“He’s a friend,” I say again, a reminder to both her and me. “Anyway, he knows artists all over the world, so it’ll be a great lineup.”
Dawn looks like she wants to push the topic further, but resigns herself with another sip of coffee. “And local artists, right?”
I scramble for a response. Max’s spreadsheet with prospective artists listed everyone’s locations, but I didn’t notice Harlow on there.
“This is such an artsy city,” Dawn says. “It’d be a shame to airdrop a bunch of outside work like stuff doesn’t happen here, too.”
Dawn’s right—it would be cool to see a mix of local and international art. But Max seems so organized and in charge, I don’t know if I want to question anything. He’s done this hundreds of times before.
“And let me know what dates to book for my stay,” Dawn says. “We gotta bump up that three-star review.”
I could leap across the table and kiss her on both cheeks, but I stick to squeaking out a “Thank you.”
“Of course. That’s what community is for. Now let’s get to work, shall we?”
Ava opens the door and tackles me with a hug, her hair blocking my vision as she squeezes me like a python.
“You’re gonna crush Daze,” Max calls from behind her.
Ava releases me, leading me by the hand to show me the new layout of her room. I almost stop in my tracks when I catch Max in the hallway, a towel slung low around his hips. He runs another towel through his hair, the cords of his muscles pulsing with each movement.
“Sorry,” I say, not sure what I’m apologizing for. “Didn’t think to text back.”
“It’s fine.” He wears an easy smile. “Just give me a minute.”
Max messaged during my meeting with Dawn that he had something important to show me, so I stopped by on my way back to The Mirage. I hadn’t imagined I’d see Max wet and half-naked when I got here. He has two delicious lines on his abdomen that make a V formation, and a drop of water glidesacross his skin. Warmth inches down my torso along with something like longing.
I’m only noticing him like this because it’s been a while since I’ve had sex. A little solo session at home with my vibrator, and I’ll get over whatever attraction I think I have.
Max saunters to his room, andHello, gorgeous back muscles. The view of his sculpted shoulder blades and the contours of his back leaves me speechless.
Once Ava’s given me a full tour and I’ve gotten my mind off of Max’s body in that towel, I knock on his bedroom door. “Decent?”
Max greets me and gestures for me to come in. “Make yourself comfortable, if you can.”
Growing up, we hung out at Max’s house more since his parents each earned way more than my mom, meaning a cooler home and better snacks. But his room looks completely different now. Rather than an unmade bed, cluttered desk, and clothes strewn on the floor, he has an indoor bike and treadmill. A twin-sized air mattress rests in the corner, and he must literally live out of that red suitcase by the weight rack. Despite all the workout gear, he keeps the space tidier than his teenage bedroom.
He closes the door, and that’s new. His parents had a strict open-door policy, but we’re not eighteen anymore.
“You don’t have a nightstand in here or anything,” I say, appalled that his mom and dad have barely made room for him.
“No nightstand needed. The gym rat vibes aren’t really me, but I’m comfortable enough.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.” He gestures to the mattress, and when I sit down, I sink so deep that my butt touches the ground.
“I think this has a hole.”
“It’s not—” He waves his hand at the floor. “I haven’t refilled it in a few days. Here.” He sits next to me, boosting me off the ground, though not much. “See? It’s actually really comfortable.”
I press the mattress with an open palm, not fully convinced there’s no leak.
“And I can go straight from sleeping to a StairMaster with minimal effort, which is all I’ve ever wanted.” The corner of his mouth lifts, and that damn dimple sends a shock from my head to my toes. “No one can claim that Judy and Bill Weber are ones for sentimentality. Guess that’s what I get for being gone so long.”
Max scours the contents of his messenger bag, and for a split second, he is Max from when we were young—an adorable, art-obsessed kid who cared too much about what other people thought, even though he’d deny it. His years of joking that he’s a disappointment to his parents have clearly worn on his self-esteem.
Max hands me one of those massive folders he used to carry around at school. Carefully, I pull out the thick pieces of paper painted with a gorgeous pastel color palette of light pink and dusty brown and sage green. It’s a building—a hotel.Myhotel.
