Page 38 of The Malibu Arrangement

Olivia reaches across the table, her eyes wide. "Where is this coming from?"

I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to me. "Just stupid thoughts. They come and go." I take a breath. "But I promise, if it gets bad, I'll crash at my old place."

"In your old bed," Olivia nods. "And I'll be right there like when Greg dumped you. With snacks."

"Not that garbage Häagen-Dazs," I say, grateful for the shift. "Ben & Jerry's. Minter Wonderland. And Poldark marathons."

Tally fans herself dramatically. "Count me in. Aidan Turner shirtless with a scythe? I'll bring the wine."

I laugh and nod. I don’t know where I would be without these two.

They're both looking at me, their eyes heavy-lidded but concerned, darting between each other in that silent communication friends perfect over years. The grandfather clock chimes midnight, and Olivia winces. She's catering a Silicon Valley brunch tomorrow—artisanal avocado toast and kombucha mimosas for men in Patagonia vests who'll tip exactly 18%. Plus, she has to drive back to Claremont. Tally's fingers absently trace the colorful sleeve of tattoos disappearing under her cuff; the 24-hour parlor where she works expects her behind the needle by 7 AM. I watch them fidget with car keys, gathering empty wine glasses, but hesitating at the threshold like they're abandoning a puppy at the shelter. My ocean drowning "joke" hangs between us like a fog that won't lift.

I raise my hands in surrender. "I promise I won't cause any trouble. But we all need to call it a night." I check my watch and groan. My 7 AM meeting with that new screenwriter—the one with the buzzed-about dystopian romance that every studio in town is salivating over— means a 5 AM wake-up call, and Claremont might as well be in another state with LA traffic. One fender-bender on the 405 and I'm screwed because the highway will turn into a giant parking lot with the cars at a complete standstill for miles. I glance at Tally and Olivia’s faces, torn between wanting them to stay and knowing they need to go. "Seriously," I add, gesturing toward the door while my heart does the opposite.

We wrap our arms around each other in a three-way embrace before parting ways with promises of cocktails by Thursday. The geography of friendship just got more complicated—my new Malibu address might as well be in another solar system. Liv's still in my old Claremont condo, manageable for after-work meetups, but Tally? Between her arts district loft and Melrose job, she's practically orbiting Saturn. Still, we've made a pact: once a week, minimum. These women are my oxygen, my heartbeat—non-negotiable.

After they're gone, I wander through the rooms of what's supposed to be my dream house. When I fling open the French doors, the ocean's rhythm should soothe me, but the sound only hollows me out. A damp chill seeps in—forty degrees feels colder here by the water—but that's not what's freezing me from the inside. The cruel irony isn't lost on me: I'm standing in the exact home I've always fantasized about, yet somehow I've never felt more trapped.

How did my dream house become my prison?

Chapter Thirty-One

STAYING AWAY…

Max

It's been exactly twenty-one days since Celeste moved into the east wing of my Malibu beach house, with its separate entrance and the long hallway that ensures our paths rarely cross. I've timed our encounters—ninety-seven minutes total, mostly accidental collisions in my kitchen when I've forgotten something and she’s having breakfast with Rosa, or brief, stilted exchanges about mail. I've mapped my morning routine to avoid her completely: shower at 5:15, coffee at 5:30, out the door by 5:45, while she doesn't emerge until 6:30. I have to maintain this careful choreography of avoidance for my sanity.

I had a plan to surprise her with Piper, that Pit Bull from Inland Valley she'd been obsessing over, according to Tally and Olivia. By the time my assistant got to the shelter to adopt Piper, some family had already claimed her. So I have to step in. I bribe the shelter administrator with $5,000 to tell me the address of the people who adopted Piper and I go there, fully intending to do whatever it takes to get that dog. Nestled in a typical Encino subdivision where property values hover just below the Valley average, the single-story ranch sits three blocks from a faded strip mall anchored by a discount grocery store. White paint curls away from the siding like dead skin, and black garbage bags dot the roof, presumably catching leaks the owners can’t afford to properly repair.

I ring the doorbell with my checkbook ready.

The door swings open to reveal a man in his forties who squints at me, then does a double-take. "Hold on—you're Max Kensington." He whips around towards the interior of the house. "Babe! Max Kensington is standing on our porch!" Back to me, with an apologetic grin: "My wife follows your every move. Gail! Get out here!"

Perfect. A fan. This might be easier than I thought.

Moments later, Gail appears, clutching her bathrobe closed at the neck, blonde hair sticking up on one side. Her free hand flutters between smoothing her hair and reaching for mine. "Mr. Kensington! What an unexpected honor. Would you care to step inside?"

That's when I spot her—Piper, the reason for my impromptu visit. The pit bull bounds up behind Gail's legs, her whole body vibrating with excitement rather than just her tail. Something in my chest softens. This shelter mutt, once abandoned and unwanted, will soon have two different parties trying to have her. I can see why Celeste wants her.

I check my watch and adjust my stance. "Look, I've got a meeting soon, so I'll be direct. I want Piper. Your dog. And I'm prepared to pay whatever it takes." I run a hand through my hair, trying to appear casual.

The man's eyebrow inches upward. "Whatever it takes?"

"Name your price." My gaze drifts past him to the modest living room beyond. Outside in the driveway sits a weathered Corolla beside a Nissan that's seen better days. I could write a check that would transform their lives—pay off this house, replace those cars, set up college funds. One signature from me, and their financial worries vanish. It's crude, maybe, throwing money at a problem like this. But when I picture Celeste's face lighting up when she sees Piper again... well, what else is money for, if not moments like that?

The man’s eyes light up, but Gail shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Our kids are in love with this dog. We can’t part with her.”

“One million,” I say, my checkbook ready to go.

“Are you serious?” the man asks. Then he turns to Gail. “One million, Gail. For Piper. We can go down and get another dog just like her. We can’t turn this down.”

Gail shakes her head. “Hugh, some things don’t have a price,” she says pleasantly. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Kensington. But would like to come in and have a cup of tea and cookies?”

I exhale slowly. Maybe I should up the ante to something truly ridiculous, though a million dollars already seems pretty damn ridiculous. But Gail's steady gaze tells me everything – this isn't about money for her. It irks me, but I can't help respecting her backbone. They're clearly not wealthy, but she's standing her ground – some bonds can't be broken with a check.

Hugh's face darkens with frustration, but then I spot the real complication – twin girls, barely four years old, mirror images of each other. They wrap themselves around Piper, who squirms with delight, licking their cheeks while they dissolve into laughter. I find myself shaking my head. Of course – dogs burrow into your heart in no time, especially when little kids are involved.