Page 53 of The Malibu Arrangement

“Okay,” she says, her eyebrows knitted and then she shakes her head. “You’re acting weird.”

After she's gone, I find myself thinking about sending Celeste some flowers. Cliché? Absolutely. Do I care? Not in the slightest. Paris would be better—I could fly us there Friday after work, show her the city, be back by Sunday night. Her first trip overseas. But for now, flowers will have to do. Not ordinary roses though. Celeste deserves something as unique as she is. I click on a variety I've never seen before: hybrid roses with pale pink petals rimmed in midnight purple. They remind me of her—soft but with unexpected edges. I place the order with Antoine, the florist who handles all my events, wondering if he'll notice these aren't for some corporate gathering but something far more personal.

Then, for the rest of the day, my events blur past like scenes from a fast-cut montage. I approve three pitches for theatrical releases—a gritty crime drama set in 1970s Detroit, a coming-of-age story about synchronized swimmers, and a sci-fi thriller that made even my jaded heart race. On the 405, I belt out "Purple Rain" with the windows down, my tie flapping in the wind as I weave through traffic toward Century City to meet Brian, the silver-haired head of Paramount. Later, I lean forward in my ergonomic chair during my meeting with hot Oscar-winning director Sean Winter as we discuss his latest movie. As evening falls, I loosen my collar for the Zoom call with the Tokyo investors, their faces illuminated by distant dawn light. By this time, my thoughts have already escaped the glass tower, racing home to Celeste.

And race home I do.

The aroma hits me before I even close the front door—garlic, herbs, something rich and savory that makes my stomach growl. I follow the scent to find Celeste at the range, lost in whatever she's stirring, humming a tune I don't recognize. Her copper hair is twisted up in a messy knot, wisps escaping around her temples. The Kansas City Chiefs logo stretches across her apron, faded from too many washes. Chiefs fan? That's unexpected. Or maybe just a thrift store find. I realize how little I actually know about the woman who's now my wife—and how much I suddenly want to learn.

She whirls around, spatula in hand, her eyes widening like she's been caught stealing. A smile flickers across her face, but her fingers twist nervously around the utensil. "Hey," she says, her voice barely audible over the sizzling pan. "I—I didn't—" She takes a breath that catches halfway. "Your kitchen. I'm in your kitchen." Her free hand flutters between us, leaving flour trails in the air. "Rosa mentioned you live on takeout, or your chef makes something, because of course you don’t have time to cook, and I thought—" The spatula trembles slightly. "Maybe real food? Home-cooked?" The last words come out as a question. She bites her lower lip, watching my face for disapproval, while behind her, whatever she's cooking releases a scent that makes my stomach growl in unmistakable approval.

I step behind her, sliding my arms around her waist. Her hair smells like vanilla and salt air—enough to make me consider skipping straight to dessert, though my empty stomach protests. "Celeste," I murmur against her neck, "I want you to think of this as our home now. I meant every word earlier. That guest wing isn't where you belong anymore. Tomorrow I'll have everything moved for you." My lips brush her ear. "And if you thought that closet was impressive, wait until you see what's waiting for you in the master suite. It was built for a queen." I nip gently at her earlobe, feeling her pulse quicken against my lips. “What you making?”

She shrugs, tipping olive oil into a sizzling pan before crushing garlic cloves between her palms and tossing them in with diced onions. The kitchen fills with a fragrant cloud as she crumbles Italian sausage into the mix, adds tomatoes, and seasons with practiced flicks of her wrist. Water boils furiously in another pot, waiting for pasta. "Nothing fancy," she says, stirring the sauce. "Just a basic ragu I can make with my eyes closed. When I actually have time to plan, I promise I can do much better than this thrown-together weeknight dinner."

I inhale the rich aroma of the pasta and ragu, but the hunger gnawing at me isn't for food. "When will dinner be ready?" I ask, turning her to face me. Her lips part slightly before I capture them with mine, drawing a soft sound from her throat.

"About fifteen minutes," she murmurs against my mouth. "I just started the pasta."

"And the sauce is just simmering now?" My hands find her waist.

"Yes."

"Perfect timing," I say, lifting her onto the counter. She extends her legs as I trail kisses up her inner thighs. The pasta timer creates a deadline, but I can't wait another moment to taste her. This—her skin against my lips in our kitchen—is what occupied my thoughts all day. I pause only to send Rosa a quick message; she typically joins me for dinner when I'm home early, and some interruptions I'd rather avoid.

She's wearing a dress, and I shove it up around her waist, desperate to taste her—I've been starving for her all day. Her taste floods my senses, obliterating everything else. I devour her like a man possessed, her moans driving me wild as she clutches my hair, nails digging into my scalp. When I finally thrust inside her, the sensation is overwhelming—her body grips mine, hot and slick, pulling me deeper. We're not just kissing; we're consuming each other, my hips slamming against hers with a force that makes the counter shake. The timer screams just as she does, her body convulsing around mine. Breathless and trembling, she somehow steadies herself, yanking her dress down and lunging for the stove. I watch, still reeling, as she tests the pasta with shaking fingers, declaring it "perfect al dente" in a voice still raw from crying out my name. The whiplash of her composure stuns me.

She dangles a strand of spaghetti between her fingers. "Taste test?"

I open my mouth, letting her place it between my teeth. Half the strand hangs from my lips as I pull her closer by the waist. Her eyes light with recognition. She takes the other end between her lips, and we inch toward each other, nibbling our way to the middle until our mouths meet, just like the two dogs in Lady and the Tramp. The kiss dissolves into laughter, both of us breaking away.

"God, we're ridiculous," she says, wiping sauce from her chin. "I knew I was, but you? THE Max Kensington?"

"If only my shareholders could see me now," I say. "Though I've gotten good at disguises. Every year I sneak into Comic Con in various disguises—Doctor Doom, Guy Fawkes, The Mandalorian. Full helmet coverage is key when you're avoiding paparazzi."

She just smiles. “Oh, the things I take for granted. I go to Comic Con, too, but nobody mobs me when I dress up as Harley Quinn.”

I can't help but imagine Celeste dressed as Harley Quinn—her fiery copper hair twisted into those signature pigtails, dip-dyed pink and blue at the ends. I picture her in those criminally short sequined shorts that would reveal those endless legs of hers. A ripped crop top hugging her curves, splashed with that diamond pattern in red and black. Those thigh-high boots with the three-inch heels making her almost as tall as me. The image hits me like a physical force, and I feel myself growing hard again. I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to regain control as the scent of tomatoes, garlic, and red wine reminding me there are other hungers to satisfy first.

She serves up the pasta and sauce with effortless grace. For the salad, she's whipped up a Caesar dressing from scratch—her own mayonnaise base with lemon, garlic, and a splash of balsamic. I'm mesmerized watching her work that mayonnaise magic. The traditional method always intimidated me—the precise egg-cracking, the maddening drop-by-drop oil ritual. But Celeste? She's revolutionized the process with my forgotten hand-blender. One taste and I'm converted. This silky, tangy creation puts every jar from a grocery shelf to absolute shame.

The first forkful of pasta hits my tongue and I'm transported to a sun-drenched Italian kitchen. Her simple ragu—bright San Marzano tomatoes, caramelized Vidalia onions, fresh garlic simmered to golden sweetness, and a whisper of oregano and basil—is nothing short of perfection. A gentle heat from crushed red pepper flakes dances with the savory depth of the sauce, while a hint of red wine lingers in the background. Each ingredient somehow remains distinct yet harmonious, like instruments in a well-conducted orchestra. The homemade spaghetti, silky and egg-rich, yield with just the right al dente resistance between my teeth. Celeste has mastered this dish completely, transforming humble ingredients into something transcendent.

"How is it possible I'm only discovering you now?" I ask, twirling another bite. "Where have you been hiding this talent?"

A flush creeps up her neck. "Mom's doing. She insisted cooking was non-negotiable—said it would serve me my whole life." Her eyes cloud over. "I keep hoping for many more years of us in the kitchen together. She came over to my condo all the time, you know. Showed me how to julienne vegetables properly, corrects my sauce techniques." Her voice catches. "I can't imagine my life without her guiding me."

I put my hand on hers. "How is she?"

She lifts one shoulder. "Back home now, thank god. The sepsis scare is over." A pause. "My mom's a badass. Cancer picked the wrong woman to mess with..." Her voice trails off, her eyes dropping to her lap. "Who am I fooling? Brian Piccolo was tough too, and look what happened to him."

I tilt my head. "Brian Piccolo? So that Chiefs apron in your kitchen isn't just Taylor Swift fandom?" The corner of my mouth quirks up. "You actually follow football."

“I grew up watching Brian's Song with my mom—she had a thing for James Caan and Billy Dee Williams back in the day. And yeah, I bleed red and yellow. The Chiefs are my team through thick and thin. Even when they make it all the way to the Super Bowl just to crash and burn on national television, I'm still right there with them."

I eye her Chiefs apron, now hanging up on a hook. "So, when did you become a fan? Just jumping on the Mahomes bandwagon like everyone else?"

"Born and raised in KC," she says, twirling pasta around her fork. "Didn't set foot in California until Dad brought me on that Mammoth ski trip. Then again for UCLA film school." She takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "When Lexi got accepted to the same program, we scraped together enough to move Mom out here too. Couldn't just abandon her back in Missouri." Her eyes soften. "The Chiefs were our thing—Dad's and mine. Sunday afternoons, just us two. He explained everything—first downs, touchbacks, defensive formations, the role of the secondary.” She points her loaded fork at me, sauce threatening to drip. "Did you know if you fumble in your own end zone and the other team recovers, they get a safety? Two points."