Page 2 of The Malibu Arrangement

While this job isn’t my dream realized, it’s a job and I’m good at it. I can wade through the slush pile, plucking out the rare script with a heartbeat while others see only paper. Give me a treatment with even a flicker of promise—a single character that breathes, one scene that surprises—and I’ll polish that rough stone until studio execs see what I saw from the beginning: something that glitters in the dark. So to think that I might be fired if I don’t meet this pompous ass just chaps my hide.

This meeting is just one more reminder that I don’t matter—that, in Los Angeles society, I’m just a peon. A nobody. I can apparently be summoned at a moment’s notice and not be given a choice about whether I want to spend my evening schlepping to Beverly Hills, shopping for fancy clothes I can’t afford, and sitting across the table from an arrogant nepo-baby who has no clue about the struggles of a girl like me. He no doubt never has to worry about a mother with Stage-3 cancer who can’t work and a sister in college who can’t carry financial weight. I have to carry them, in addition to worrying about my own bills, so every moment in my life is literally valuable. I have no interest in wasting any moments on people who obviously don’t respect my time.

“Celeste?” Elaine says. Apparently, I’ve been staring at her for the past few minutes, not saying a word. I’m trying not to seethe about this whole scenario, but, goddamn, it’s difficult not to. “Uh, I hope you decide to meet Max. We can’t afford to lose you.”

“Since when does he control my employment status?” I ask, crossing my arms. “Last I checked, the Kensington logo isn’t hanging in our lobby yet.”

Elaine leans forward, lowering her voice. “The merger paperwork might not be signed, but Iris has already handed him the personnel files. He and Iris are making lists—who stays, who goes.”

“So if I don’t drop everything for this dinner tonight, I’m automatically on the chopping block?”

Elaine’s perfectly lined lips press together before she answers. “Max Kensington operates like the sun—everything revolves around him on his schedule. Cross him once…” She draws her finger across her throat with a soft shhk.

I nod. “Got it.” I turn back around, ready to work on my project again. I have to prepare to meet with Arlene Chase next week and make a decision on whether I want to champion her series treatment. And I want Elaine to leave so I can seethe in private.

“6 o’clock,” Elaine says.

“Okay,” I say, checking my watch. Six o’clock—the exact time I’d planned to finish the Arlene Chase notes before checking in on my mother and then going home. I picture Max Kensington checking his Patek Philippe, probably inherited from daddy dearest, while a driver idles outside in a car that costs more than my student loans. My jaw tightens as I gather my things, the rainbow combat boots suddenly feeling heavier on my feet.

Chapter Two

THE ARROGANT BOSS

Max

I drum my fingers on the marble tabletop, eyes snapping to my watch every two seconds. Celeste Jenkins—the disaster I agreed to meet—is fifteen minutes late. We were supposed to meet at six. It’s now 6:15. She clearly has no clue who she’s stood up, and considering she hasn’t sent me a text explaining why she’s late, apparently doesn’t care. Typical. I gulp chilled water and snap my fingers. The maître d’ materializes at my elbow like a ghost.

"Mr. Kensington?" he murmurs, bowing like he's got a damn rod in his spine. The dining room's massive—thirty-foot ceilings with some crystal monstrosity hanging dead center that probably cost seven figures, throwing light everywhere. Windows run floor to ceiling, showing off downtown's electric sprawl. The walls are plastered with portraits of people who’ve regularly dined here—Cary Grant, Hendrix, Jagger, every president since Wilson, Chaplin, Monroe, Bezos. And there I am, too. My charcoal face staring back like I belong with these other women and men.

“Bring me a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild,” I say, voice low and lethal. “Two glasses.” Two glasses means I still expect Celeste to show. If she doesn’t, I’ll make sure she never works again.

The maître d’ disappears. I replay Celeste’s last screw-up: she was behind her studio funneling two million dollars into that Nora Davis memoir—worthless drivel that reeked of trash from page one. My bullshit detector never fails; hers blew a fuse, and her studio paid the price. If she tries that stunt when Kensington Pictures acquires Dreamscape, I’ll watch her career implode.

My blood hammers in my temples when Elody Martin drifts over. The world’s hottest actress—Oscar winner, two blockbusters this year, the new face of Chanel N°5—floats to my table like she owns the damn place. She brushes blood-red nails across the table edge, leans in close enough that I catch a whiff of something expensive. Her blue eyes lock onto mine, calculating. Jesus, that face could launch ships. She slides into the seat opposite without asking, her dress cut so low I'd need a snorkel not to drown. Fuck me.

“Had a feeling you’d be here tonight,” she purrs, dipping a scarlet nail into my wine, then licking it as she stares.

I arch an eyebrow. “What gave you that idea?” I ask, measured. I dine here most nights, then burn the midnight oil in my office. Four times a week I train at the Patrician Club with Gianni Marullo—CEO of Astrea, a worldwide conglomerate that owns restaurants from Malibu to Crete to Beijing, with the headquarters in Venice, Italy. Sometimes I meet my brother Ansel there.

Elody shrugs, voice husky. “What are you doing after this?”

I lock eyes with her. “Fucking Rayna,” I say flatly. Rayna Barnaud, French supermodel with onyx eyes gracing every billboard from Beijing to Times Square—and my current on-call fuck-buddy. She’s in Europe—Elody knows that. Message sent.

Unfazed, Elody smirks. “Interested in other company? I know you find me…attractive.” Velvet edged with hunger.

I resist the urge to laugh. Then I see her. The late star of tonight's debacle, striding through the room like she's storming Normandy. Five-foot-ten of pure defiance with wild corkscrew-red hair—not fashionable curls, but the kind that looks like she stuck her finger in a socket. Blue eyes practically throwing daggers at anyone who dares look twice. Her outfit is a middle finger to this whole scene—threadbare black sweater, some navy skirt that's probably from a thrift store, and ridiculous rainbow combat boots like she's auditioning for a punk band. Christ. Has nobody told her never to wear navy with black? In a room full of Prada and Gucci, she might as well have "outsider" tattooed on her forehead. And yet she walks with the confidence of someone who owns the building.

I tense. I respect women who ignore the crowd, but I want to throttle her. Half an hour late with zero apology. Instead, she shoots me daggers that feel like bullets.

The maître d' pulls out the chair beside me, and Celeste slides into it like she belongs here. Elody's face tightens—that look women get when they smell competition. Celeste sits there with this little smile playing at the corner of her mouth, completely unfazed. Christ, her bag looks like it went through a war zone—one of those fake Givenchys with the stitching coming loose at the seams. Bet she haggled some poor bastard down to twenty bucks in some Cabo back alley. She digs around in there and pulls out what I can only describe as evidence from a crime scene: a Bubba Gump shrimp napkin with what might be cocktail sauce splattered across it. She's already got a pen in hand, ready for business.

“I love your movies,” she gushes to Elody, bright-eyed. “I’ve seen every one—three times. Can’t wait for your new HBO series!”

Elody’s stony mask cracks into a polite smile. I catch the flicker of amusement in her eyes. Celeste scribbles furiously, then pushes the napkin toward Elody with the pride of a kid showing off a treasure.

Elody signs and gives me a slow, seductive look. “I’ll talk to you later,” she purrs, fluttering her lashes.

Celeste tilts her head at me, blue eyes challengingly alive. My pulse spikes. This dinner just got a hell of a lot more interesting—I can’t wait to see what ragged-napkin defense she’s got up her sleeve next.