Page 45 of The Malibu Arrangement

I shake my head. "This isn't babysitting, Celeste." My voice stays soft, even as her shoulders tense beneath my hands. "I'm here for as long as it takes. That look in your eyes? That's determination. I recognize it." I give her shoulders a gentle squeeze, willing her to meet my gaze. "You're afraid I'll walk away if you don't get it right away. I won't." I pause, letting that sink in. "But if you want to stop, we stop. Just don't quit because you're worried about my patience. I've got plenty where you're concerned."

She gives a nod. "Okay," she whispers, then flattens herself against the board once more. Twenty-four clumsy attempts later, on try twenty-five, she nails it—chest to feet in one fluid motion. Her eyes widen, her smile breaking across her face like sunrise over the ocean. She bounces on her toes, sand flying.

"I did it! I did it! I did it!!!!! Did you see that?" Her hands clap together in rapid succession.

The childlike joy on her face fills my chest with something warm and expansive. When she flings her arms around me, we're both jumping, celebrating her victory, and then somehow my lips find hers. The surf lesson evaporates from my mind, replaced by heat coursing through me. I want nothing more than to peel away the neoprene between us and lay her down on the warm sand, to hear my name from her lips until she has no voice left. She kisses back with matching hunger, fingers tangling in my hair, breath coming in short gasps against my mouth. I couldn't stop if I tried.

The two of us crash onto the sand, me pinning her beneath me, my entire body burning with need. Her black neoprene wetsuit clings to every curve I've been fantasizing about for months—the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. Grains of wet sand stick to her flushed cheek as she looks up at me, pupils dilated. I'm seconds away from ripping the zipper down with my teeth, exposing inch after inch of her salt-kissed skin. My blood roars in my ears like the ocean behind us as her breath catches—I could devour her right here, right now, consequences be damned.

I tear down the zipper of her wetsuit, her groan igniting something primal in me. The neoprene peels away, revealing her salt-kissed skin, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath. My mouth claims one nipple, then the other, drawing a gasp that echoes across the empty shoreline. Her legs lock around me like a vise as I grind against her, desperate for more friction, more heat. My teeth graze her collarbone, her neck, before I devour her mouth again. The world dissolves—there's only her taste, her scent, the roar of blood in my ears drowning out even the crashing waves. On this private beach, nothing can stop us from⁠—

Then Ansel and Gianni's voices slice through the air from the cliff above. Those fuckers. I'd kill them both with my bare hands if I could. They're chattering about surfing like it's any normal day while the most important moment of my life disintegrates. My jaw clenches so hard I taste metal as the perfect moment shatters around us.

Celeste lurches upright, fingers scrambling for the zipper at her back, yanking it closed with such force the teeth nearly break. My heart hammers against my ribs as she whips her head toward the wooden stairs where the two men descend, surfboards tucked under bronzed arms. Her ocean-blue eyes, wild with panic, dart between them and me as adrenaline floods my system. They stride past, oblivious to the electricity still crackling between the two bodies they've just interrupted—bodies that seconds ago were about to collide with the force of waves breaking against Malibu's unforgiving shore.

Ansel jogs up, surfboard tucked under his arm, salt water dripping from his hair. "Little brother! Thought that was you." His gaze shifts to Celeste. "And who's this? Another surf convert?"

Celeste's shoulders tense. "Not exactly." Her eyes flick between the newcomers and me, then down at her new wetsuit. Her board lies half-buried in sand at her feet.

"Hey Max," Ansel says, clapping my shoulder. "Gianni and I will head out to the break. You stay, work with your girl." He leans in, voice lowered. "Everyone starts somewhere, right? Remember your first wipeout?"

I watch Celeste's fingers fidget with the zipper of her wetsuit. Just minutes ago, she'd jumped up and down after nailing her first pop-up on dry land. Now that confidence has evaporated like sea spray. Damn these guys and their timing.

I nod to Ansel as he and Gianni paddle toward the horizon, then turn back to Celeste. "Ready to try the real thing? Those waves aren't getting any smaller."

Her eyes widen and she shields them with her hand, staring at the ocean. "Is it high tide?"

I check my watch. "Not for another 25 minutes." I don't mention that winter brings peak wave season to LA's coastline, or that an offshore storm has pushed the swells to eight to ten feet. The high tide will only make things worse.

I study her face, searching for clues. Is this the beginning of a new Saturday ritual she'll genuinely love, or just another performance? Like the ATV off-roading her ex apparently dragged her to—an activity she endured with a smile while apparently hating every minute.

She fidgets with the zipper of her wetsuit, eyes darting between me and the sand. The slight tremble in her lower lip gives her away.

"Listen," I say, running a hand through my salt-crusted hair. "Surfing can wait. How about the Santa Monica Pier instead? Or the Getty? Air conditioning, art, no chance of drowning."

Her gaze drifts toward the water where the guys carve through waves like they were born on boards. "But this is your thing. Your Saturday escape. I don't want to ruin that for you."

Something clicks. Rosa must have briefed her on my weekend ritual. Smart.

"Those two?" I gesture toward the water with a flick of my wrist. "I'm practically drowning in family time already. Ansel's like a shadow I can't shake, and Gianni spotting me at the gym three nights a week is more than enough bro bonding." I pause, catching myself staring at the way the morning light hits her face. For a split second, I imagine a different kind of stress relief altogether. I clear my throat. "Besides, wandering through marble halls full of Renaissance nudes has its own therapeutic qualities."

She narrows her eyes, studying my face for any trace of mockery. "Sure," she finally says, her voice softening. "The Getty would be perfect. I've been dying to go back—there's so much I haven't explored there yet."

"You could spend a lifetime in that place and still miss something breathtaking," I tell her, my pulse quickening as I force myself to maintain eye contact. "Let's shower and meet in the main house in an hour?"

The word "shower" hangs between us, electric. My mind floods with forbidden images—her naked body glistening under twin cascades in my marble shower, her back arching against the cool stone as my hands grip her waist. I imagine her gasping as I drop to my knees, the water streaming down her trembling thighs as I taste her, devour her, make her scream my name until she collapses against me, breathless and begging for more.

I shake my head, my heart pounding like it's trying to escape my chest. This woman is unraveling me thread by goddamn thread, and I'm standing here letting her do it. Worse—I'm craving it.

Totally. Goddamn. Fucked.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

GOING TO THE GETTY

Celeste

I step into the shower, grateful to wash away the salt and embarrassment from our failed surfing attempt. Today we're heading to the Getty—solid ground where I actually know what I'm doing. While Max belongs among crashing waves, I've always found my peace in hushed gallery halls. During my UCLA days as an art history minor, the Getty became my sanctuary, and then again after my mother’s diagnosis. I'd lose myself for hours before a Botticelli or Titian, counting brush strokes, imagining the lives behind those Renaissance faces. Something about stepping into their world made the beeping monitors and antiseptic smells temporarily disappear.