Chapter Thirteen #2
Ava releases me, leading me by the hand to show me the new layout of her room. I almost stop in my tracks when I catch Max in the hallway, a towel slung low around his hips. He runs another towel through his hair, the cords of his muscles pulsing with each movement.
“Sorry,” I say, not sure what I’m apologizing for. “Didn’t think to text back.”
“It’s fine.” He wears an easy smile. “Just give me a minute.”
Max messaged during my meeting with Dawn that he had something important to show me, so I stopped by on my way back to The Mirage.
I hadn’t imagined I’d see Max wet and half-naked when I got here.
He has two delicious lines on his abdomen that make a V formation, and a drop of water glides across his skin.
Warmth inches down my torso along with something like longing.
I’m only noticing him like this because it’s been a while since I’ve had sex. A little solo session at home with my vibrator, and I’ll get over whatever attraction I think I have.
Max saunters to his room, and Hello, gorgeous back muscles. The view of his sculpted shoulder blades and the contours of his back leaves me speechless.
Once Ava’s given me a full tour and I’ve gotten my mind off of Max’s body in that towel, I knock on his bedroom door. “Decent?”
Max greets me and gestures for me to come in. “Make yourself comfortable, if you can.”
Growing up, we hung out at Max’s house more since his parents each earned way more than my mom, meaning a cooler home and better snacks.
But his room looks completely different now.
Rather than an unmade bed, cluttered desk, and clothes strewn on the floor, he has an indoor bike and treadmill.
A twin-sized air mattress rests in the corner, and he must literally live out of that red suitcase by the weight rack.
Despite all the workout gear, he keeps the space tidier than his teenage bedroom.
He closes the door, and that’s new. His parents had a strict open-door policy, but we’re not eighteen anymore.
“You don’t have a nightstand in here or anything,” I say, appalled that his mom and dad have barely made room for him.
“No nightstand needed. The gym rat vibes aren’t really me, but I’m comfortable enough.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.” He gestures to the mattress, and when I sit down, I sink so deep that my butt touches the ground.
“I think this has a hole.”
“It’s not—” He waves his hand at the floor. “I haven’t refilled it in a few days. Here.” He sits next to me, boosting me off the ground, though not much. “See? It’s actually really comfortable.”
I press the mattress with an open palm, not fully convinced there’s no leak.
“And I can go straight from sleeping to a StairMaster with minimal effort, which is all I’ve ever wanted.
” The corner of his mouth lifts, and that damn dimple sends a shock from my head to my toes.
“No one can claim that Judy and Bill Weber are ones for sentimentality. Guess that’s what I get for being gone so long. ”
Max scours the contents of his messenger bag, and for a split second, he is Max from when we were young—an adorable, art-obsessed kid who cared too much about what other people thought, even though he’d deny it.
His years of joking that he’s a disappointment to his parents have clearly worn on his self-esteem.
Max hands me one of those massive folders he used to carry around at school. Carefully, I pull out the thick pieces of paper painted with a gorgeous pastel color palette of light pink and dusty brown and sage green. It’s a building—a hotel. My hotel.
I flip through the five paintings in speechless awe, my mouth gaping.
The Mirage at sunset, people mingling with wine glasses in hand, and cars in the parking lot, with cacti throughout.
Another shows the inside of the barn, busy with guests having imaginary conversations and pointing at the art.
This version of The Mirage is one I would never have imagined.
“You seemed hesitant to go through with some suggestions from the contractor,” Max says. “I thought I could paint you a picture instead. Literally.”
I let out a wet laugh, my eyesight blurring.
“Daze, this is it.” He leans closer, and the pressure from the air mattress pushes our knees together. “This is what we’re working toward. This vision might feel far away, but it’s possible, and it will be special.”
I sniffle and cozy up to the warmth of Max.
This is the sweetest, most thoughtful thing he could have done.
I’m weepy over these gorgeous paintings of The Mirage, the fact that my mother will never see her hotel like this, and how incredibly talented the man next to me is.
How he would spend his talents on me and something I love so much.
And how, even after years apart, Max still understands exactly what I need.
“Freddie’s in there.” He points to the black-and-white cat in the lower left corner of one image, and I laugh.
“These are fantastic.”
He sets his hand on the mattress behind me, and we feel impossibly close. “I just want you to see what I see.”
Max once told me that art is noticing, and the way Max notices The Mirage makes my hotel seem like the most beautiful place on earth.
“Can we put these in the exhibit?”
“We can do whatever you want, Daisy.”
When I look up and find our faces inches apart, all I want is to kiss him.
Max has every right to be frustrated with me for resisting renovations, but rather than pointing out how I’m holding us back, he met me where I am.
He’s the Max I’ve always known—kind and devoted, creative and driven—but I can’t ignore the stronger pull between us. Not again.
I don’t give myself time to second-guess the desire, leaning forward and pressing my lips against his.
Everything goes quiet, like the desert at dawn.
His mouth is soft and safe, and although we’ve never kissed before, I feel like we’ve done this a billion times.
Like we’ve lived a hundred lifetimes and always ended up here.
One of Max’s hands trails up to my jaw, and I could weep all over again at how gentle he is.
I press into him more, exploring the newfound closeness, and a jolt of electricity courses through me.
With his arm supporting my side, I swing one leg across, and it bounces against the air bed.
I straddle him, his hardness pressing against me, and we both groan.
I can’t recall the last time I made out with someone like this, and I don’t remember it ever being so good.
My fingers in his hair, his hand around my waist, and my hips slipping further into his lap as we push and pull against each other.
Max twirls me onto the mattress, which definitely has a hole because my entire back is on the ground. My foot hits the weight rack as Max latches onto my neck. The sensation is like the rev of a motorcycle in my veins, and it comes to an abrupt stop when his sister yells from downstairs.
“Hey Max, can you drive me to the library?” Her voice causes us both to freeze in place. “Maaaaax?”
He pauses, groans, then turns his head to the door. “Sure, just…hang on.”
His mouth on my neck again knocks the breath out of me, and I have to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
“What’s so funny?” he mumbles.
“This is ridiculous.”
Max pulls back and searches my face. “What?”
“Just like…this is crazy, right? We’re in our twenties, and we’re here.” I gesture to the room around us—the bike and rower on either side, and the droopy mattress we’re humping on. “Your little sister could walk in at any minute.”
“So…” Max props up onto an elbow. His hardness digs into me, and I have to restrain myself from grinding into him. “Is it so crazy, kissing me?”
“No. I mean, a little, maybe.”
“You know—you kissed me.”
“You kissed me back.”
“Because you kissed me first.”
“I—” I scooch out from under him and sit up. “Was that not okay?”
“Daze, I…” His voice gets quieter, and he stands. “You have to have known how I felt about you in high school.”
He levels me with a stare, and my heartbeat picks up.
I’d suspected back then, and my own attraction simmered even deeper below the surface.
But he never made a move. Never initiated.
And that didn’t bother me for the longest time because I thought I should keep our friendship free from the complications of romance.
“Sometimes,” I admit quietly, “I thought maybe there was a crush.”
“Yeah. A crush.”
“Hey, you ready?” Ava calls from downstairs.
“Be down in a sec,” Max replies, clipped, before he turns back to me. “There’s history between us. You can’t kiss me one second and then laugh about it the next. It’s shitty.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, regret prickling my cheeks. Max doesn’t deserve to be treated that way. “I’m sorry.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I just—” I don’t know how to explain that this was more than an impulse, but it didn’t help that he was so close, and he smelled so good, and I’ve been dying to taste him and couldn’t resist anymore. “I got carried away.”
Max considers this and runs a hand through his curls. “With what happened at my last job, it’s not the best idea to get involved with a business partner. Might look…not great.”
I don’t blame him for setting some boundaries.
This is why I was right to leave romance out of our friendship before—even when the decision hurt.
I stand up, straightening my clothes in utter humiliation.
I wish I could rewind the last fifteen minutes.
While fantasizing about him pushing me against the wall and outlining my every curve with his fingertips, I forgot what he’s here to do and how his entire reputation relies on this.
Neither of us can afford to lose sight of the end goal.
“Let’s just keep things professional.” He walks over to me, not toe-to-toe, but closer than business partners. Even closer than friends. “It’s for the best.”
“Right.”
His eyes dart down to my mouth and back up. For a second, I swear he’s going to lean in and say to hell with what we just agreed. But his hand juts out, waiting for me to grab it as if we’ve just met.
We shake hands, and his palm is hot. Professional. I can do that, no problem.