I flip through the five paintings in speechless awe, my mouth gaping. The Mirage at sunset, people mingling with wine glasses in hand, and cars in the parking lot, with cacti throughout. Another shows the inside of the barn, busy with guests having imaginary conversations and pointing at the art. This version of The Mirage is one I would never have imagined.
“You seemed hesitant to go through with some suggestions from the contractor,” Max says. “I thought I could paint you a picture instead. Literally.”
I let out a wet laugh, my eyesight blurring.
“Daze, this is it.” He leans closer, and the pressure from the air mattress pushes our knees together. “This is what we’re workingtoward. This vision might feel far away, but it’s possible, and it will be special.”
I sniffle and cozy up to the warmth of Max. This is the sweetest, most thoughtful thing he could have done. I’m weepy over these gorgeous paintings of The Mirage, the fact that my mother will never see her hotel like this, and how incredibly talented the man next to me is. How he would spend his talents onmeand something I love so much. And how, even after years apart, Max still understands exactly what I need.
“Freddie’s in there.” He points to the black-and-white cat in the lower left corner of one image, and I laugh.
“These are fantastic.”
He sets his hand on the mattress behind me, and we feel impossibly close. “I just want you to see what I see.”
Max once told me that art is noticing, and the way Max notices The Mirage makes my hotel seem like the most beautiful place on earth.
“Can we put these in the exhibit?”
“We can do whatever you want, Daisy.”
When I look up and find our faces inches apart, all I want is to kiss him. Max has every right to be frustrated with me for resisting renovations, but rather than pointing out how I’m holding us back, he met me where I am. He’s the Max I’ve always known—kind and devoted, creative and driven—but I can’t ignore the stronger pull between us. Not again.
I don’t give myself time to second-guess the desire, leaning forward and pressing my lips against his. Everything goes quiet, like the desert at dawn. His mouth is soft and safe, and although we’ve never kissed before, I feel like we’ve done this a billion times. Like we’ve lived a hundred lifetimes and always ended up here.
One of Max’s hands trails up to my jaw, and I could weep all over again at how gentle he is. I press into him more, exploringthe newfound closeness, and a jolt of electricity courses through me. With his arm supporting my side, I swing one leg across, and it bounces against the air bed. I straddle him, his hardness pressing against me, and we both groan. I can’t recall the last time I made out with someone like this, and I don’t remember it ever being so good. My fingers in his hair, his hand around my waist, and my hips slipping further into his lap as we push and pull against each other.
Max twirls me onto the mattress, which definitely has a hole because my entire back is on the ground. My foot hits the weight rack as Max latches onto my neck. The sensation is like the rev of a motorcycle in my veins, and it comes to an abrupt stop when his sister yells from downstairs.
“Hey Max, can you drive me to the library?” Her voice causes us both to freeze in place. “Maaaaax?”
He pauses, groans, then turns his head to the door. “Sure, just…hang on.”
His mouth on my neck again knocks the breath out of me, and I have to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
“What’s so funny?” he mumbles.
“This is ridiculous.”
Max pulls back and searches my face. “What?”
“Just like…this is crazy, right? We’re in our twenties, and we’re here.” I gesture to the room around us—the bike and rower on either side, and the droopy mattress we’re humping on. “Your little sister could walk in at any minute.”
“So…” Max props up onto an elbow. His hardness digs into me, and I have to restrain myself from grinding into him. “Is it so crazy, kissing me?”
“No. I mean, a little, maybe.”
“You know—youkissedme.”
“You kissed me back.”
“Because you kissed me first.”
“I—” I scooch out from under him and sit up. “Was that not okay?”
“Daze, I…” His voice gets quieter, and he stands. “You have to have known how I felt about you in high school.”
He levels me with a stare, and my heartbeat picks up. I’d suspected back then, and my own attraction simmered even deeper below the surface. But he never made a move. Never initiated. And that didn’t bother me for the longest time because I thought I should keep our friendship free from the complications of romance.
