Page 36 of The Malibu Arrangement

Rosa's laughter fills the kitchen. "Me? Like the teapot from Beauty and the Beast?" She gives her plump midsection a gentle pat. "I suppose we do share a certain... roundness."

Celeste's eyes go wide. "Oh! No, that's not—" She stumbles over her words. “I just meant that Mrs. Potts is just... nurturing. When Belle is scared in that big castle. I wasn’t thinking of anything else, no, no.” She stares down at her plate, pushing a piece of salmon around with her fork. The flush creeping up her neck reaches her cheeks, and she blinks rapidly. She looks like she’s about to cry about Rosa taking her comparison the wrong way.

I can't help but notice she never bothers to clarify that I'm not the Beast in her little fairy tale, even as she trips over herself apologizing to Rosa. I let it slide. The Beast was misunderstood too, wasn't he? Gruff exterior hiding something else. Something that made sacrifices when it mattered. She doesn't see that in me yet, but maybe someday she will.

Rosa's hand settles on Celeste's back. "I know what you meant, child. I'm sorry, I tease too much. You'll learn my ways." Rosa's smile lights up her face, and Celeste's shoulders relax as she lifts her gaze. The rim of her wineglass trembles against her lip as she takes another sip. Her knuckles are white around the stem. I can almost see the thoughts racing behind her eyes—a year of tiptoeing around me, of calculated words and careful distance. Something in my chest tightens. I want to bridge this gap between us, to tell her she won't be walking on eggshells in her own home.

I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. The touch seems to ripple through her. Those green eyes widen, darken, before she blinks and looks away. But I caught it—that flash of heat, quickly masked. Could she feel that same current that just shot up my arm? God, I hope so. No—I hope not. This…crush…I have on her would be far less complicated if it remained one-sided. My life would certainly be simpler that way.

Celeste smiles at Rosa. "Thanks for understanding. I've never had much of a filter between my brain and my mouth. My best friend got me this coaster once—'Some things are better left unsaid, which I generally realize right after I've said them.'" She lets out a small, nervous laugh. "I keep it on my desk as a daily reminder. Though clearly, it hasn't worked yet. I suspect you and Max will have front-row seats to that particular character flaw over the next twelve months."

Ansel's eyebrows shoot up. "Character flaw? Are you serious right now?" He shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh. "God forbid a woman actually tells my brother the truth. You have no idea how many people nod along when Max declares the sky is actually green. Everyone's too busy genuflecting to correct him." He leans forward, voice softening. "That honesty you're apologizing for? It's like opening a window in a stuffy room."

When Celeste smiles and blushes, something in my chest tightens. How can I be angry at Ansel's rant about ass-kissers when her reaction is so damn endearing? My brother's right—people do kiss my ass. So what? They kiss his too.

It hits me that Celeste and Ansel share that same unfiltered honesty. They'd probably get along perfectly, and the thought makes my jaw clench. I'm not giving her up. Not to him, not to anyone.

I've been telling myself this marriage is just temporary, a business arrangement with an expiration date. But watching her now, I wonder if I've been lying to myself all along. The mere thought of Ansel with Celeste makes me want to put my fist through a wall—which is ridiculous. My actual brother isn't even interested in her. It's the imaginary version of him I want to throttle.

Christ, I'm losing it.

Celeste gives a nervous laugh. "So I'm an open book, huh? Not entirely. Everyone keeps parts of themselves hidden." She fidgets with her napkin. "We all have those thoughts we'd never say out loud. Those moments we'd rather forget." Her voice drops. "Those failures we replay at three in the morning." She runs a hand through her hair and winces. "God, that champagne was a mistake. Dom Pérignon and dinner parties don't mix." She shoots Tally a sideways glance and whispers, "Some friend you are. You could've cut me off."

Tally throws her head back and laughs. "Cut you off? Please. I was right there beside you, downing champagne worth more than my first car." Her smile turns nostalgic. "That piece of junk—a 1999 Chevy Metro in the ugliest lime green you've ever seen. Paid three hundred bucks for it. Could've traded the damn thing straight up for one bottle of that Dom you were pouring. So actually, thanks for the upgrade."

Celeste lets out a laugh. "Oh please. You think that's bad? My first car was a '95 Escort that somehow wheezed its way to 2015. The thing had more rust than paint by the time I got it, and duct-taped seats to boot. When it finally died, the junkyard offered me two hundred bucks. If I would’ve told them I'd take one bottle of Dom Pérignon and call it even, they’d say I’d still owe them a hundred dollars."

Then both girls look at me expectantly, their eyes asking about my first car. I take a sip of my wine and study the rim of my glass. The memory of my sixteenth birthday floods back—my grandfather tossing me keys to that new Porsche Cayenne, the garage door rising to reveal gleaming silver metal worth way more than most people's yearly salary. Need to change the subject.

I clear my throat. “Have you tried the crab cakes yet?”

Celeste glances at the table and raises an eyebrow. "I don't see any crab cakes here, so that would be a no," she says, her laugh light and nervous. "But I'm definitely looking forward to a future crustacean adventure."

My cheeks burn as I replay the moment in my head. Crab cakes? There weren't even crab cakes on the table. I'm the guy who rehearses quarterly earnings statements three times before delivering them. At Kensington Pictures, my precision is legendary—a single unclear directive from me can derail a $200 million production. Yet here I am, hallucinating appetizers because Celeste looked at me. She's rewired something in my brain, short-circuited my usual operating system. I haven't felt this off-balance since... hell, maybe ever.

“Well,” I say. “I meant, have you tried crab cakes in general.”

Celeste catches Tally's eye, then Olivia's, the three of them sharing a silent joke before Celeste responds. "I'm familiar with crab cakes from around LA, and in Big Bear, and my grand international tour of Mexico, meaning Cozumel and Cabo.” She pauses, anticipating the next question. "And no, I’ve never been abroad, only Mexico and Canada. Cabo was spring break one year, a trip I paid on my 35% interest rate credit card. Cozumel was a stop on a Groupon cruise where the three of us crammed into a cabin meant for two. We took turns sleeping on the floor with just a blanket and pillow between us and the metal deck.”

"Yeah, but the lobster and prime rib night," Tally interjects.

Olivia nods enthusiastically. "All-you-can-eat. Our girl here devoured four lobster tails plus prime rib and dessert. Spent the rest of the night feeding the fish over the railing." She nudges Celeste affectionately. "Her exact words were 'When will I ever get unlimited lobster again?' Classic Celeste—always squeezing every last drop out of an opportunity."

Hmmm….so she does eat lobster. Interesting. I assumed she probably didn't, because…

"God, I feel like such a hypocrite about that lobster now," Celeste says, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I had no idea they—" She stops herself. "Let's just say I'm not into eating anything that screams when you cook it."

Yep. Thought so. I doubt she eats Prime Rib anymore, either.

"Factory farming is a hard no for me too." She glances out the window. "This one time I was driving to Kansas City to see extended family, and we passed what I thought was a ranch. Except it was just this horrific sea of millions of cows packed together like... I don't even know. Made me sick for days afterward."

Tally gives me a knowing look. "Having second thoughts about the marriage yet?" she jokes, nudging Celeste with her elbow. "This girl's nuts about animals and is some kind of dog whisperer. Every Thursday at that shelter, she volunteers, and I swear she wants to adopt every single animal in that place every time she goes. Olivia can tell you."

"Oh god," Olivia laughs, "you should see her phone. Hundreds of pictures. 'This one looked right into my soul, Liv!' And I'm always the bad guy reminding her about our crazy schedules and our condo’s no-pet policy. She'd bring home a pit bull tomorrow if she could."

I glance at Celeste. She's gone quiet, her fork pushing the last bite of salmon around her plate. After a long sip of wine, she looks up with those eyes that always give her away. "There's this pit bull at Inland Valley, where I volunteer,” she says, the words tumbling out. "I walked her yesterday and just... fell for her." Her gaze darts around the room. "But a dog would mean muddy paw prints on these floors, sand everywhere after beach walks. She'd probably howl sometimes. And I know you wouldn't want her on that ridiculously expensive bed you bought for me.” She shrugs, trying to seem casual. "I couldn't bear making her sleep alone, so... forget I mentioned it."

“Max,” Gianni says. “You were talking about getting a dog too. You know Rosa would take care of it while you’re gone. She already said she would.”