Page 31 of The Malibu Arrangement

Mom's tight smile, lipstick bleeding into the fine lines around her mouth, said everything without a word. The girls exchanged glances over half-empty champagne flutes; they knew about our arrangement, but even they seemed shocked by Max's Oscar-worthy performance of a groom who'd rather be anywhere else. The least he could do was fake some basic affection for the crowd of socialites and industry vultures. But no. Apparently even that was too much to ask from the great Max Kensington, heir to the throne. So...

But then, the absolute audacity of Max to go all green-eyed monster over Shane! Like I was batting my eyelashes and twirling my hair while giggling at Shane's jokes or something. As if I'd risk becoming tomorrow's trending hashtag—#NewBrideFlirtsWithStranger—complete with some shaky iPhone footage shot from behind a champagne fountain. Please. Max either thinks I'm three sheets to the wind (spoiler alert: stone-cold sober because someone had to make sure Tally didn't start doing the electric slide on top of the cake table again) or that I have the IQ of a decorative throw pillow.

Either option makes my blood boil. If he's assuming I'm sloshed enough to make a spectacle of myself, that's insulting enough. But if he genuinely believes I'd be stupid enough to publicly humiliate both of us at our own wedding reception? That's next-level offensive. What am I to him, some backwoods bumpkin who just fell off the turnip truck? And the hypocrisy! He spent the entire reception acting like I was invisible, which technically should have given me carte blanche to chat with whoever I wanted. It's not like he's invested in this marriage beyond the paperwork, so why the territorial caveman routine?

Gianni drags Max away and I’m ready to bail. At 2 AM, only the freeloaders remain, draining the last of the top-shelf liquor while the VIPs had vanished in their Bentleys hours ago. My feet scream in my Louboutins, throbbing with the fading bass. Sober and exhausted, I crave my Ikea mattress—one of my last nights in my bedroom before Max's beachfront mausoleum becomes home. I call a seven-seat Uber, and we all leave together.

The ultimate Irish goodbye.

Chapter Twenty-Four

MOVING DAY

Max

Celeste is moving in today and I'd rather be getting a root canal without anesthesia. Rosa, who's been shooting me death glares all morning, keeps muttering something about beds and lying in them. It's pissing me off, which never happens with Rosa. She's my rock, has been since I was a snot-nosed kid with abandonment issues the size of Montana. When Dad bailed, I went nuclear—smashing vases, punching walls, the works. Granddad and Nana tapped out after a few months. Gianni and his pasta-loving clan were always jetting off to Florence or Milan. My brothers? Too busy nursing their own daddy wounds to deal with mine. But Rosa? She'd sit cross-legged on my bedroom floor for hours, piecing together thousand-piece puzzles while I sobbed, playing endless rounds of Go Fish when I couldn't sleep, making sure I didn't do something stupid like swan-dive off the Pacific Coast Highway bridge. I'd take a bullet for that woman without hesitation, and I've always treated her advice like gospel. But right now? Her "you-made-this-mess" wisdom can go straight to hell.

I shake my head. "Rosa, I can't believe you're taking her side. You know exactly why Granddad is forcing this woman into my house. This isn't my fault, so don't give me that look." My bare feet slap against the travertine as I pace the length of the infinity pool. Rosa doesn't even look up from her needlepoint—some welcome gift for a stranger she's decided to like without meeting. "I'm staying at the city penthouse tonight. You can give her the grand tour yourself. Show her which wing is hers. Teach her how to use the La Cornue Grand Palais range that she'll probably mistake for modern art. Just don't expect me to be here when she arrives."

Rosa's head shakes and that infuriating tsk-tsk sound makes my jaw clench. I hate when she's right. And she is right now. The penthouse beckons like a sanctuary, but my lungs feel compressed at the mere thought of Celeste inhabiting these walls—temporarily, I remind myself, just temporarily. God, I need a grapefruit spoon to carve out the part of my brain that keeps picturing her here. I glance at Rosa's knowing eyes and sigh. No one reads me like she does, not even Gianni. She sees the panic rising in my chest, the futility of escape. Her favorite saying echoes in my head: "Wherever you go, there you are." I could charter a jet to Antarctica tomorrow—been there once, checked it off the bucket list, never again with those temperatures—but Celeste would still haunt me. She's lodged herself somewhere between my ribs, and distance won't dislodge her. Even with her sequestered in the east wing, she'll be everywhere. In my thoughts. Under my skin. Inescapable.

Rosa's fingers pause over her needlepoint—a hummingbird with wings of emerald and sapphire hovering above a crimson flower. The kind of delicate, handcrafted thing Celeste would probably display proudly on her wall. Rosa fixes me with that look, the one that's been stopping me in my tracks since I was seven.

"Enough pacing," she says, her voice soft but firm. "This situation? You walked right into it. Joe watches you parade those models through your house, sees the way you check your watch during family dinners, notices how you never laugh anymore." She jabs her needle toward me. "That emptiness you pretend not to feel? Joe sees it. His solution might be extreme, but it comes from love. Pure and simple." She returns to her stitching. "Give her a chance, Max. Or keep being the man who has everything and nothing at all."

And then the doorbell rings.

And my fate is about to come through the door.

God help us all.

Chapter Twenty-Five

MOVING DAY

Celeste

God, today's the day. No more postponing the inevitable. Tally and Olivia are helping me pack up my life into cardboard boxes. Lexi texted that she can't make it—something about a deadline for her film project with Shane. I believe her, I do. That short film is due Monday, and knowing Lexi, she hasn't touched the editing software yet. But there's this nagging feeling that she's avoiding me. Every time I mention my new marriage, she gets this look—like she's personally responsible for my marital sacrifice. I've told her a million times: Mom's cancer isn't her fault. If anyone's to blame, it's the universe's sick sense of humor. No tumor, no desperate need for money, no marriage to Max. Mom would still be juggling her jobs, keeping their little apartment, and Lexi would be focusing on school instead of feeling like she needs to drop out. But Lexi won't accept that. So here I am, packing with Tally and Liv while my sister silently protests the arrangement by burying herself in coursework.

I hate moving. Hate it with the burning passion of a thousand suns. My back aches from hauling cardboard boxes down three flights of stairs, my fingers raw from the edges of packing tape. I never know just how much useless crap I've accumulated until I'm forced to wrap each item in newspaper and bubble wrap—dog-eared paperbacks with coffee stains on their pages, framed photos of people whose names I barely remember, ceramic figurines of woodland creatures with chipped ears, that hideous brass lamp I found at a yard sale in Pasadena that I swore would look "vintage-chic" somewhere, and Mom's meticulously preserved Barbie collection, in an enormous glass and wooden three-story case.

Yes, Barbie Dolls. It all started when I found out that my mother never had a Barbie Doll growing up because her family couldn't afford one. I still remember her face pressed against the glass at FAO Schwarz during our trip to New York—her breath fogging the display case that housed the Holiday Barbie in her crimson velvet gown with white fur trim. The way her fingertips hovered just above the glass, not quite touching, as if the doll might disappear if she pressed too hard. My father was still alive then, so we conspired together, and soon it became our family tradition. Lexi and I would pore over glossy Barbie catalogs with Mom, watching her dog-ear pages and circle dolls with her red pen. Our collection grew: a Grecian Barbie with a gold laurel crown and draped chiton, a Victorian one with a bustle the size of my fist, the Titanic Rose with her miniature Heart of the Ocean necklace that actually sparkled under light. A fairy Barbie with gossamer wings that shimmered iridescent blue-green in the light, her miniature violin tucked under a porcelain chin. A Bob Mackie Barbie draped in a dramatic black and white sequined gown, its enormous satin collar arching behind her platinum blonde head like a peacock's tail. A Celtic Barbie with cascading copper hair that fell in perfect waves past her waist, an emerald-studded golden crown perched atop her head, her velvet dress the deep green of ancient forests. A Gone With The Wind Barbie with that iconic moss-colored velvet dress cinched impossibly tight at the waist, matching hat tilted coquettishly over one eye. A ballerina Barbie balanced on perpetual tiptoe, her crystalline tutu catching the light, satin ribbons criss-crossing up delicate ankles. Mom's favorite was the Bond-Girl Barbie with a tiny golden pistol strapped to her thigh in a lace garter. And about 10 different holiday Barbies. When Mom and Lexi downsized after her diagnosis, I inherited these treasures. Now they wait, each doll's limbs cushioned in tissue paper, their tiny accessories sealed in Ziploc bags, the display case swaddled in three layers of bubble wrap, ready for their journey.

Olivia leans against my doorframe, arms crossed. "You're seriously bringing your own bed?" she asks as I tug at my sheets. I wave Tally over to help me lift the mattress so I can dismantle the frame beneath it.

“Of course, why?”

Tally's eyes roll skyward. "Because Liv has this fantasy you'll be cuddling up with Mr. Hunk tonight." The nickname sticks in my ears. We've all developed our own code names for Max, as if saying his actual name might summon him like Beetlejuice. I prefer "Jack"—jackass abbreviated—while Olivia never calls him anything but "Pretty Boy." All three fit him perfectly, though I hate admitting mine hits the mark.

"That's not what I said," Olivia protests, tapping her phone screen. "I just bet Pretty Boy’s got you set up with something ridiculous. One of those mattresses that costs more than my car." She turns her phone toward me, displaying a cloud-like monstrosity. "The Hästen Maranga. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars of Swedish sleep technology."

I glance at the photo and hand the phone back. "If Max has something that luxurious waiting for me, I swear to God I'll strip naked and perform the entire Nutcracker Suite. I've been sleeping on what feels like concrete wrapped in sandpaper for six years." I rake my fingers through my hair. "Liv, you're absolutely right. The man probably has guest beds worth more than my entire existence. Why the hell would we risk hernias hauling this decomposing Costco monstrosity down three goddamn flights? Worst case, I arrive to an empty room and panic order something at 2 AM.” I dig my knuckles into my temples so hard I see stars. "Sure, it'll cost a fortune I don't have, but less than the spinal surgery I'd need after that death march down those stairs."

Truth is, I'm broke, so I didn’t hire movers. When I saw the thousand-dollar minimum quote for professional movers, I nearly vomited. Instead, I promised Liv and Tally the most obscene steaks Ruth's Chris offers in exchange for their sweat and a U-Haul that reeks of previous tenants' desperation. They agreed—partly because they love me, partly because I've destroyed my back helping them move their shit across town approximately fifty-seven times. But let's be crystal clear: all three of us would rather perform open-heart surgery on ourselves with plastic sporks than spend another Saturday of our rapidly evaporating youth cramming my pathetic life into cardboard coffins.

Tally's eyes light up with mischief. "Listen to me," she says, leaning in close. "This marriage is a two-way street. He needed you as much as you needed him. So why not work that angle?" She points to the picture of the $150,000 mattress. "Starting with demanding this heavenly Swedish cloud as part of your marriage settlement."

My forehead creases as a thought hits me. Wait—Max must have his own reasons for going along with this charade. What's his grandfather using as leverage? Money? The company? Some family secret? I've been so caught up in my own desperation that I never stopped to wonder why a man like Max would agree to marry a complete stranger. His grandfather's motives are clear enough, but Max's? There's something there. Something I might be able to use.