Our horses fall into a steady rhythm next to each other as I process what she’s said.Good things? I can handle good things.
“So…” I fight the desire to hop off my horse and do a backflip. “Is horseback riding your way of telling me I’m a good lay?”
She laughs, and the sound is loud and unexpected, sending a jolt of satisfaction down my spine.
“Don’t get cocky. And put that dimple away.”
“I’ll try.” I shake my head and glance at her with a laugh, giving her one last look at it.
“Stop.”
“Fine.”
She waits a beat. “It’s still there.”
“I can’t help it.” I shrug. “Not used to seeing you all flustered. Not over me. I’m enjoying the moment.”
She snorts a little laugh. “I’m sorry that I haven’t held up my end of our deal.”
Does she mean she’s changed her mind? My heart soars, dreaming of what she might say next.I want more than just one night. I want you, again. Need you.
“I told you I wouldn’t let it get weird between us,” she goes on, “and I definitely did the past twenty-four hours.”
“Ah. Yeah.” I swat at a fly on the back of my neck. “You were pretty preoccupied with the laundry this morning. You ran about seventeen loads.”
“Are we good?”
I look at Daisy and try not to think about how I’ve seen every side of her, every curve and edge and angle. How I’ve found the quiet places of her body that make her moan, and how I’ve come inside her. But more than that, I have a connection with her that I don’t have with anyone else.
I don’t want to ruin that or push her away. Part of me wants more, but Daisy made the terms clear—and I can’t always be the guy who’s yearning for more with Daisy Johnson. I hate to admit it, but theonly one nightplan was a smart one.
“We’re good,” I say. “Actually, I wanted to talk about something. You mentioned bringing on local artists for the exhibit.”
She takes a long, deep breath. “Yeah.”
“I think—” I say, as she bulldozes ahead with, “It might not—”
“No, let me go first,” she says firmly. “I understand this wasn’t your original vision, and you think local artists won’t have as much of a draw for a wider audience. And maybe this isn’t how you’ve done any kind of pop-up before, but this isn’t like any other pop-up. People travel to discover places with character—with heart. This shouldn’t be a museum that you could find anywhere in the world—it should be special, because Harlow is special.
“And,” she says, closing her eyes as if gathering her strength to tell me this next part, “I can’t budge on this. Setting up a place with a bunch of artwork from outsiders is the same thing to me as folks buying up land and building chic homes to rent out. We need locals.”
“All right.”
She pulls the reins so her horse comes to a stop with a snort. “What?”
“You want local artists, and we’ll have them. I reached out to some people, and there’s a lot of interest.”
After some consideration, I understood what she wanted for the pop-up and agreed it made sense. Sure, I was coasting on an orgasm yesterday when I contacted some of Harlow’s favorites in the creative scene, but I wouldn’t have done so if I thought the idea was misguided. It would certainly be a unique mix of artists, but that would be exactly what Tate is looking for—and Daisy’s onto something. It feels right.
“So who’s in?” she asks.
I give her the names of people I’ve connected with, some of whom she knows, others who she’s less familiar with, and we continue on to the bottom of the gully where rocks and branches have collected. This terrain requires even more attention—like walking a tightrope on horseback.
“I thought for sure I’d have to fight you on this,” she says.
“I don’t want you to fight me on anything. Besides, I may have the experience, but I’m not doing this alone. I’m doing it with you, and it’s a good idea.”
She smiles, her lips pressed together. “What made you change your mind?”
