Daisy and I have different views oncharm, evidently. I played the chameleon as a defense mechanism. Better to be liked by everyone than loved by only a few.
A knock sounds at the door, and I go to open it. Daisy probably wouldn’t want to answer in her state; besides, I already know who’s here.
I thank the delivery driver and present Daisy with a plastic bag of Thai food that bursts at the seams.
“Hidden Moon.” She leaps out of the chair and peers into one of the take-out boxes, inhaling the steam. “Oh my god. Okay. You can stay. The Max Weber Charm can stay.”
She goes to the kitchen sink and grabs two plates from the cupboard above. Daisy’s lithe body moves like a dancer’s, but she has enough muscle definition in her legs and shoulders that she could also kick your butt. She balances on one foot like a flamingo while refilling our mugs, and I envision my hand dragging up her shin, skating over the ink on her thighs, and landing on her peach-shaped ass.
“Dining room or coffee table?” she asks, snapping me back to reality. If I’m going to propose this grand plan, I can’t feed into the tension that’s built at the crotch of my pants.
“F-floor. Old times’ sake.”
Daisy rips the lid off the coconut soup and whispers a sweet thank you to me. “Not for the food. For being here.” She pours the steaming liquid into her bowl. “Gwen’s pregnant, so I feel silly going to her about this, considering she has so much other stuff happening. Stacey listens to me nonstop about everything related to The Mirage, so I don’t want to bog her down with my personal life, too.”
“You can talk to me anytime.”
“What about you?” She bites into a spring roll and talks around it. “What did you want to discuss?”
She’s deflecting, but I might have some news to put her in a better mood. Setting my plate down, I turn to her and rest an elbow on the seat of the couch. “What are you doing with the barn?”
“Storing your shit.”
“Other than that. You mentioned renovations?”
Her chewing slows, and she peers at me. “Yeah.”
“Expensive ones?”
“What are you getting at?”
“What if we did something this summer that paid for all of the repairs?”
“I’m not doing porn.”
That’s not what I had in mind, but it is now.
“I’m joking, Max,” she says, nudging me. “You’re turning red.”
“I-I think we should go into business together.”
“Again, not doing porn.”
Great. Now I’ve got a semi.“Daze, seriously.”
“Since when have you been interested in hospitality?”
“Not hospitality. You bring the hospitality, I bring the art. We combine our skills and plan something that people have never seen before here.”
“An art show? Those happen here.”
“Not an art show. Not even a gallery. I mean a wholemuseum.”
“I can’t turn my hotel into a museum.”
“I’m not explaining this well.” I take a breath and comb my hand through my hair. What seemed like a brilliant idea when I texted her now seems idiotic. Do I actually believe I can pull this off?
But if I want Tate to give me a second glance, this will do way more than the teaching gig.
