“Exactly. Okay, gotta run. Let’s meet for a brainstorm sesh soon!”
She prances toward the exit. Once Dawn is out of earshot, I give Max a playful smack on his upper arm. His muscles are startlingly firm. “Visual is good?”
“I’m an art curator. I’m a sucker for visuals.” Max examines me with his head cocked to one side. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. She—a while back, she left a mediocre review for The Mirage.” I get closer to him, enjoying a whiff of that citrusy scent of his—is that cologne or something else?
“How mediocre?”
“Three stars,” I hiss.
“The Mirage is a five-star experience, no questions asked.”
“Iknow.”
The corner of Max’s mouth quirks up, and he must think I’m such a country bumpkin.
“Sorry,” I go on, grabbing my keys as I head toward the door. Max follows like he intends to walk me to my truck. “Small-town drama. How was your first-ever desert preservation meeting?”
“Exciting stuff.”
“You don’t need to tease me.”
“I seriously thought there was going to be a fistfight at one point. Everyone’s clearly very passionate about Harlow. You’re volunteering and talking to lawmakers about changing your town for the better. It’s cool to see people care and invest their time and energy into someplace they love.”
As he talks, there’s an earnestness about him. He’s not being flippant or giving me a hard time—it’s like he genuinely sees all the reasons I go to these meetings.
“These rentals really are awful,” I say when we reach my truck. “People swoop in, buy property, and then rent it out without stepping foot here again. They skirt rules and regulations, and they outsource everything to the cheapest companies they can find. All they see out here is dollar signs.”
“They can’t compete with what you have.”
“It’s more than the hotel.” I lean against the driver door. Max stands close enough that I have to crane my neck to look at him. “I want to protect this town, and these rentals suck the life out of it. No one will give a shit about this place if all that’s here is a bunch of identical buildings for tourists.”
“You think new legislation will turn things around?”
“I do.”
I could fix the barn, run promotions, upgrade the mattresses, and put a fresh coat of paint on The Mirage. I could pull through this season. But we’ll get a slow, painful kiss of death if Harlow collapses under the weight of these homeshares. So it doesn’t matter whether I think new legislation will work—it has to.
Chapter Nine
Max, Now
I’m slammed by memories of sitting in this very room the second I step inside. The desks are newer and in a different configuration than the rows I remember. Paintings and sketches I don’t recognize clutter the walls. And yet, entering this classroom, I feel the same as when I stepped foot in The Mirage last week. This place was a sanctuary. Here, I was me.
Some students notice me, and they scoot their chairs across the squeaky linoleum to face the front while gathering their art supplies. Others continue their shared conversations and laughter like I’m invisible. Summer school means a mix of overachievers on the path to graduate early, kids who flunked a class but want to graduate on time, and students looking for an arts credit to boost their college resume. No way will I let theseteenagers eat me alive for the next three months. I am Max Weber, out-of-work curator of art. Hear me roar.
I straighten my posture and plaster on a smile with the express goal of winning every single one of them over before our hour and a half is up—regardless of why they’re here, how much they enjoy art, or how talented they think they are.
“Hi everyone,” I announce, which gets more of them to turn to the front. “I’m Max. Not Mr. Weber. Never Mr. Weber. Call me Max.”
“You’re the instructor?” a blonde girl in the front asks. Mercifully, the kids are required to wear name tags on the first day, and I squint at her rectangular sticker: Zoë.
“I am.”
“What happened to Leslie?” she asks while adjusting her wire-frame glasses.
“Maternity leave,” a boy named Xander in the middle of the room chimes in, his eyes on me but his hand bouncing over the page as he doodles.
