“When the guy at the store found out they were for The Mirage, he threw in some extra sandbags,” Max says, slamming the truck door shut. He looks rugged, with a sheen of sweat on his brow and his shirt wrinkled, and I wish I could melt into him and forget everything else.
I survey the trunk, disappointed by the small haul of sand-filled sacks. We cleared the lot mere weeks ago, and all of that hard work and money will wash out to town.
Max’s warm hand links around my upper arm and sucks me out of the negativity. “Combined with what we already have, we’ll have plenty of ground covered. We’ve got this.”
“You can’t promise that,” I say under my breath. I need to stay calm for the sake of our guests, and for the sake of Stacey and the gallery assistants who are all working their asses off. If anyone sees me losing my serenity, warmth, and wonder, that would only add to the turmoil.
But we have so much on the line.
“The guests are safe, they’re getting settled in, they have food and flashlights, and their rooms are secure.” He moves to stand in front of me, both hands on my shoulders. The gesture grounds me. “The people are the most important, and you’ve got that covered. Maybe they’ll have some minor leaks, but it’s nothing we can’t handle.”
Then, as if doing so is the most natural thing in the world, he rests a hand on my hip and pulls me in for a kiss. His lips on mine set everything right, if only for a moment. We have guestsexploring the property and another couple sitting in the lobby revising their vacation plans, but all I know is him, here. We’re at that point—still not labeling “us,” but not worried about what other people think either. Not hiding.
A distant crack of lightning reminds us what we’re up against. We’re plowing into the first big storm since the renovations, so I don’t know what points of failure exist.
Which also means every piece of art is in danger, too.
“I’ll use as many painter’s tarps as I can find.” He scratches his head, like some other brilliant idea might be hiding in there. “Not ideal, but workable.”
“We can turn my living room into storage.” Poor blind Freddie won’t understand a thing, but I can keep him in my bedroom, and at least we know everything will stay dry.
“Or…” Max pinches the bridge of his nose. He hesitates, pulls out his phone, and stares at it before pulling up a familiar contact’s name.
“No.”
“What other choice do we have?”
“You said you wanted to do this without their help.” My shoulders sink with the realization that Max couldn’t count on me, or on The Mirage.
“They have the room. With the extra travelers staying in the guest room and on the couch, wouldn’t it be better to put everything where no one will run into it or knock it over accidentally?”
I hate the idea as much as he does, but we’re past desperation.
“Are you sure?” I interlock my hands with his. Despite what we’re dealing with, I love this—being able to touch him like this without caring what anyone thinks.
“We can’t afford not to. Everything will be safe there, and it’s just down the road.”
Five seconds later, he has his cell on speakerphone.
“I’m about to head into a meeting,” his dad answers. “Three minutes.”
“Hi to you, too.”
I tap Max’s foot with my own to keep him on track. He looks at me and whispers, “What?”
“Hello, Mr. Weber.” I adopt a honeyed customer service voice. “It’s Daisy.”
Mr. Weber’s tone brightens, and he asks how I’m doing. I answer honestly: we’re busy and stressed. I wait, giving Max the opportunity to step into the discussion, but he doesn’t bite.
“Um, actually,” I say, “we have a favor to ask of you. With the storm, we have a lot of items from the pop—”
“Can we stop by the house and store some stuff?” Max asks. “To keep things from The Mirage safe tonight, with the weather and all.”
His dad pauses. “How long will it be there?”
“Tonight, and that’s it. In and out in less than twenty-four hours.”
“Be right in,” Max’s dad says to someone else. “Well, sure. Anything you need, Daisy.”
