Chapter Twenty-Seven
Daisy, Now
A server walks by with a forced smile, probably because she knows I could be the person to tip her at the end of the night.
Catering to a room of privileged clients doesn’t sound like fun to me, either.
I’m the odd one out, catching some air amidst stifling conversations about vacation homes in Tuscany and private planes.
The people inside the restaurant’s event space are exactly who we need, though—folks with influence, money, or both. I remind myself of Dawn’s encouraging words. Steady breaths, go slower than you think, and talk to one person.
“Hey.” Max’s voice interrupts my mindful breathing, and I clench a fist around my note cards. “You okay?”
“Mhmm. Heading back in a sec.”
“Alex really went all out with the menu for us. Have you tried those bacon-wrapped figs?”
“Not yet.” I eye his champagne flute. “You mind?”
He barely has the chance to nod before I snatch the glass and pound it back, the cool, fizzing liquid releasing the tension in my shoulders.
“Easy, tiger.” Max rests a hand on my upper arm, and I halfway hope he’ll pull me into his chest. I could use the comfort.
When I saw a speech—from me—on the fundraiser’s schedule, I almost cried.
But Max said he could stand up there and talk about art all he wanted, and that wouldn’t make a difference.
My story would get them to care on a deeper level.
And, more importantly, it would encourage them to bid in the silent auction and donate.
The past couple of weeks involved a lot of listening to podcasts on public speaking while I cleaned The Mirage.
Dawn came over almost every afternoon to offer private coaching, although I’ve hardly absorbed a fraction of the stage presence she has.
Gwen endured enough speech run-throughs that she could probably recite this thing for me.
I wish she would. No amount of preparation could stop the damp, slick sweat of my armpits or my stomach tying itself into knots.
“Most of the work’s already finished, Daze. Everyone in there is already a couple drinks in and ready to throw down some cash. And you look great in that dress. Your hair’s all done up in that…” Max waves his hand around his head, mimicking the half-up, half-down style.
He’s trying to calm me down, but satisfaction simmers under the surface knowing he noticed how I look tonight.
Max is effortlessly handsome in a black suit, button-down, and tie, and I wish I could trace the line of his jaw or douse myself in his musky aftershave.
If it weren’t for the billion thoughts in my head, I might kiss him again…
although that would only intensify the yearning between my legs.
Max glances at his wristwatch, and I already know.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” I ask him.
“Do you need longer?”
“No, I’m ready,” I lie, the weight of not only the pop-up but also The Mirage and Max’s reputation weighing on me.
We return without another word to the private room in Alex’s restaurant, and the air gets sucked out of my lungs.
I can’t count the number of people here.
Cocktail tables host throngs of guests, all of them dressed in sparkly ball gowns or elegant suits.
The banquet hall is basked in a lavender-blue glow, save for the elevated platform and microphone.
Max must sense my trepidation, because he turns to me and rests a palm against the small of my back. His touch burns like an ember.
“Once I’m done, I can stay on stage with you,” he whispers into my ear, his breath irresistibly warm.
“I’ve got it.” I think. “Maybe stand off to the side with a bucket?”
His face splits into a grin, lighting up the whole damn room. The event coordinator gives Max a curt nod as a cue to walk toward the mic.
“Remember to breathe,” he says. “Go slowly. And you’re talking to a bunch of people, but just talk to the one person who matters, okay?”
Max strolls up to the microphone like he belongs there. “Hello everyone, and thank you for coming out tonight.” Max’s speaking-to-a-roomful-of-fancy-strangers voice is far more controlled than mine. It’s deep and inviting, like this is his house, and he’s invited us over for a grand party.
He introduces himself and thanks our sponsors. My heartbeat must be banging loud enough the folks next to me can hear, and I’m not even up there yet.
“The desert has a special magic,” he says to the room.
“Having grown up not far from here, I didn’t always appreciate my hometown.
But after spending some time in Harlow as an adult, I can see why people love it.
Life is meaningful in every small moment there.
You’re surrounded by nature and wildlife that’s as beautiful as it is life-threatening.
Harlow’s a mixture of awe and danger, of bliss and risk.
I didn’t get it as a kid, but I think I do now. ”
Max didn’t rehearse this with me. He only asked for a few talking points that I thought would be important to hit.
I put a hand to my chest, touched to hear him speak about his hometown in a way that sounds so…
loving. I couldn’t have explained that connection better myself—it’s like he lifted the thoughts from my mind.
“I wanted to explore that dichotomy with a pop-up in Harlow—big and small, young and old, near and far—and how one ecosystem can encompass all of that, all at the same time. This is how Desert Daze came to be.”
I smile when he announces the name. We’d been sitting around with the gallery assistants when Max said my nickname, and their eyes went wide like it was the most brilliant idea. At first, I thought they were all joking, but the name stuck.
“Before I talk about the artists you’ll see just over a week from now, I want to say how nice it is to work with people like Daisy, who many of you have already met.
” He gestures to me, and I lift my hand in a timid wave.
The countdown until I’m up on that stage is ticking lower and lower, and my breathing has already gone shallow.
“I spent years as the curator for pop-up museums with Impressions.” Max does an expert job of scanning the room as he speaks, making eye contact with every single person.
Everyone pauses from eating their canapés and drinking champagne, intent on him.
“While I’m proud of the work I did during that time, I’m not proud of who I worked with.
So you can imagine what a relief and joy it’s been to be on Daisy’s team for this. ”
As he introduces Desert Daze and some of the star artists he’s lined up, pride rises in my chest like a wave in the ocean. I had told him, rather than avoid talking about his previous workplace, to face it head-on. Talk about it before anyone else, and let them know Desert Daze is his. Ours.
“While she’s never worked with artists directly like this before, she has curated memorable experiences at The Mirage, a boutique hotel in the heart of Harlow’s rugged landscape.
With our project, Daisy has created opportunities locally and taken care of each artist we have, whether they’re flying in from Paris or they have a pottery shop down the road.
Honestly, I should watch out. She’s as good as me at my job, maybe even better. ”
He pauses for the light laughs, locking eyes with me for a breath. Then he smiles.
“You’re up next,” the coordinator says, tapping me on the shoulder. My stomach drops.
Max introduces me, and I clamber onstage.
The lights blind me, which means I can’t see anyone in the audience—excellent—but I also can’t see anything on my index cards—terrible.
As my eyes adjust, familiar faces like Gwen, Bob, and Dawn come into view.
Their presence does virtually nothing to relax me, but I’m glad they came tonight.
Then my sights land on Max, who has carved out a spot on the left-hand side of the crowd. Knowing where he is calms my nerves. He has an almost imperceptible grin on his face, and he’s leaning casually against a cocktail table.
Just think about one person who matters.
“Hello everyone.” My words get thrown back to me in a loud screech of microphone feedback. I cover my ears and wince. The sound technician at the far end of the room looks at the electronics in front of them, tweaks some knobs, then flashes me a big thumbs up.
“Sorry ’bout that,” I chuckle. “Um. Hello. Hi. I’m Daisy, the owner and manager of The Mirage, the site of Desert Daze.”
Everyone is waiting for me to say something brilliant. Something funny or worthwhile. I rehearsed this speech endlessly, but every word has escaped me. Without letting my head dip too low, I catch the notes written on the damp index cards creasing in my death grip.
“I’ve been at The Mirage for decades. Some of my happiest memories are on that property, growing up there with my parents. My mom ran the place, and The Mirage was her baby. It was sort of a weird sibling relationship, but I managed.”
This gets some chuckles from the audience. Dawn added that joke to get some laughs, and the sound puts me more at ease.
“So…” I glance at my note cards again. Dawn and Max probably wanted to keep my speech easy and predictable for me, so we lifted a lot of the wording from the hotel’s website.
But now that I think about it, the audience could just as well get this information by scrolling on their phones.
Max gave an amazing speech, and I want to do the same.
When I look up, the lights assault my vision again, and I’ve lost the spot where Max stood. He’s the person who matters. He’s the person who matters.
I lick my lips, which have become dry as dust, and I imagine him in the general direction I saw him before. With a deep breath, I continue.