“Artists don’t want to compete to be in a museum like this,” I continue, hoping to knock some sense into her stubborn ass with my years of experience. “There are egos involved. Politics. They want a prime spot, reserved for them. I’m not saying it’s right, but we have to play the game if we want the audience we’re aiming for.”
“You’d be surprised at what people in this area can do.” She falters at the door to the casita. “If you’re so embarrassed by this place, then why bother with this project at all?”
“I’m not embarrassed. I only want the best artists we can get, and—”
“But what if—”
“And that doesn’t mean people here aren’t talented. But we want a big crowd, so we have to appeal to that.”
She tips her chin up. “We’d spend less on shipping.”
“That’s…okay, good point. But I don’t want shipping costs, which I budgeted for, to get in the way of an amazing exhibit.”
“Maybe you’re the one getting in the way. Wanting all these hotshots but turning your nose up at anyone from here.You’refrom here, in case you forgot.”
“This is my job, Daze,” I say through clenched teeth. “Curating. Making choices, eliminating options, and tailoring what this museum will be. You have to trust me.”
“Trust goes both ways,” she says, stepping close enough I can smell her shampoo.
Words escape me because she’s right. Daisy has a lot on the line, and so far, she’s followed my lead. She knows Harlow the way I can’t after years away, so I should at least consider her suggestion, do more research, and decide if it’s feasible.
“Okay,” I concede. “Send me your list. I’ll look into some things, and…I’ll think about it.”
“I knew you’d come around.” The tiny victory makes her eyes gleam, and she presses her pointer finger into my chest. “People will show up.”
“Don’t poke me.” I grab her hand and chuckle, guiding it away as she struggles against me.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she says, scowling as she tries to re-poke me. Her other hand flies into view, but I snatch that one. After a handful of more failed attempts from her, she wriggles as a giggle escapes her.
Once I’ve gotten a hand encircled around both her wrists, I hold her arms taut, pulling her close enough that there’s no space between us. If I could freeze time, I’d stop right here and memorize every shade of chocolate and chestnut in her eyes.
She looks at me and swallows. In the dusk, her face and body glow a gorgeous golden hue. The nighttime chill must be setting in, because she shivers. “You’re not making this easy, Max.”
“I said I’d think about it. I meant that.”
“Not about the artists.” Daisy holds my gaze for a moment before looking away and gnawing on her plump bottom lip. She shakes her head. “We can’t work like this.Ican’t work like this.”
My heartbeat picks up. She doesn’t mean the artists—she meansme. She must want to send me packing to a motel and cancel the pop-up altogether.
“So this is what I think we should do.” She straightens her back and lifts her face to meet mine, confident and so achingly perfect. “We should have sex.”
“Say something.” Daisy sits at the other end of the sofa, hugging her shins like a shield.
My mind is a hurricane of a million thoughts, so I steady myself by leaning my elbows onto my knees. She poured us two whiskeys, neat, but they remain untouched on the coffee table. I spin my glass, flirting with the idea of drinking like we’re both flirting with the idea ofthis.
I’m not convinced I’m even awake right now.
“There’s been…tension,” Daisy says. “Ever since that day at your parents’ house.”
Desire stirs deep within me. Daisy had crawled onto my lap like she belonged there.
“And rather than tiptoe around each other,” she goes on, “especially with a project that’s important to both of us, let’s just take care of it. You made it sound like maybe you wouldn’t hate having sex with me, either.”
The corner of my mouth quirks up. Sex with Daisy—what alternate universe have I landed in that this is not only a possibility, but something we’re talking about as casually as grabbing a drink after work?
“Wouldn’t be awful.”
She thwacks me with a pillow before I have the chance to blink, and we both laugh—deep, genuine laughs, like the ones we shared over ice cream cones and late-night phone calls.
