembered that awful morning, along with the weeks of misery that had followed and the tears she had shed while struggling through her first semester of college.

By the time the train had pulled into the station she had been furious with him, both for what he had done that next morning and for breaking her heart. She'd grown up and moved on from him, but she hadn't forgiven him.

Maisie emerged from her thoughts when she reached the east fields. She stopped and stared down at her hands.

She had forgotten the baskets she had to fill with strawberries for today's farm stand and preserve making.

Cursing, she turned and headed back towards the house and barn. Damn that Alessandro Conti! It was going to be a long morning, and it was all his fault.

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Alessandro stared ahead as he ran along the trail, dodging tree roots and rocks as he climbed the rolling coastal hills. He focused on the sound of the steady and calming cadence of his breath against the silent morning air. Running alone in the woods—especially when the air was crisp, cool, and quiet—was his favorite way to spend a morning.

Well, one of my favorite ways to spend a morning

, he thought with a smirk. Still, at least this—his early morning run—had gone according to plan.

His grandparents had spoiled his dreams of a true Maine meal last night. He had forgotten that they both hated steamers. Worse, since they had the ridiculous idea that soft shell lobsters provided inferior meat, he'd had a lobster-free meal; it was soft shell season, and the local lobster pound had sold out of hard shell lobsters.

Instead of the relaxing evening on the porch he had envisioned while on his flight to Boson, he had been stuck inside with his grandparents, explaining over and over again why he wouldn't be going to Wharton for his MBA, reminding them that he didn't even have a bachelor's degree, listening to their not-so-subtle attempts to interest him in their friends' granddaughters, and eating chicken, since his grandfather was convinced that eating red meat would shorten his life.

He shook his head in amazement as he turned to his left and ran down a short, steep hill. Chicken instead of lobster and steamers. He couldn't believe it.

It wasn't just the meal that had been off, either. Even though his parents hadn't undertaken any major renovations in the years he had been away, everything in the house seemed to have changed. The stools at the kitchen island were new, the paintings in the dining and living rooms had been switched, the furniture on the front porch had been rearranged.... Everything was familiar enough to be recognizable, but different enough to make it seem like he was in some sort of alien version of his childhood home.

Those things aren't important

, he chided himself. It was true; as much as the food annoyed him and the furniture unnerved him, they didn't matter. He'd been silly to dream about food and furniture on the airplane. Who goes home for that? He'd come home to see his family, not things.

He had visited with his family over the years, in New York or in Italy. He'd always enjoyed their company during these visits, but there was something special about spending time with his family in Maine. Besides, he, Carolina, and Gemma had all been teenagers when he left home; he'd never had the experience of spending relaxing moments in his childhood home with his family as an adult.

Last night, they'd lingered over strawberry-rhubarb pie, ice cream, and coffee, teasing one another and catching up. After his grandparents had retired, the five of them had rotated through games of bridge, an old family tradition. They'd stayed up well past midnight on the front porch, drinking beer and playing cards, chatting and laughing.

His mom hadn't been able to stop hugging him and kissing his cheek. His father, who had never been very talkative, had sat beside him throughout dinner. Alessandro had caught his father staring at him on more than one occasion; it was as if his father couldn't believe he was home. Now that he thought about it, Alessandro realized both his parents had done the same things through high school, whenever he had come home for a holiday. It had annoyed him then. But now... now it made him feel fortunate.

It also made him feel guilty for staying away so long. Like an idiot, he'd been moping around for months, feeling sorry for himself. He'd needed this time with his family. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to leave after just one week.

Alessandro looked around once he reached the bottom of the hill, and realized he had only one more mile to go. He was on the same six-mile trail he had run every morning during his summer and winter high school breaks, staying in shape for school athletics. He knew these wooded trails by heart. At least they hadn't changed much.

As soon as he thought these comforting words, he stopped in shock. He stared straight ahead, blinking. The wooden footbridge over the stream was gone. Where the hell was the footbridge? It had been there for decades!

The stream was only a few yards wide, but it was deep and swift, too deep and swift to wade across. Finishing his route as planned was out of the question. He supposed he could turn back and retrace his steps, but he wasn't excited about an additional five miles—he hadn't brought any water or energy gel with him, and ten miles was too much to do on the light breakfast he had consumed earlier that morning.

There was only one option left; he'd have to use the old stone bridge that stood a mile downstream.

He looked up at the sky. It had been cold when he left home this morning, and he had donned shorts and a thermal long sleeved shirt. Given his expanded route, he would be overheating by the time he got home.

Annoyed at the turn of events, Alessandro stripped off his shirt, tied it around his hips, and headed downstream.

Would anything go right this week?

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Maisie didn't know how much more time in the field she could handle this morning. It felt like she had been out here for hours, and her headache was getting worse; the aspirin she had downed earlier wasn't helping. She looked at her last basket, exhaling in relief when she saw that it was almost full. She only had one side of one row left; if she was lucky, she'd have time to take a bath and a short nap before helping her mother make preserves.

She had removed the fleece almost as soon as she'd gotten to the field, and was now warm in her long-sleeved shirt. She peered up at the sun; by the time she finished the next row it would be hot. She might as well remove the long sleeved shirt now and pick in her tank top.

As she was pulling the shirt over her head she heard a noise behind her, coming from the woods that bordered the fields. Startled, she tried to turn around to see who else—or what else—was in the field with her. It was too late in the morning for either a deer or a bear to have somehow breached the fence, wasn't it?

The combination of removing her shirt and trying to turn towards the sound caused her to lose her balance. She let out a small squeak as she stumbled sideways, and she prayed that she wouldn't crush any strawberry plants when she landed. Ben would kill her if she did.

She never hit the ground. Instead, she fell into something.

Or someone

, she thought, as she felt the heat of another person enclose her.

She gasped as she whirled around and came face to face with a chest. It was strong and tanned, rising and falling rapidly, and glistening with beads of sweat in the summer sunshine.

She knew that chest. True, it was harder and bigger than it had been the last time she had seen it, but she knew it just the same. She had looked up into that bare chest before. It was Alessandro's chest.

As she stood and stared at it, panting from the adrenaline that was pumping through her body, she noticed that there were warm, strong hands gripping her upper arms. He was holding her upright. With a start she stepped back to break free of his hold, and watched as his hands hovered in the air before dropping to his sides.

Before yesterday, she hadn't seen him in seven years. She hadn't been this close to him in just as long. Her brain was screaming at her to walk away from him, or at the very least look away from him, but she found that she couldn't. From the intense look she saw in his eyes as they bore into her, it seemed like he had the same problem.

She had seen him yesterday, but she had been in her office clothing and sunglasses at the time. That outfit was a suit of armor compared to her tiny tank top and too-tight pants.

The combined effect of his closeness, touch, and gaze sent a series of confused emotional jolts through her veins. She was surprised to see him, and was still angry with him.

That wasn't all she felt. She felt lust. She was shocked by the strength of her desire. A vision of the two of them naked together flashed into her mind, and for one insane moment, all she wanted to do was crush him into the strawberry plants as she rode him in the humid summer morning.

Appalled, she tamped the thought down.

Remember what a bastard he was

, she thought.

You're a grown woman, not some silly schoolgirl. Snap out of it

.

She bit her lower lip, and shifted her legs as she felt desire begin to pool low in her belly. Sheer instinct caused her to clamp her legs together. She hoped the action would stop the flow of blood and wet warmth to the apex of her thighs, but if anything the pressure only intensified her rising need for him. She wanted the man standing before her, here and now; reason might control her actions, but it couldn't stop her imagination.

She tore her gaze away in a flash of sudden embarrassment—for goodness sake, there might be people in the fields and barns around them!—only to have her traitorous eyes land back on his chest. Sweat dripped down in tiny rivulets, accentuating both his hardness and the curves of his muscles, as if in some sort of mocking invitation to the viewer to try and find fault with his body.

She couldn't.

It wasn't just the chest that was perfect, either. She felt her hands twitch by her sides at the thought of running her fingers through the delightful light dusting of hair that trailed down from his navel and disappeared underneath his sweat-soaked shorts. She wanted to run her hands over his chest, following that line to the goal that lay beneath the wet cloth.

She managed to pull her eyes away from him and stare at the ground next to his feet, but only after she had an image of licking him in that wonderful area that all gorgeous men seem to have, where the outer abdominal muscles—the obliques? is that what they are called?—met the hips. It was just above the line of his low-slung shorts. Again, she had to chide herself as a vision of her body lunging forward, grabbing him, and worshipping that spot with her mouth, teeth, and tongue flashed through her mind.

She wasn't surprised that these fantasies were marching through her mind at such an inappropriate time. She had spent years fantasizing about learning every inch of him with her mouth, something she had lacked the nerve to do in the motel all those years ago. Images of them together had haunted her through college. They still lurked in the shadowy corners of her mind, like some sort of lewd gift she kept tucked away for her own pleasure. Some were mere flickers, grainy reruns of what had happened between them that night; others were inventions of her imagination, usually the fulfillment of an unsatisfying encounter with another man in the intervening years.

It didn't matter if she was alone in her room in the middle of the night, staring up at the ceiling as she relented and reached her frantic fingers beneath her panties, or if she was desperate and striving for completion as a boyfriend came inside her. She was loath to admit it, but no matter how her fantasies started, they somehow always ended with erotic images of the man who was now standing a mere foot away from her, gleaming in the sunlight and wearing nothing but a pair of sopping black shorts and mud-caked running shoes.

The embodiment of seven years worth of pent-up fantasies was within her reach. A low whimper sounded in her throat, and the heat and wetness between her thighs was reaching embarrassing levels. She looked around, hoping that something—anything—could distract her.