Chapter Sixteen
Daisy, Now
I flop face-first onto the sofa. “Nggg,” I say, a blanket muffling my voice.
“Long day?” Max clicks pause on the television.
“You were there.”
“We made good progress.”
We confirmed the layout for a parking lot that removes the minimum amount of wildlife, nailed down plans with the plumber to get a water-efficient bathroom up and running in the barn, and prepped the space for the countless pieces of art we’ll be receiving soon.
This, on top of operating the hotel as normal, felt like managing a circus of cats today.
A clogged toilet in Room Six. An emergency supply run for laundry detergent.
Someone who canceled last minute, resulting in a phone call spent explaining our cancellation policy fifty times.
Whenever my mom had days like this, she seemed so calm and collected.
I, however, may perish with exhaustion. These past few evenings, Max and I watched an episode or two of a cowboy show set in the early 1900s, or we just hung out and talked while I put my record collection to use.
Tonight, I barely have the energy to move.
“Take a bath,” Max says.
“I stink?” I squeeze my arms into my side, preventing the spread of any odor. There have been days when, after plenty of manual labor, I smell far less like a desert rose. I’d like to keep up the illusion for Max, only because my roommate shouldn’t think I reek.
“No, I drew you a bath.”
If guests ever want, they can call or text when they’re leaving the park, and I make sure the water finishes filling the moment they pull into the lot. It’s a luxury after a long hike or full day of sightseeing—a luxury I don’t indulge in myself.
“Go and unwind ’til dinner gets here.”
“You ordered food?” As if on cue, my stomach growls.
“We blew through lunchtime, and you’ve got to feed yourself. Hope tacos are okay.”
I bite back a satisfied smile. “Tacos are always okay.”
I want to get up and crawl right over to him for a hug. Or better yet, curl up on his lap, snuggle into that perfect spot below his jawline, and inhale his aftershave. If only I had the excuse to pull him into and onto me and to kiss him, hard.
No, not kiss. I let that thought slide like I did on Monday, when he hung up his bathroom towel and his shirt rode up, revealing that tempting trail of hair beyond the top of his jeans.
Or yesterday, when our hands brushed as he grabbed some papers from me to sign.
Or when he holds the door open like a goddamn gentleman wherever we go.
We have less than two months left until the pop-up at the end of August, and I really need to get over this little attraction now so I can focus on The Mirage.
“That’s nice of you,” I say, peeking into the bathroom. A wave of lavender engulfs me. Heavenly.
He shrugs. “You’re letting me stay here for free.”
“There are zero strings attached to that offer.”
“Would you like me to drain the bath?”
“No,” I say with a laugh. “Can’t waste all this perfectly bubbly water.”
“Then get in there already, would you?”
Max unpauses the TV and I step into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
He has not only tidied up and wiped down every surface—I’m admittedly much better at keeping guest rooms in order than my own home—but he’s also lit candles and prepared the water to the perfect temperature, like some kind of sorcerer.
Max had always been the type to gift me a book he saw at the thrift store—just because.
When we went to house parties, he offered to stay sober and drive us home.
If I needed a last-minute date to a school dance, he was there.
I’d considered these nice things a friend would do, but as I remove my clothing, I reflect on them in a new way.
You have to have known how I felt about you.
God, I was stupid not to realize my own feelings until it was too late. Now, all of that pent-up yearning from our teenage years combined with Max making it pretty damn hard not to like him—and yeah, that I could use a good lay—has me thinking unprofessional, unroommate-like thoughts about him.
Roommate, I remind myself, and a temporary one at that. I ignore how my heart twists and instead slide into the steamy tub with a sigh, relishing how the water envelops me and the delicate bubbles suction to my skin.
When I lean my head back to give in to relaxation, a trilling alarm in the other room reminds me why I’m more of a quick-shower type of gal.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
“I’ve got it.”
“It’s a daily reminder.” I stand and reach for a towel, suds careening down my body as the tub water sloshes side to side from me standing so quickly. “For Freddie’s meds.”
“Daisy Johnson, sit your ass down and have a bubble bath for once in your life. I’ll handle it.”
The sternness in Max’s voice sends a delicious vibration down my spine. I don’t enjoy relaxing, and I definitely don’t like being told what to do—but that bossy tone has me melting back into the tub, timid and obedient.
“He’s squirrelly,” I say. “And he prefers when you pop it into the left side of his mouth, not the right. And you’ll need an oral syringe to wash it down with water so that—”
There’s a soft knock on the bathroom door. “May we come in?”
“Um. Sure.”
Max enters, and I can’t stop adjusting the shower curtain and strategically arranging bubbles over my body.
“So.” Max inspects some pill bottles as Freddie purrs in his arms. “One of these pink ones and half a white?”
I tilt my head. “How do you know that?”
“Been paying attention.”
“To a cat’s medicine schedule?”
Freddie mews, sending the corner of Max’s mouth skyward, and my heartbeat trips.
Friend. Roommate. Business partner.
Max sinks next to the tub on the floor, close enough that I can feel his breath on the damp skin of my arm.
I forget why he’s in the bathroom in the first place, and I surrender to the possibility that he’ll lean over, invade my space, and lick the lavender off of me.
When he scoots closer, locked in intense eye contact with me, I’m certain that’s what is about to happen, and it feels like falling.
“You’ve offended him,” Max whispers with that gorgeous, boyish grin on his face.
“Freddie’s not just a cat. He is the cat of the house.
” Max scratches underneath the purring feline’s chin, and I am officially experiencing jealousy toward my own cat.
Freddie even looks at me with a smug, Bet you’d like this right here, wouldn’t you? expression.
“These heart meds are a big deal, right Fred?” Max says to him.
“Okay, left side. C’mere.” In one deft movement, Max pops both pills into the cat’s mouth.
Freddie, oblivious, turns and rubs his face into Max’s knee, purring like a generator with four legs.
Max pets Freddie’s head and scratches around his neck like it’s his calling, and I swear, my uterus explodes.
If there is one undeniably sexy thing a man can do, it’s care for a poor, helpless animal.
“What?” Max shoots me a quizzical look, and I close my gaping mouth.
“Nothing,” I say, my throat like sandpaper. “Freddie puts up a much bigger fight when I do meds.”
“What can I say? Magic touch.”
He rinses his hands in the sink, and they’re good-looking hands. Elegant, confident. He has long fingers and a few prominent veins traveling from the knuckles. I shudder with a chill and plunge deeper into the warmth of the bath.
“You doing okay in here?” Max’s gaze glides across the edge of the tub, and I’m hyperaware that I’m naked and shielded by a flimsy piece of plastic and suds. I wonder if he’s hyperaware of that, too.
My response is incoherent, I’m sure, but I nod, so Max takes that as his cue to go, carrying Freddie with him. I can’t relax, but not due to my usual workaholic tendencies. A tremor courses through my veins, and a pit of something forms low in my belly.
Not something. Desire.
All he did was give my cat medicine, but seeing the tenderness with which he treated Freddie—and the way he knocked a task off my to-do list like it was no big deal—has me wondering what else that magic touch can do.
I lean back and use my hand to trace a path down to my thigh, then up and over to the other one. Then up and over yet again. The next time, I let my palm rest in the center. The bubbles dance on top of the water, floating left and right a little less, and I remain still until they stop completely.
My memory flashes like heat lightning to last week in his childhood bedroom—his body melded with mine, his hands holding me closer, closer, and the hardness of his cock through his pants.
I know myself. This craving won’t go away until I make it go away. I’m only going to keep thinking of Max in ways that no friend, no roommate, and no business partner should, and I can only ignore my needs so much…
Or I could handle them on my own terms.
The best orgasms of my life have been solo, and I consider myself skilled at getting myself off in record time. Most of the work happens in my head, so with a little fantasizing, I’m halfway there. And with Max practically everywhere these days, I have a lot of mental imagery to choose from.
My fingers move in slow, meticulous circles as I picture Max opening the door.
My body hums. He strolls in confidently to the tub, no questions asked, and with those gorgeous hands, he rolls up his shirt sleeves.
As he glides a palm down my torso, it’s like he already knows the map of me.
Max cups one breast as his thumb runs across my nipple.
He’s leaning into my neck, his lips against my skin, his fingers dragging lower and lower, until finally, finally, he’s working my clit at a rhythmic pace.
I bite my lip to hold back a moan and savor this version of Max that I will never have.
A Max who follows through on all the glances that seem to linger a second too long.
A Max who wants me and won’t let anything get in the way of having me.
A Max who isn’t bound for bigger and better things beyond this town.
With a breathy exhale, I inch closer to release—and the thought of him a mere ten feet away while I’m masturbating tips me into a series of shudders and near-silent sighs.
An explosion of heavenly heat overtakes me, swelling at my center, and I only realize how quiet this bathroom is when I come down from the high of my orgasm.
There’s an abrupt knock, followed by Max clearing his throat. “Dinner’s here.”
“Great,” I croak, a swarm of stars still twinkling on the outer edges of my vision. “Be right out.”