Page 58 of The Malibu Arrangement

He presses his fingertips to his lips in a chef's kiss. "Rosa's curried goat is divine. Most people think it sounds strange, but honestly, it's not far off from lamb. Though I wouldn't have pegged you for someone who'd eat it. You have that petting zoo energy about you."

"Can't deny that," I say with a laugh. "I'm the one holding up the line at every petting zoo, buying those little ice cream cones of feed pellets. There's something so satisfying about tiny hooves stepping on your shoes while they eat from your palm." I pause, my smile fading slightly. "I compartmentalize when it comes to food. One mental box for the adorable animals I coo over, another for what's on my plate. Otherwise, I'd never make it through a meal."

Max runs his hand through his hair. "Let me check with Rosa about changing the menu. I'm sure she won't mind. Actually, there's something I wanted to discuss with you anyway."

I nod, watching him disappear into the kitchen. When he returns a few minutes later, his expression has softened. "Rosa's making something else. Guess she wants to show you how to make her favorite dish, so she wants you in the kitchen with her when she makes it. So don't worry—no goats were harmed in the making of tonight's dinner." The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. "I'm not teasing you. It's... nice to meet someone who still cares that much. Rare in Hollywood."

“Oh, that’s too bad. I was kind of looking forward to curried goat. What’s she making instead?”

He sniffs the air. "Curried paneer with sweet potatoes," he says, nodding with approval. "Smells like she's making her special blend again—the one with that red chili oil that hits you in the back of the throat. Not restaurant-hot, but damn good. You can actually taste the food instead of just surviving it. And she does something with cardamom that I've never figured out."

Saliva pools under my tongue at the thought of dinner. Living here has made me soft—in all the right ways. Max and I have decided to only go out to eat once a week, mainly because it’s a pain in the ass dodging the paparazzi, so I’ve decided to cook three nights a week and Rosa cook the other three nights a week. And God, Rosa's cooking. The way she transforms ordinary ingredients into treasures from Jamaica—spicy jerk chicken that makes my lips tingle, plantains caramelized to sticky-sweet perfection, dumplings that somehow taste like clouds, and saltfish that's briny and complex. Before moving here, I couldn't have pointed to Jamaica on a map of Caribbean cuisine. Now I dream about it.

“So,” Max says. “Your mother’s birthday…”

I smile. “You heard me talking to her.” I take a deep breath. “We can’t do much this year, I’m afraid. She’s still immunocompromised, so we’ll have to wait until next year to do the zoo.”

“The zoo?”

I nod. Oh, Mom loves the zoo. The wrinkled gray elephants with their gentle, swaying trunks. The silverback gorillas, so human-like in their movements, watching us with deep, knowing eyes. The hippos, deceptively graceful as they glide through murky water despite their massive bulk. The playful sea lions, sleek and agile, barking and clapping as they perform. They fascinate her. Like me, she's drawn to creatures with souls in their eyes. So, we’ve gone to the zoo every year on her birthday for the past 20 years.

“Hmmmm….” Max says.

“What?”

“Well. I think I have an idea. Maybe, maybe not. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

“What do you have up your sleeve?”

Max just shrugs. “Not saying anything.”

But the next day, I find out what Max has in mind.

Max's eyes sparkle with excitement. "I've arranged a private tour of the zoo for your mother's birthday. The whole family—you, me, Patricia. And of course Tally and Olivia can join us, plus anyone else your mother would like."

"Max, that's incredibly thoughtful, but she can’t be in crowds while she’s immunocompromised.”

"Already considered," he says, squeezing my hand. "We'll go at 5:30, after closing. The head of private events owes me a favor—we went to prep school together."

I bite my lip, thinking of the expense. "This must be costing⁠—"

"Not another word about that," he says softly. "If the zoo makes your mother happy, then that's what she deserves on her birthday."

Something hot and sharp pricks behind my eyelids. Mom's birthday wish—watching the elephants spray each other at the new habitat—might actually come true.

Max's arms encircle me, and I exhale deeply. "Thank you," is all I can manage.

His lips brush against my hair, and I melt into the shelter of his embrace.

"You're home early," I murmur, pulling back to look at him. "Everything okay?"

"Just rearranged some things," he says with a half-smile. "Figured dinner with you and Rosa shouldn't be something I miss every night. Real dinner, not just reheating plates at ten o'clock." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "I'll still need to tackle some emails later, but first..." His voice drops to a whisper, eyes darkening with promise. The heat in his gaze makes my cheeks flush, and I can't help but mirror his smile.

I give him a playful smile. "Let's save that for after dinner." But his lips find mine, and the kiss is so tender and thorough that suddenly dessert seems too far away. My phone buzzes in my pocket, reminding me. "I should call Mom back first, though. Tell her about our zoo adventure and—" I pause, watching his face carefully. "The good news about her treatment. Apparently some mystery benefactor is covering the immunotherapy her insurance wouldn't touch." I tilt my head. "Any ideas who that might be?"

His face breaks into that sunshine grin I've come to love. "The treatment was approved? That's incredible news." He takes my hand, squeezing it gently. "I looked into that Keytruda regimen. The success rates are really promising for her type of cancer."

I nod. "Yes, I agree. It does seem..." I shake my head. No. I can't do this again. I've watched her hair fall out in clumps on her pillow. I've held the pink plastic basin while she retched after treatments. I've seen the radiation burns bloom across her chest like some terrible flower. Each time the doctors switched protocols, their voices lifted with that cautious optimism I've grown to hate. "This combination shows promise," they'd say, while Mom just grew thinner, grayer. Sometimes I want to scream at them all. What's the point of poisoning her if it doesn't work? Even this new drug—Keytruda—I can't bear to hope. What if we're just stealing her good days? What if instead of sitting in infusion chairs, she could have been watching sunsets, or tasting wine, or just sleeping in her own bed without pain?