In a Desert Daze (Small-Town Escapes #2)

Chapter One

Daisy, Now

Sweat slides down my temple, and I tug the wrench a final time, exactly like the online tutorial instructed.

“I’ll hop in my truck right away,” I say into the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, turning up my ultra-sweet customer service voice.

“We’ll get you taken care of and have you and your wife checked in to enjoy your weekend, Mr. Hollis. ”

I hang up and do a lightning-quick check of my handiwork in the terra-cotta bathroom.

A couple of years ago, these fixes would have had me frantic and calling a handyman.

Now, I understand why Mom insisted on doing these repairs on her own—that shit’s not cheap.

I have no clue how those soulless homeshares keep popping up, charging half of what we do per night.

I close my eyes and grant myself the briefest respite. As I exit the tutorial on my phone, my brain stutters over an incoming call.

Max Weber. My Max, not that he was ever mine.

That familiar freight train of mixed emotions pummels me in the chest, and the temptation to pick up has my thumb hovering over the green icon. But I don’t have time to answer, and that’s not what we do. He’ll leave a voicemail. He always does.

“Six is all set.” Stacey appears in the doorway, holding a pile of folded towels.

“Great.” Startled, I tuck my phone into my back pocket. “Gotta run. Alma strikes again.”

She rolls her eyes in exasperation, and I can relate.

I send multiple emails to remind guests to follow my directions and not their GPS, which will lead them down an uneven, dangerous dirt road called Camino del Alma.

But I can’t show up to help the Hollises with an attitude.

A happy guest is a returning guest, and we could use lots of those.

Besides, it’s not like I’ve never made mistakes in my life.

“Remember,” I say, “serenity, warmth, and—”

“Wonder,” Stacey mumbles, following me on the dirt path to the lobby. Even when she’s grumbly, I adore her. “These people make me wonder if they know how to read. You could teach them a lesson. Let them sit out there and bake in the Mojave Desert for a bit.”

“Stace.”

“It’s only the end of April. Not that hot yet.” Her eyes gleam with mischief, like little sparks in the soft lines of her face, and I shake my head with a laugh.

“You’re terrible.”

“I’m here for housekeeping, not all the being-nice-at-the-front stuff.”

We swing into the open-air lobby of The Mirage, and the jagged mountains on the horizon fill me with wonder.

Nineteen years, and I still never tire of this view.

It’s not just the landscape that I love, but also the prickly cacti, the jackrabbits and the field mice scurrying over dry ground, and the treasure trove of stars glittering in the night sky.

This place is as close to magic as it gets.

I understand why Mom hauled me and Dad to Harlow when I was seven, trading the chaos of Chicago for a Southern California town of only five thousand.

That hollow ache returns at the thought of her, and I fight the tightness in my throat.

When I push the housekeeping cart against the wall, Freddie, my mom’s blind, geriatric tuxedo cat, stirs in the fluffy bed by the monitor. My hustle has disturbed his dozing, so I apologize by running my hand along his back. A flurry of purrs begins, and I am forgiven.

“I’ll refill amenities,” Stacey says.

“Already did ’em.” I grasp for my keys underneath the counter, ignoring her admonishing look.

“Daisy Johnson, I swear on my left tit.” She drops her basket in a huff, knocking into a display shelf with some art and decor.

A purple rock—amethyst, I think my best friend Gwen told me when she placed it there for optimal energy cleansing—goes off-kilter.

I don’t buy into the woo-woo stuff, but I move the gemstone to its optimally energetic place.

Some extra help for The Mirage can’t hurt.

“Doc says I’m one hundred percent cleared for all the heavy lifting I want,” Stacey continues.

“She told me seventy-five.”

“Tomato, tomato.”

“I think you’re supposed to pronounce those differently.”

“If you’re gonna take over my work, then you mind tellin’ me why I’m here?”

“Because I need you.”

Stacey has worked here from the beginning, and although she’s in her early sixties, I can’t picture running this place without her.

On days when operating The Mirage runs me ragged, she brings levity into my life.

I’ll look into having interns or other employees again soon.

Right now, though, I just want to get by until the end of the summer with the loan I took out.

Once we manage through our slow season, I can continue tackling my never-ending to-do list.

I give Stacey a quick peck on the cheek, then turn to leave to save our guests from a blazing-hot afternoon. “Water,” I say to myself, turning on my heel to fetch two bottles from the mini fridge.

“You can’t do it all on your own, Daisygirl.”

I search every corner of my brain for a task that won’t earn me dirty looks from her chiropractor. “How ’bout turndown service in Two? I saw them leave early to catch the sunrise and explore the park. Said they won’t be back until late.”

“You still not sleepin’?” Stacey frowns. “You should try that batch I gave you. Potent stuff.”

“You know how I am with weed.” I wish a remedy like that were enough to clear all the worry from my mind. “Makes me antsy.”

“Such a square.”

Stacey has regaled me with tales of how she walked across the United States in the ’80s, dropped acid with Elton John, and communicated with the ghost that haunted her first apartment. She’s also been growing her own marijuana for ages, long before California legalized it.

“Oh, I’d love a bottle of prosecco in there.” I sling the tool bag over my shoulder and scan the room to make sure I’m not forgetting anything for a backroads rescue. “It’s their anniversary.” I pat Freddie goodbye, planting a kiss on his furry head. He curls into a tighter ball.

Stacey trails me to my well-loved pickup. “Hey, hon, you alright?”

“I’ll be better when the Hollises are here.” I play dumb. Unless…is she talking about something else? Did she see the caller ID from earlier? My whole body heats, ashamed at how desperately I want to listen to his message.

Her voice goes softer, and I brace myself. “It’s that time of year.”

Something pinches in my chest, like a tiny serrated knife sawing my insides. Yesterday marked two years since the accident, so the wound has reopened yet again.

“You could take a day off,” she whispers.

I settle into the driver’s side and pat her shoulder through the open window, touched by her concern. “Be back soon.”

The Mirage fades in my rearview mirror as I follow a dirt path I’ve driven and walked thousands of times before.

Camino del Alma leads straight to Harlow’s main highway, and I have no trouble managing its bumps in my pickup.

But I have a lot of memories on this road, so I tend to drive the smoother, roundabout route, even if it takes longer.

Cresting the small hill, I spot a boxy vehicle in the distance traveling in my direction.

My nerves loosen because maybe this means they’ve worked their way out of the rut.

Then the neon-orange sports car at the bottom of the gully steals my focus.

The vehicle has an inch of ground clearance, and it perches precariously between two washboard ruts. That must be the Hollises.

Once I pull up and introduce myself to them, I make sure they’re okay and hand them refreshments. Mr. Hollis needs some convincing, but he allows me to inspect his car.

“Just…be careful,” he grunts, shooting me an incredulous look that tells me the warning doesn’t stem from concerns over my safety.

Serenity, warmth, and wonder, I remind myself. Mom was born to host and knew how to run a business, and I try my best to do it with half of her grit and grace.

As I bend down to inspect the damage, a gentle breeze reminds me this was a bad time to wear jean cut-off shorts.

I position my ass away from the Hollises to preserve some modesty, giving the person from the other vehicle a show.

Their car pulls up, the door slams shut, and footsteps crunch toward me on the gravelly earth.

“If you’re a tow truck,” I say without looking back, “I might have to kiss you.”

They make a throat-clearing sound. “Need some help, Daze?”

My breath hitches, and I drop my flashlight. I’d know that voice anywhere. That voice plays through my phone every other week. I could be in the deepest, wine-assisted sleep of my life, and that voice would be my alarm.

But it couldn’t be him without any advance warning—unless he mentioned it in the mystery voicemail I got ten minutes ago. I swallow a pang of disappointment at not being worth more notice, but I know what I let our friendship dissolve into, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Max?” I shield my eyes from the sun, and although all I see is a silhouette, it’s unmistakably, distinctly his.

“Hey.”

Scrambling to my feet, I wipe the dirt from my knees and tug my shorts down.

He’s taller than I recall, and I have to tip my face upward to get a good look at him.

How can he be the same but so different?

Same intense gaze, same dark brown eyes, and same goofy grin that stirs up a weird sensation like homesickness.

He’s still lean, but his shoulders are wider, and he has more muscle.

Max has really grown into his own—he used to be a boy, and now he’s a man.

And he’s back.