2. Alessandra
CHAPTER TWO
alessandra
ONE MONTH LATER
Deep ruby liquid swirls in my glass, moving precariously closer to the rim with each flick of my wrist.
I’m so mesmerized by the garnet-colored whirlpool, I almost miss my phone flashing with an incoming call.
Seeing my mother’s name light up the screen has me smirking.
Reaching over to snatch it from the coffee table, I tap the screen before the call drops.
“ You couldn’t go one day, could you?”
“Pfft. Is it illegal for me to want to speak to you, thisavré mou ?”
Hearing my mother use the familiar term of endearment— my treasure when translated from her native Greek —has a trickle of warmth seeping into my chest. After two rowdy boys, my mom’s dream to have more children came to a halt following a complicated birth with my middle brother.
Until I came along a few years later.
“You spoke to me three hours ago. ”
“I got bored waiting for your father to stop talking business with his friends,” she retorts sassily.
“You’re always bored. Maybe we should find you a hobby?”
“I had a hobby. Now , I am a lady of leisure.” She sighs happily, even though I know retirement is driving her kooky.
There’s shuffling through the phone.
She’s probably traipsing through the hallway of her and my father’s home, draped in an elegant robe and sipping on a full-bodied merlot now that their dinner guests have gone.
Glancing down at my satin robe and glass of red wine, I snort.
I am my mother’s daughter.
“I didn’t realize being a glamor puss was a hobby,” I tease.
She gasps. “ That’s an awful word, Alessandra . Shameful .”
“It does not mean—forget it.” I shake my head, holding in my laugh.
The woman has been in the States for over four decades, but there are still some phrases that throw her for a loop.
I’m glad she’s never lost the lilt in her voice, pitch rising and falling with each syllable.
“ How was the party?”
“Oh, you know.” I don’t know.
“ You were missed, it wasn’t the same without you. At least we will see you at Christmas .”
“You’re still traveling to the cottage tomorrow?”
“Yes. But if your father starts playing his murder podcasts, I’m driving myself.” My parents mostly reside in their Greystone in the West Village , but in late November , they stay at their “cottage” in the Hamptons until New Year .
A seven-bedroom, four-bathroom, fully staffed cottage.
“ Now , enough about that. How is it going?” Her voice lowers, and I picture her leaning forward as she waits.
I glance around the tiny apartment; my unpacked suitcase and the few boxes I had shipped from New York sit in the corner.
Since arriving four days ago, the only items I’ve taken out are my painting supplies.
This is home for the next couple of months.
Quite the contrast to my apartment in SoHo .
It’s been a month since my first trip to Sutton Bay , a small fishing town hidden by the towering pine trees of Acadia National Park .
Four weeks to prepare, yet I feel more unprepared now that I’m here.
My little espionage at the Fall Fair only feels like yesterday.
My eyes roll so far back in my head when I think about meeting Dimples I go dizzy.
Never has someone hit on me in such a cliché yet enthusiastic way.
Nothing deterred him.
He didn’t make me uncomfortable, and I quite enjoyed his performance, but I’m not here to make friends, especially with Booth Sadler .
If I had known who he was, I wouldn’t have entertained him for so long.
There’s too much at stake to be getting overly familiar with people here.
Three months. That’s how long I’ve given myself.
I’m here for one reason only: answers.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” It’s not a question, and there’s no hiding from my mother.
“Is this a mistake?” I whisper.
I’m a confident, driven woman, and I never make rash decisions.
So upturning my life like this is very out of character.
My wine glass clanks against the coffee table as I place it down hastily.
“It is your decision, thisavré mou. I am proud of you for this. As is Papa . But remember, if you change your mind and want to come home, that is okay. You can join us here. Do what is right in your heart and try to turn that big brain of yours off for once.”
“What if they don’t want to know?” I hate how small my voice sounds.
Being vulnerable makes my skin itch.
There’s something unnerving about being unprotected like that; waiting to be weathered by the scrutinizing stares of unfamiliar people.
Not even my brothers see this side of me.
Only my parents. And even then, it’s rare.
We’re a close family.
I see my parents often, with them only living a few blocks away.
My brothers less often.
Andres , the oldest child, lives in Florence , Italy , and oversees the European side of our family’s business.
Alexis , my middle brother, is based in California and is due to be announced as the CFO any day now.
We make the most of video calls and always get together on the holidays.
Apart from today. Instead of spending Thanksgiving with my family, I’m alone in a strange town.
I also work for our family’s business, Argiros Enterprises .
The glittering skyscraper in downtown Manhattan is where I thrive.
It’s rare you’ll find me working from home, so the fact I’ll be working remotely while here is going to be a challenge.
I inherited my mother’s bluntness and hardheadedness, and from my dad, his unwavering work ethic.
“Oh, Alessandra …” My mother sighs.
“ Give them time. I wish I could tell you how they’ll react or what you’ll find, but I cannot. Take however long you need and enjoy your time out of the city. You deserve a break.”
Her honesty is welcome, the last thing I want is to be placated.
The sound of a door opening sounds through the phone and I hear my father’s deep voice as he greets my mom.
“Is that my wonderful daughter?” His cheery question makes me smile.
“Yes, darling. Would you like to say anything?” Mom asks.
His response is louder, likely leaning over my mom while he hugs her hello.
“ Tell her that I love her and I’m very proud.”
My eyes sting.
“I love you both too,” I say slowly so my voice doesn’t crack.
Before my emotions get the better of me, my stomach gurgles.
“Mama, I’m going to go. I need to make dinner.”
“Eat, eat,” she sings, and I know she’s shooing her hand as if standing right in front of me.
“ Happy Thanksgiving , Alessandra . Na prosécheis. Filákia .” Take care.
Kisses .
“Happy Thanksgiving . Na prosécheis.” Smiling , we smack our lips together through the phone before hanging up.
Stretching toward the ceiling, I stand from the sofa and head to the small kitchen.
Renting this apartment was risky, but it was the only place available.
The rent is incredibly fair—not that money is an issue.
Not wanting to speak to the landlord, Martin Willis , needlessly, I didn’t question if he was undercharging me.
Opening up the fridge, I groan at the sight of the bare shelves.
I’d kill for the banquet my parents put together every Thanksgiving .
I really need to do a grocery run, but until then I’ll be surviving on chips and salsa.
With my girl-dinner in tow, I move to the window in the living room that overlooks the main street running through town.
It’s been dark for hours and the streetlamps illuminate the fat snowflakes as they dance from the clouds.
Winters in New York aren’t the same.
The snow quickly turns to gray sludge, causing havoc on traffic and sidewalks.
Here , it’s whimsical.
I make a mental note to see if I can find a small cabin to stay in for a few days—somewhere undisturbed and off the beaten track.
Sitting on my stool, I secure a fresh canvas on my easel and stare at it vacantly as I munch on my food.
There’s something cathartic and freeing about starting a new piece.
No rules. Free to do as I please.
Thanks to my busy schedule, I’ve hardly painted in months.
Maybe the silver lining to me being here is that I’ll find some spare hours to finally start and finish a painting.
A flash of light pulls me out of my relaxing haze as a truck rolls by.
The headlights bathe the white-dusted street in a yellow glow.
Snowflakes cling to the windowpane until they slide down the glass, racing one another .
Inspiration strikes.
My hands wander toward the cobalt blue, titanium white, and lamp black.
Squeezing out a generous amount of each color onto my palette, my arm moves with effortless grace thanks to muscle memory, and I slather on the first layers of paint.
The tension in my muscles eases with each stroke.
The doubts about being here dissolve as the different shades blend and melt together until it matches the deep gray-blue clouds outside.
It’s not grisaille , but a technique known as impasto —where layers of oil paint are applied to the canvas for a three-dimensional effect.
Despite my annoyance at meeting Booth , my lips quirk just thinking about his stupid grin and misplaced determination to pursue me.
If I were someone else, I might have gone along with it.
He’s not my usual type, with his boyish charm and unruly hair, but there was something genuine and inviting about him.
He definitely wasn’t boyish either.
His height dwarfed mine, and though he was clean shaven, there was something virile in his devastatingly handsome face.
All sharp lines, dark brows, and wide frame.
Maybe I should have given him a chance?
I’m quick to tamp that the fuck down.
While attending the fair wasn’t great for keeping a low profile, it gave me the opportunity to scope out the town and get an idea of what the people are like.
The last thing I need is an overeager playboy thinking he can woo me into bed.
Booth looks like the type to ask questions.
Ones I will not be answering.
Forgetting his dimples and sky-blue eyes will be easy.
But how long can I avoid him?
The simplest thing for me to do would be to keep my head down .
Too late for that.
I needed a genuine reason to be here.
No one would question a starving artist wandering into town, but pulling that off will be difficult.
I’m smart, persuasive, but a shit actress.
Plus , I pride myself on my work.
Love it, in fact.
I appreciate my mother reassuring me I can take my time here, do what I need to do, but I’d much rather rip off the Band - Aid and see this town in my rearview mirror before New Year .
I’ll treat it like any normal business transaction.
In and out. Straight to the point.
Once I have my answers and this trip goes as expected, I can forget about Sutton Bay and its people.
My hand hovers above the canvas, creativity fading.
As quickly as it struck me, the inspiration quickly dwindles into the nothingness.
With my walls down, I’m bombarded by questions.
Why me?
Why not me?
Is this pointless?
What will they say?
Will they turn me away?
The paintbrush clatters to my palette and I take in the halfhearted streaks of paint.
I forget my food, forget the wonderland beyond the window, and forget all the reasons this is a good idea.
I’m jolted out of my deep sleep when a screech cuts through my dream.
Sitting upright, I grip the bed sheets and scan my surroundings in a panic .
When I reassure myself I’m alone, the same high-pitched noise sounds.
It’s coming from outside.
Tiptoeing to the window, I slowly pull back the drapes and peer out onto the street below.
A woman paces back and forth, hands flailing in frustration as she shouts the same thing over and over.
Quinn.
I don’t know who that is, but the longer I watch, the more irate she becomes.
She gets louder, banging her fists on the window of the coffee shop and bakery my apartment sits above.
Is no one else hearing this racket?
There isn’t a single soul outside, which makes sense, but I don’t want to be the person to handle this.
I stomp over to my bedside table, unplug my phone, and open up my contact list until I find the number I need.
My finger hovers above Martin Willis’s name.
We’ve only communicated via email and all I know about him is that he lives on the outskirts of town, provides local businesses with freshly grown produce, and owns several commercial and residential properties in Sutton Bay .
Quite the businessman.
It’s ten p.m., on Thanksgiving .
He must be with his family.
He won’t want me bothering him over some?—
“Quinn!” The woman’s bloodcurdling scream slices through the silent night, shaking the windowpanes.
When the sound of glass smashing and a large thud follows, my thumb taps Martin’s name without hesitation.
It rings a few times before his sleepy voice greets me.
“ Hello ?”
Unease swirls deep in my stomach, but I push it aside.
“ Hi , Martin . It’s Alessandra Argiros . I moved into the apartment abo?—”
“Oh. Yes . Alessandra .” I hear rustling.
“ Is everything okay? ”
“It’s, umm, no, it’s not actually. There’s a woman here. I’m not sure who.” I peek outside again and hear her murmured grumblings.
“ She threw something through the window of the bakery.”
“Shoot. Right , stay upstairs and call nine-one-one. I’ll be there in five.”
He hangs up before I can respond, and I do as he says.
By the time I’ve finished explaining to the police dispatcher, a truck pulls up outside.
The cops are close behind, and the situation is deescalated—though the woman doesn’t go down without a fight.
I stay put, peeping out of my window in my pajamas, when the buzzer to my apartment has me jumping out of my skin.
Crap. What if it’s Martin ?
I’m not in the mood to meet him in person today.
Or ever.
Pleading that it’s the police, I unlock the front door, jog down the stairs, and unlatch the door leading onto the street.
My eyes go wide, and so do my visitor’s when the door swings open.
Booth’s mouth slackens before his gaze tracks slowly down my body.
My skin warms and nipples pebble under his stare.
It’s then I remember I’m in a skimpy set of silk pajamas.
Sans robe.
“It’s you.” His brows furrow in confusion, snowflakes cling to his lashes as he points up the stairs.
“ You live here?”
“That’s correct.” I roll my shoulders.
“ And why are you standing outside?”
He huffs a laugh of disbelief.
“ Martin asked me to check on the tenant upstairs.” His head jerks to the right, and I follow to see the shards of glass strewn across the sidewalk.
“ My brother’s girlfriend, Quinn , owns Just Brew It . We’re here to help.”
A pang of guilt strikes me.
That explains the name being shouted through the street.
“ Oh . Right . Is she okay?”
He shrugs wearily.
“ Shocked , which isn’t surprising. Graham will take her home once they’re finished up with the sheriff.”
It’s then I see a small figure, draped in a large coat, with a tall man hugging her tightly while they chat to the police.
“Is there anything I can do?” My eyes remain on the couple.
“Nah. We’ve got it. But a buddy of mine, Dex , he’ll be doing some work tomorrow morning to cover up the window. It might get noisy.”
“Right. Yeah . That’s not a problem.”
I rub my hands over my biceps, and despite the biting cold, neither of us makes a move.
“This isn’t normal.” His voice is timid as he shifts awkwardly on his feet.
He sees the question in my face.
“ People smashing windows and screaming through town. You’re safe here. In case you were worried. I know the town, and I live close by…if you ever need to call someone.”
My face heats for a totally different reason.
We’re complete strangers, yet he’s out here trying to look after me.
Except for my father and brothers, men have always had a habit of seeing me as the weaker sex.
Through college. During my internship.
Once promoted to senior associate.
My passion makes me emotional.
My drive makes me controlling.
And I refuse to be seen as helpless right now.
“I don’t need saving. I’m more than capable of handling myself.” My voice rises in volume, and Booth’s expression morphs from sheepish to defensive.
“Whoa, that’s not what I was implying.” He raises his palms. “ You’re new here. Alone . I don’t doubt you could handle yourself.”
“Who said I was alone?” I huff.
I’m exhausted, fed up, and I know I sound like a bitch right now, but I’m in no mood to backtrack.
Especially with Booth .
With tired movements, he scrubs a hand down his face.
“ Clearly I’m fucking this up. Again . I’m sorry to have disturbed your night. Let me get Martin , and you can be on your way.”
My heartbeat races, but before I can stop him, he disappears into the bakery.
A minute later, a tall, slim elderly gentleman—looking to be in his late sixties appears.
“It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.” He speaks formally, but there’s a New England twang to his accent.
Turning toward Booth behind him, he says, “ You’ve met Booth , I see. Good lad.”
I try my hardest not to look at the man in question, but even in the dimly lit streets, I see him mouth, I’m a good lad before winking.
“It’s good to meet you, Martin .” I shake his offered hand.
“ It’s no problem. These things happen. I see it’s all sorted, so I’ll leave you to it. Sorry you had to end your Thanksgiving like this.”
My voice is steady, and I press my shaking hands to my thighs, my sweaty palms heating my cold skin.
Slowly , I back away as Martin stares at me curiously.
Booth has the same look.
Who’s blaming them? I’m acting peculiar, but I don’t like curiosity.
Curiosity led me here.