“I thought we were keeping this local.”
“The town’s not even an hour away. Plenty of people will come up for the exhibit.”
Sunridge is Harlow’s fashionable older sibling. People venture to Harlow for nature, the park, and simple desert living; they head to Sunridge to spend cash. It’s a small, quirky city for a flashy trip full of expensive restaurants and extravagant bars.
Daisy bends down and scratches at her calf, her cropped shirt rising to reveal ink I don’t remember on her ribcage. I resist the urge to lift the fabric up and peek.
“So, art galleries?” she asks.
“Anything. Stores, restaurants. Obviously, having a personal connection to you helps. But whatever you’ve got, we can work with it.”
“I’ll reach out to some folks and see what they say.”
“No, we’re brainstorming.” I tap my pen on the paper. “Give me names so I can research.”
“Let me handle stuff in Sunridge.” She pours herself more lemonade, even though her glass is almost full. She’s not telling me something.
“Do you know any people down there?”
Daisy avoids eye contact and does a mix between a shrug and a shake of her head.
“If you have suggestions, you need to tell me, Daze. The more I can learn about them, the better I can tailor our proposal.”
“Fine,” she says after a moment. “I might know someone who could help us.”
The chef. He can’t be all that bad if she remained on good terms with him. While I’d love it if she didn’t bound back into a relationship with him—we need to focus on the pop-up—it’s not my business if she has lingering feelings.
I can still dislike him, though, for hurting Daisy. She didn’t tell me explicitly what happened between them, but she’s been fidgety all afternoon, and I’d guess it’s because he broke her heart.
“I look okay?” Daisy finger-combs her hair. She wears a long, flowy dress that’s strappy on the top, showing off her strong shoulders dotted with constellations of freckles. To someone passing by, we could be going on a date.
“You look more than okay.” I clear my throat.
She checks herself out one more time in the restaurant window’s reflection, and my gaze skims over the smooth curves of her cleavage. The cut of her dress goes so low I catch the start of a sternum tattoo, and I flick my eyes away before she catches me staring.
“This guy will regret things ever ended with you.”
Her steps falter. “But not enough that he won’t throw money at us?”
“Precisely.”
The restaurant buzzes with trendy couples and affluent families. My vision adjusts to the dim, romantic lighting while relaxed electronic beats pump in the background. Despite the bustle, the atmosphere remains calm. With the ample space between tables and gold accents shimmering against gray concrete furniture, I immediately know Daisy’s instincts were spot-on. This is the type of establishment any of my art acquaintances would love, so we’re in the right place.
The host asks Daisy if we can meet Mr. Chef in the kitchen, since the night ended up unexpectedly busy. The request seems odd to me, but Daisy leads me to the back of the house like sheknows the way by heart. I follow her, mesmerized by the moth tattoo on her back. Its wings flex with her every movement, and below it, the slinky material of the dress waterfalls down her backside.
Walking through the swinging doors pulls me out of my trance. A gust of warmth knocks into me as I take in the frantic scene. Pans sizzle, someone shouts a string of numbers, and plates clink against a stainless-steel work surface.
To prepare for tonight, I spent the day researching everything I could about Alex—every news piece, blog, and social media post. He’s held positions in restaurants since he legally could, studied in France, and worked his way up from a line cook here in Southern California. The guy’s talented—now with five restaurants in the region. A tinge of jealousy strikes when I consider my recent career setbacks. He seems to have it so much more together.
I recognize Alex from a photo. He uses tweezers to situate some greens on top of a scoop of ice cream with the precision of an open-heart surgeon. Once the wiry herb has found its rightful place, Alex’s eyes shoot right to Daisy. “My Daisy Flower,” he says, grinning as if it’s the cleverest nickname in the world.
Alex marches toward Daisy and wraps her in a bear hug. “Missed you. Guess this was worth the drive, huh?”
Her mouth falls open in shock.
“Aw, I’m only teasing you.” He play-pushes her shoulder. “Bad joke. And you,” he says, turning to me. “You’re Max.”
“Nice to—” I hold out my hand, which he crushes with a tight embrace.
