Chapter Twenty-One
Daisy, Now
“Missy.” Stacey threatens me by waving a spatula in my direction. She has stepped up from her usual Mirage duties to help Max care for me, and it’s a responsibility she takes seriously. “Plant your tush back on the couch or else.”
“I can walk around my own house.”
“Nuh-uh. Rest and relaxation. Doctor’s orders. Besides, we need you camera-ready in a couple days.”
I avoid dwelling on the interview—because I really don’t want to think about that—and I give Stacey a dismissive hand wave. “That doctor’s overly cautious.”
“Ma’am.” Stacey gives me an icy, mean stare. “Sit.”
“Okay,” I grumble. Everyone is acting as if I’ve caught the bubonic plague. I hate being useless, and I don’t like leaving The Mirage in the hands of other people, even if those people are as trustworthy as Stacey and Max.
I hobble back to the couch, using the armrest for support.
My ankle still hurts, and I’m sure I’ll have a headache within the hour, but I can work.
I want to work—not sit on the sofa all day.
Because right now, it’s that, or recall the fear in Max’s voice.
The concern written on his face as I got my bearings in the dirt. His confession in the hospital.
I wouldn’t care about anything else if something happened to you.
Maybe a soap opera would do me some good. I nestle into the couch with the extra pillows Max brought out from his room. They smell like him.
“Tonight’s guests show up?” I ask Stacey as I flip through channels.
“They were pulling in as I came over here to help you out. Max is giving them a warm welcome. He’s a natural, you know.”
“That’s Max.” I can imagine how every guest has fallen in love with him.
“You should hire him.”
“Max is the whole reason the pop-up exists.”
“I mean for the hotel.” She wipes the counters down, despite having done so right before loading the dishes. “Extra help wouldn’t hurt, ’specially someone like him.”
A stabbing pain in my leg prompts me to resituate myself on the couch. “He’s an art curator, not a hotel manager. Besides, he doesn’t have plans to stay in Harlow.” My throat feels sandy.
“With good enough reason, he might.”
I give her a flat look to smother whatever her imagination has convinced her is going on. “Stop it with the matchmaker stuff.”
“Who said anything about matchmaking?” She peers out my window as if she can see him in the lobby, working away.
“Although he did grow up to be a handsome young man. Easy on the eyes.” She practically swoons as she folds the towel and places it in a drawer.
“Got that whole sensitive thing going for him. He’s such a man. ”
“I can pass along your number, if you’d like.” I laugh, and she playfully flips me off. “Didn’t realize you liked the soft boys so much.”
“Oh, yeah. Give me an emotional guy any day of the week.”
“Is Paul in touch with his emotions?” Her husband always seems so stoic and reserved.
“My Paul? Cries more than me. Can’t take that cutie to the cinema without a full box of tissues in my purse.”
“What movies are you seeing with him?”
“All kinds. Don’t matter if it’s an animated one or one of those action ones with all the cars. He’s a blubbering fool, but I’m pretty sure the sun shines out his asshole.”
I laugh again as Max himself opens the door, ushering in some refreshing night air. He looks me up and down on the couch, lingering on my legs. They’re exposed, save for the barely-there pajama shorts I’m wearing.
“You look good.”
He simply means that I look well, that I’m recovering—that’s it!—so I ignore the heat inching up my neck. “Thanks.”
“The Winstons are checked in—they love the room. I told them about Monday karaoke at Sal’s, so they’ll book an extra night.”
I snort, equally impressed and irritated. “How are you better at my job than I am?”
“I’m not. Am I more persuasive? Maybe. Do I have the Max Weber Charm? Of course. But—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” I say, flinging a pillow in his direction, which he snatches midair.
“You are the one who runs this place. Along with Stacey, who has her own lovely charm.” Max nods toward her, and she titters a laugh. “I’m simply filling in until you’re better.”
“Which I am.”
“Not for two days, you’re not,” Stacey says, one hand perched on her hip.
“Stace, when you had your fall, I had to practically get a restraining order for you to stay home. You enjoy me being bedridden way too much.”
“Damn right I do.” Stacey dries her hands on her thighs and smiles. “Alright, you kids need anything else before I head out?”
We send Stacey on her way, and Max relaxes onto the sofa next to me. I pull my knees into my chest to give him some more room, and my left side pulses with an aching discomfort.
“Easy,” Max says.
“How was today?”
“Not bad. Stacey did a great job of doling out tasks. Kind of hard without a solid list, though. You should have the daily routines documented for events like this.”
“Events like this are incredibly rare.”
“But not impossible, obviously.”
“I know,” I say, connecting the dots of the beauty marks on my thigh.
A guide to running The Mirage would have been helpful two years ago, and I couldn’t believe that my mom never wrote one.
I scoured through her files—a chaotic mix of invoices and personal reminders—but never found anything comprehensive.
I’ve had that task on my list ever since, but something else always takes precedence.
“It’s usually just me and Stacey, and we know what we’re doing.”
“I never understood how much work goes into running this place. Making sure the rooms are totally cleaned, refilling used-up items, laundry, answering phone calls—all of it. A few of those things on their own, no big deal. But all together? And then there’s, you know, you.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You, I don’t know…you welcome people here in a special way. Make them feel like they’re staying with their cool cousin or something, not just paying for a few nights at a hotel.”
His pride is unmistakable, and it makes me fidget with the hem of my shorts. He’s so supportive, even when half the time I’m not doing this job right, and the other half it drains me completely.
“Sorry you got roped into being a hotelier,” I say.
“I don’t mind. Here.” He taps the armrest to his left and motions for me to stretch out my legs. I do, strapping him in like a seatbelt with my shins. He lifts the foot I didn’t injure and starts massaging the arch, thumbs rubbing relaxation right into my soles.
“Oh my god.” My head tilts back. “That’s so nice.”
A satisfied smile creeps onto his face. “Has it been miserable sitting inside all day while everybody does your bidding?”
“I fucking hate it.”
Max lets out a loud laugh. “Most people would consider it a vacation.”
“I hate vacations.”
“Only you, Daisy.”
“I do!” I switch feet for him. “Gentle on this one, please.”
His hands glide over my foot in a way that feels too good for a soothing foot rub between friends. But I can’t get used to this—not in a friendly way, or in a more-than-friendly way. Max won’t stay here forever.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. It’s, um, it’s just difficult to sit here while my hotel is out there, waiting for me.”
“It’s not going anywhere.”
My usual end-of-day tasks nag at me. “Did you remember to dust the lobby?”
“Yes.”
“And rearrange the pebbles on the path? So they’re not all kicked around?”
“Yes, my god.” Max rests my foot on his lap, right between his thighs. The warmth is cozy and inviting. “Stace and I have it covered.”
“I know, it’s just…” I shift my attention to a loose thread on the couch. “I like doing it myself.”
“You like being in charge.”
Except in bed with you, the voice inside my head says. Then you can do whatever you want.
Max rests a hand on my knee, and I have the feral urge to spread my thighs a few inches and see where this could go.
His thumb rubs once, then twice, but he pulls away like a spell has been broken. “What should we do for dinner?” He taps my calf so I lift up my legs, and the absence of his body makes the couch its own vast desert landscape.
I must be imagining that our time together edges on something deliciously dangerous. Clearly, Max is managing just fine with me in the house.
He stalks to the kitchen and starts opening and closing cabinets. “Pasta? We’ve got tofu in the fridge. Or should we order a pizza?”
“Indian.”
“Okay. You call the order in, and I can do pickup.”
“I’ll go.”
“You’re cute, thinking that’s even in the realm of possibility.” He walks back to me with a glass of water in one hand and two pills in the other. “Here.”
“Thanks,” I say as I sit up halfway. “I forgot.”
“Busy worrying about everyone and everything else, and not taking care of yourself. Stay here and relax.” Max stands beside me, looking down while I tilt my head back and dry-swallow the medication. “Drink. All of it.”
I’m acutely aware of how close I am to the fly of his pants and how a single zipper is all that separates us from another evening of just tonight promises.
My heart can’t handle anything more than what he and I are right now, in this moment—but that won’t stop my imagination from running wild with reminders of that night.
I empty the glass gulp by gulp, never losing eye contact with him. Max tracks my every move. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he wipes some of the water from the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
“Good girl.” His words send a current of longing straight to my core, and too soon, too quickly, he pulls his hand away. As he heads toward the door, I’m left yearning for all the things I shouldn’t want.
When Max said we landed some television press, I expected something small.
A camera person and a host, maybe. This is a full-on production, complete with lighting people— people, as in multiple—a makeup artist to dab our faces, someone holding the mic, numerous other tech people, and another person walking around looking highly professional with a clipboard.