10 #2
It could be a side-effect of my chat with Celia and resurrecting all those emotions I’d long since buried, but it’s impossible for me to relax no matter what I do.
Great. One more thing Mitch has ruined for me.
With a long exhale, I open my eyes and yelp. The coffee sloshes in my cup. There’s a stranger outside setting a ladder up against the side of the house, blocking my view of the garden.
I hurry out, shielding my eyes from the rising sun. “Excuse me. Can I help you?”
He’s an older gentleman, maybe in his early-sixties with gray hair and a kind smile. “Morning, Miss. I’m here to paint the siding.”
“I didn’t hire anyone to paint the siding,” I say.
He frowns, scratching his chin, then pulls his phone out of his back pocket. “Contract says I’m to paint the exterior of the Adams Inn. This is the Adams Inn, isn’t it?” He stretches his arm out, handing me his phone, but I don’t need to see the contract to understand what’s going on.
“Dammit, Mitchell,” I hiss under my breath, pulling out my phone.
~
“Who the hell do you think you are?” I shout, meeting Mitch halfway down the front path. “You can’t just have it painted!”
“Actually, I can,” he challenges with a smile I used to love before I started hating it. The sort of grin that says he gets a rise out of making me angry. “And you can’t deny the place looks like shit dipped in the eighties and needs a paint job.”
“I never agreed to this,” I say, pulling him aside so the old man doesn’t overhear. “I can’t pay for this.”
“You don’t need to, remember? I said I’d take care of it. Now stop being a whiny brat and get on board.”
He brushes past me and stops by the ladder. “Nice work, Rusty,” he says to the painter before heading inside, twirling his key ring around his finger.
“I don’t want your money,” I say when I catch up to him. “I don’t need your help.”
“Good thing, ‘cause I’m not giving you the money. It’s for the inn. It’s for my dad.”
His real meaning is loud and clear. “Right, since this isn’t technically my family’s business, I have no say in it. Is that it?”
“I didn’t say that.” As if he runs the place, he strides into the back office then helps himself to a cup of coffee at the Keurig. My Keurig.
“But you implied it. God, Mitch, you’re such a faker.”
“Is that so?”
“You don’t care about your father or the inn. You only care about your image. About what people will think.”
He slaps a sugar packet against his hand, a smirk lighting up his face as he glances back at me. The sound of his every movement scratches like sandpaper against my nerves, setting my teeth on edge. “You never were a morning person. Glad to see that hasn’t changed,” he adds with a chuckle.
“Can you blame me? You’ve barged into my life and have taken over. You’re always around. It’s like you’re… my babysitter!”
He props himself against the small cabinet, facing me, while the coffee machine churns.
“And as your babysitter, does that mean I can send you to your room if you’re being a bad girl?” Amused, he arches an eyebrow, but it’s the gravelly, deep tone of his voice that makes my stomach ignite with… something.
“Very funny. Always with the jokes, eh, Mitch?” I cross my arms tightly against my chest, desperate to ignore how warm my skin is. I step to the window and see Rusty working outside. “Who is this guy, anyway? You should have consulted me first.”
“I tried. You didn’t want to listen.” He steps closer. “Anyway, I figured I could keep waiting for you to stop being so selfish or—”
“I’m not self—”
“I wasn’t done,” he cuts me off, raising his hand. “Or, I could show you I’m not after what’s rightfully yours.”
I dip my chin, staring at him. “What’s rightfully mine?” I repeat.
He nods. “I’m not being a dick, here. This place is yours, as much as it’s mine.”
I pause, taking this in. The tension in my shoulders melts away, causing them to drop. “For real? You’re not just messing with me?”
“No, I’m not. I’m trying to help.”
“But I don’t need your help.”
“Uh-uh-uh,” he says, wiggling his finger at me. “That sounds like selfishness again.”
I narrow my glare, the fire in my belly turning from slightly bothersome to laser-beam-level irritating.
“You can either accept my help now or later, but eventually, you will have to accept it.” He stirs the sugar into his coffee, then moves to leave, but stops, facing me again.
“And for what it’s worth, Max, you’re mad at the kid who left town thirteen years ago.
You know nothing about the person I am today.
Sure, I made mistakes. I realize that. But if I can right some of those wrongs, then please don’t try to stop me. ”
“He might not die,” I offer.
“I don’t just mean my dad.” Mitch purses his lips, gets closer, but keeps his head down.
He stops when he’s a foot away from me, his eyes peeling up my body.
When they meet mine, there’s no mistaking how deadly serious he is.
“And stop being naive. He’s dying, and the last thing he needs is the two of us bickering like little brats. ”
“I’m not a brat,” I say. My voice is so weak I hate myself for it.
He cocks his head. “Yes, Toots, you are. Always have been.”
We stare at each other, the quiet between us flooding the room with raw, unspoken tension, the weight of our animosity straining my limbs.
“Did you ever consider talking to him?” I suggest. “Bill doesn’t need your money, or renovations. An apology alone might do a world of good.”
The light in his eyes dims. “Is that what he needs… or what you need?”
Anger rushes through my veins, and I sneer at him. “Fuck you.” I slam my shoulder into him as I storm past.
A few seconds later, he joins me at the front desk, resting against the edge of the counter, and sips his coffee. “If we don’t settle this shit between us, the next few weeks are going to be hell.”
“I’m fine with hell,” I reply, randomly clicking things on the desktop computer, pretending to be busy.
“Well, I’m not. Life’s too short to keep this grudge going. It’s not worth the pain.” The slight tremor in his voice makes me glance up. His damn green eyes reach into me like a spell, even after years of not seeing them.