Chapter Twenty
Max, Now
Daisy grunts as one of the hairiest men I’ve ever seen helps her onto a chocolaty-brown horse.
As she settles in, my attention slides to her ass, which looks perfect perched on a saddle.
The visual transports me instantly to the other night—the warmth inside her, the mesmerizing rhythm of her gyrating on top of me, the satisfying rush of her coming against my mouth.
“Need an assist?” The ranch owner is a stout, mustachioed man with a juicy smoker’s cough that’s an insanely effective antidote to the semi growing in my pants.
I thank him but manage on my own. He’s brought over a stunning black mare, and once I climb onto the saddle, I pat her on the side. “Good girl,” I say, stroking her mane.
“Mr. Cowboy over there.” Daisy lets out a breathy laugh, her cheeks the shade of a setting sun.
“Ride often?” the man asks. His bushy brows arch upward in surprise.
“Now and then. An ex-girlfriend of mine grew up outside Dublin on a farm. I spent some holidays there.”
Daisy clears her throat and pivots her body away from me. “We’ll go down Glimmering Canyon Loop.”
“Helmet for either of you?”
Daisy used to work here and said he would ask, even though they’re optional. I signed a waiver, and we’re not planning anything strenuous, so we both decline.
He sticks a satellite phone in her saddlebag, and we set out on a trail wide enough for us to travel side by side.
The ground has a sandy texture here, and the horses’ hooves squish with each step.
The land rises to hills on either side, so some splintered tree trunks and small boulders have collected in the center—something that happens after a rare, heavy rainfall.
She flicks her attention to me, my hands on the reins, and then back to the path, which is strewn with a few broken-off cacti and wiry twigs. “We should talk.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Her playful glare forces the corner of my mouth to twitch.
“Is there a reason we’re talking on horseback?” I ask.
Her horse’s pace slows, and he huffs, followed by letting out a thundering fart that seems to echo off the terrain.
“Neutral location,” she says. “Somewhere we won’t be distracted.”
As if on cue, her horse halts completely for a bathroom break.
“Well, I don’t know about you,” I say, waving my hand against the earthy manure scent, “but I’m not distracted at all.”
“Max.” Daisy tilts her head and her face cracks into a reluctant smile. She clearly doesn’t want literal horseshit to be the reason she devolves into giggles, but she does anyway. “Damn it. Gwen did not think this through.”
“What about Gwen?”
She snaps her wrist and heels Derry gently on his side. “I stopped by her store last night.”
So that’s where she was. I’d lingered in the living room, thinking she might walk in the door anytime. Maybe hoping.
“I told her what happened. With us.”
This causes me to pause. As much as I’ve wanted to scream from the mountaintops that we slept together, I haven’t told a soul. Keeping it between us was never part of the agreement, but I didn’t think we had to explicitly lay that out.
“What did you tell her?”
“Girl talk.” She shrugs and tosses me a coy look. “Dawn was there too.”
“Anyone else?” I ask, half joking. Telling other people makes it feel less special, less important.
Daisy never even told me how she liked our night together.
While heated images of her wrapped up in me will keep my mind and hand busy for years to come, what if the experience wasn’t so stellar for her?
“Did you invite Sal?” I go on. “Or that nice lady at the gas station?”
“I wouldn’t have spent the evening talking about you if I hadn’t enjoyed it. I had fun.” She catches my gaze and smiles in a way that makes me speechless. “It was good things, Max.”
Our horses fall into a steady rhythm next to each other as I process what she’s said. Good things? I can handle good things.
“So…” I fight the desire to hop off my horse and do a backflip. “Is horseback riding your way of telling me I’m a good lay?”
She laughs, and the sound is loud and unexpected, sending a jolt of satisfaction down my spine.
“Don’t get cocky. And put that dimple away.”
“I’ll try.” I shake my head and glance at her with a laugh, giving her one last look at it.
“Stop.”
“Fine.”
She waits a beat. “It’s still there.”
“I can’t help it.” I shrug. “Not used to seeing you all flustered. Not over me. I’m enjoying the moment.”
She snorts a little laugh. “I’m sorry that I haven’t held up my end of our deal.”
Does she mean she’s changed her mind? My heart soars, dreaming of what she might say next. I want more than just one night. I want you, again. Need you.
“I told you I wouldn’t let it get weird between us,” she goes on, “and I definitely did the past twenty-four hours.”
“Ah. Yeah.” I swat at a fly on the back of my neck. “You were pretty preoccupied with the laundry this morning. You ran about seventeen loads.”
“Are we good?”
I look at Daisy and try not to think about how I’ve seen every side of her, every curve and edge and angle. How I’ve found the quiet places of her body that make her moan, and how I’ve come inside her. But more than that, I have a connection with her that I don’t have with anyone else.
I don’t want to ruin that or push her away. Part of me wants more, but Daisy made the terms clear—and I can’t always be the guy who’s yearning for more with Daisy Johnson. I hate to admit it, but the only one night plan was a smart one.
“We’re good,” I say. “Actually, I wanted to talk about something. You mentioned bringing on local artists for the exhibit.”
She takes a long, deep breath. “Yeah.”
“I think—” I say, as she bulldozes ahead with, “It might not—”
“No, let me go first,” she says firmly. “I understand this wasn’t your original vision, and you think local artists won’t have as much of a draw for a wider audience.
And maybe this isn’t how you’ve done any kind of pop-up before, but this isn’t like any other pop-up.
People travel to discover places with character—with heart.
This shouldn’t be a museum that you could find anywhere in the world—it should be special, because Harlow is special.
“And,” she says, closing her eyes as if gathering her strength to tell me this next part, “I can’t budge on this. Setting up a place with a bunch of artwork from outsiders is the same thing to me as folks buying up land and building chic homes to rent out. We need locals.”
“All right.”
She pulls the reins so her horse comes to a stop with a snort. “What?”
“You want local artists, and we’ll have them. I reached out to some people, and there’s a lot of interest.”
After some consideration, I understood what she wanted for the pop-up and agreed it made sense.
Sure, I was coasting on an orgasm yesterday when I contacted some of Harlow’s favorites in the creative scene, but I wouldn’t have done so if I thought the idea was misguided.
It would certainly be a unique mix of artists, but that would be exactly what Tate is looking for—and Daisy’s onto something. It feels right.
“So who’s in?” she asks.
I give her the names of people I’ve connected with, some of whom she knows, others who she’s less familiar with, and we continue on to the bottom of the gully where rocks and branches have collected. This terrain requires even more attention—like walking a tightrope on horseback.
“I thought for sure I’d have to fight you on this,” she says.
“I don’t want you to fight me on anything. Besides, I may have the experience, but I’m not doing this alone. I’m doing it with you, and it’s a good idea.”
She smiles, her lips pressed together. “What made you change your mind?”
“You’re passionate about Harlow.” I direct my horse around a blackened tree trunk, likely charred from lightning.
“Some of my preconceived notions from high school may not be so true anymore, and I can admit that. Places change. People change. And at the end of the day—at the end of everything, I trust you.”
And the sunny smile that spreads across Daisy’s face makes it worth it. I hate that I’m a sucker for that smile.
“So what you’re saying,” she says, her look turning mischievous, “is that my vagina convinced you.”
I don’t point out how she’s using humor to deflect talking with me more honestly, and I don’t ask if she washed the same load of laundry over and over to avoid running into me today, because my body has gone cold. All I can say is, “Daisy, stop.”
“Jeez, it’s a joke.”
“No, stop.” I reach over and yank on her reins, jerking her to a halt.
“What—” The unmistakable shake of a rattlesnake cuts her off. We’ve encountered a fat, coiled one sunning itself in the middle of the path.
“Back up,” I whisper to her, patting her hands into action.
I haven’t seen a rattlesnake face-to-face in years, but I remember how to deal with snakes on the trail.
Daisy and I move in slow motion, one step, then another, not losing sight of the snake.
Then, behind us comes a crack—her horse’s leg gives out, and he makes a high-pitched whinny.
I reach for Daze, but it’s too late—her horse rears, and she soars toward the gritty earth.
My heart flies out of my body at the sight of Daisy in a puddle on the ground. I dismount so fast I trip, which spooks the horses even more.
“Whoa,” I say, holding up my hands to calm them.
I kneel next to Daisy and call her name to no response. Panic rises in my throat, but I swallow it. Now’s not the time to lose it, and all those Boy Scout meetings my parents made me attend have officially come in handy.
When I scan for the snake, I catch its tail end slithering away.
I fight every instinct in me and leave Daisy’s side, fetching the reins for the horses to secure them to a large branch on the side of the trail, before grabbing the satphone.
As I head over to Daisy, she’s lifting her upper body, and her eyes quiver open.