Page 14 of The Malibu Arrangement

I brace myself. Lexi is serious now, something she rarely is.

“Go on,” I say.

Lexi's hand trembles as she pulls the envelope from the stack of mail. The red stamp across the front screams before I even open it. Eviction. The paper burns in my fingers, each typed word a hammer blow. Thirty days. My throat closes. I've been draining my account every month, eating ramen for dinner, canceling my phone insurance—and for what? The landlord might as well have signed it in our blood.

Of course this happened. Mom hasn't earned a dime since her diagnosis in January. The emergency fund vanished by March. Now she's juggling rent on her two-bedroom in Palm while Lexi's textbooks pile up on the counter next to unpaid electric bills. Even before cancer, they were just one missed paycheck away from homelessness.

I can’t afford to do more than I’ve been doing. I’ve been giving every extra penny to Mom and Lex, but it’s not enough.

It's not right. Not after everything. Mom's hands used to bleed from cleaning rich people's bathrooms all day before heading to the Wal-Mart store for the night shift. I still remember her soaking those raw fingers in ice water at 2 AM, whispering "it's worth it" when she caught me watching from the hallway. She later worked three jobs at the same time - as a Denny’s waitress, a Wal-Mart checker and a medical transcriptionist. She worked her fingers to the bone to make sure Lexi and I had everything we needed. Dad's been gone since the skiing accident, and she never complained once. Now I can’t keep her afloat when she needs me?

And if I fail them, the consequences will ripple beyond just Mom. Lexi's future hangs in the balance too.

“No,” I say. “You’re not quitting school. I’ll figure it out.”

“Celeste, you can’t. You’ve been giving us all you can give for the past nine months. You can’t give anymore unless you want to move in here. And, no offense, I love ya, sis, but there’s no room for you here.”

And there’s not room in my condo either. I’m buying a two-bedroom in Claremont, and I’m only making my mortgage with the help of my best friend, Olivia.

I suddenly realize I might not have a choice. I think about the offer to marry Max Kensington in exchange for $250,000. I’d only have to stay married for a year to get that money.

Why I was the one chosen for this, I don’t know.

What I do know is I need to take that offer.

I hope and pray it’s still on the table.

“Lex, don’t worry,” I say. “Don’t do anything until I talk to you next. Don’t tell the Mastro people you’ll be a part of their restaurant management training program and certainly don’t inform UCLA you’re dropping out. Okay? Promise me you’ll do those things. Promise me, Lexi.”

She nods. “Okay. I’ll promise you. But what are you going to do, Celeste?”

I take a deep breath. “Something I might regret.” Then I shake my head. “No. I won’t regret anything that’ll keep you guys in this apartment and you in school.” I kiss her on the cheek and hug her. “It’s going to be okay.”

I pray I’m telling the truth.

Chapter Eleven

A RECONSIDERED OFFER

Max

"What the fuck?" The words escape my lips as my phone screen illuminates with a most unwelcome email from my granddad, arriving like an unwanted visitor the day after my hospital discharge. I was only at UCLA Medical for twenty-four miserable hours—just long enough for the nurses to thread an IV into my arm and push that familiar cocktail of Toradol that makes the jackhammer behind my eyes finally stop. When the neurologist suggested additional tests, I waved him off with my discharge papers already in hand. The Kensington-Dreamscape acquisition documents sit in a leather portfolio on my desk, each page requiring my signature in blue ink—the kind of work that defines a movie studio CEO's existence and doesn't pause for something as inconvenient as a debilitating migraine.

But there it is in my inbox, my grandfather's message demanding I meet with him and Celeste to "hammer out the terms of our impending nuptial agreement." Fuck. I slam my fist against the desk, making my coffee slosh over the rim. The words blur as I squint at the screen, that familiar vice-grip tightening around my skull, those goddamn sparkles creeping in at the corners. So much for thinking the migraine is gone for good. But no. Not today. Not right now. Mind over matter, forget about the pain.

Finalize marriage details with Celeste? What the hell? When I walked out of Dreamscape yesterday, we had an understanding. Zero marriage. Zero announcements. Zero social media. And definitely no exclusive with Vanity Fair magazine, which apparently Granddad is pushing for in this email—"someone's going to get the story, might as well be Vanity Fair.” He's acting like I never spoke to Celeste at all, like she didn't literally laugh in Iris's face when this ridiculous idea came up. As she damn well should have.

Fuck! My chest constricts like I'm being crushed by a boa constrictor. This marriage can't happen. It just can't. Every morning I'd wake up, see that copper hair spread across the pillow next to mine, and feel another hairline fracture in the walls I've spent twenty-two years building. I've never let anyone see what's behind those walls. Not once. And now I'm supposed to let this woman—this stranger—live inside my house? Inside my head? My fist clenches. The nearest drywall suddenly looks inviting.

No. I flex my fist, then release it. Another trip to UCLA with a fractured hand isn't what I need right now. The X-ray techs know me by name. Christ, I'm already drowning after one day out of commission. My inbox has exploded, the Chen Chinese distribution deal is hanging by a thread, and Spielberg's people keep calling about tomorrow's dinner. Three of my execs are circling like sharks with their pet projects, all needing eight-figure greenlight decisions. The marketing team's blowing up my phone about budget approvals for the Scorsese picture—the one everyone's already whispering "Best Picture" about. And somewhere in this mess, there's a quarterly report that the board expects on their desks by Friday.

And now Granddad's goddamn summoned me tonight for his half-baked matchmaking scheme with Celeste Jenkins. Fucking perfect. Because running a studio doesn't already devour every second of my existence like some ravenous beast. I had to reschedule lunch Selena Farley—the Selena Farley—who's sitting on scripts that would make Scorsese weep. All so I can spend an hour pummeling Steve, my six-foot canvas punching bag, until my knuckles bleed through the wraps. If I don't beat something lifeless into shreds first, I swear to God I'll launch that dinner table through Granddad's bay window the moment he utters the word "marriage."

I storm through the Patrician Club's glass doors. The doorman's greeting dies in his throat. Familiar faces—trainers, members, even the smoothie bar girl who usually waves—avert their eyes as I pass. My reflection in the weight room mirrors shows why: jaw clenched, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed to slits. The crowd around the boxing ring parts without a word. They've seen this look before. They know what it means. And right now, it means Steve is about to get exactly what's coming to him.

I spend an hour destroying Steve with every punch and kick I can muster. My screams echo off the walls of the private room the club reserved for me and Steve, and I'm grateful no one else can hear my unhinged howling. By the time I'm done, it's a miracle the training dummy hasn't collapsed into a heap. Sweat pours down my face, my knuckles throb, my throat burns raw, but the rage has subsided enough that I probably won't make a scene at Granddad's tonight—which was the whole point of this session. Still, this helplessness, this lack of control... I never deal with these feelings in my normal life. That's what really fuels this rage. No one asked what I wanted. No one cared. Now this woman—this gorgeous, infuriating woman I wish I'd never met—is about to completely derail my life, and I have absolutely no say in the matter.

After showering, I pull on my Armani suit, yanking the sleeves straight before hammering through the buttons. The Stefano Ricci wing-tips wait by the door—expensive as hell but worth every cent. Back at the office, my heart rate's finally normal after granddad's bombshell email. Five o'clock deadline. Shit. Usually I'm here until ten, minimum. The pressure starts drilling behind my eyes. Goddamn it, not now. I grab the beta-blocker the hospital forced on me after last night's episode, dry-swallowing it. No time for this migraine crap. I crack my neck, square my shoulders at the screen. Work will fix this. Work.