I avoid dwelling on the interview—because Ireallydon’t want to think about that—and I give Stacey a dismissive hand wave. “That doctor’s overly cautious.”
“Ma’am.” Stacey gives me an icy, mean stare. “Sit.”
“Okay,” I grumble. Everyone is acting as if I’ve caught the bubonic plague. I hate being useless, and I don’t like leaving TheMirage in the hands of other people, even if those people are as trustworthy as Stacey and Max.
I hobble back to the couch, using the armrest for support. My ankle still hurts, and I’m sure I’ll have a headache within the hour, but I can work. Iwantto work—not sit on the sofa all day. Because right now, it’s that, or recall the fear in Max’s voice. The concern written on his face as I got my bearings in the dirt. His confession in the hospital.
I wouldn’t care about anything else if something happened to you.
Maybe a soap opera would do me some good. I nestle into the couch with the extra pillows Max brought out from his room. They smell like him.
“Tonight’s guests show up?” I ask Stacey as I flip through channels.
“They were pulling in as I came over here to help you out. Max is giving them a warm welcome. He’s a natural, you know.”
“That’s Max.” I can imagine how every guest has fallen in love with him.
“You should hire him.”
“Max is the whole reason the pop-up exists.”
“I mean for the hotel.” She wipes the counters down, despite having done so right before loading the dishes. “Extra help wouldn’t hurt, ’specially someone like him.”
A stabbing pain in my leg prompts me to resituate myself on the couch. “He’s an art curator, not a hotel manager. Besides, he doesn’t have plans to stay in Harlow.” My throat feels sandy.
“With good enough reason, he might.”
I give her a flat look to smother whatever her imagination has convinced her is going on. “Stop it with the matchmaker stuff.”
“Who said anything about matchmaking?” She peers out my window as if she can see him in the lobby, working away. “Although he did grow up to be a handsome young man. Easyon the eyes.” She practically swoons as she folds the towel and places it in a drawer. “Got that whole sensitive thing going for him. He’s such aman.”
“I can pass along your number, if you’d like.” I laugh, and she playfully flips me off. “Didn’t realize you liked the soft boys so much.”
“Oh, yeah. Give me an emotional guy any day of the week.”
“Is Paul in touch with his emotions?” Her husband always seems so stoic and reserved.
“My Paul? Cries more than me. Can’t take that cutie to the cinema without a full box of tissues in my purse.”
“What movies are you seeing with him?”
“All kinds. Don’t matter if it’s an animated one or one of those action ones with all the cars. He’s a blubbering fool, but I’m pretty sure the sun shines out his asshole.”
I laugh again as Max himself opens the door, ushering in some refreshing night air. He looks me up and down on the couch, lingering on my legs. They’re exposed, save for the barely-there pajama shorts I’m wearing.
“You look good.”
He simply means that I look well, that I’m recovering—that’s it!—so I ignore the heat inching up my neck. “Thanks.”
“The Winstons are checked in—they love the room. I told them about Monday karaoke at Sal’s, so they’ll book an extra night.”
I snort, equally impressed and irritated. “How are you better at my job than I am?”
“I’m not. Am I more persuasive? Maybe. Do I have the Max Weber Charm? Of course. But—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” I say, flinging a pillow in his direction, which he snatches midair.
“You are the one who runs this place. Along with Stacey, who has her own lovely charm.” Max nods toward her, and she titters a laugh. “I’m simply filling in until you’re better.”
