Page 35 of The Malibu Arrangement

“What’s going on?” Gianni asks.

I shrug. "Nothing's changed." I roll my eyes. "She's under my skin. Here I am, palms sweating like some teenager meeting his girlfriend's dad for the first time. My stomach's doing somersaults. Never felt this before—like I swallowed a kaleidoscope of butterflies and they're all trying to escape at once." I shake my head. "I want her gone from this house, but I can't stand the thought of her being far away. It's like I'm being torn in two different directions."

Gianni's aware of my obsession with getting Celeste's space just right. I cornered Iris with an interrogation that would've made the CIA proud—favorite colors? Decor preferences? Clothing sizes down to the half-inch? Shoe size? European or American? Iris has that insider knowledge I need. I considered ambushing her mother and sister too, but they'd have tipped Celeste off immediately. Instead, I swore Iris to absolute secrecy with a threat that made her eyes widen—something about advocating for her firing post-merger. That's how determined I was to keep Celeste from discovering the hours I spent hunting down those perfect cashmere throws, the vintage record player, those Italian leather boots in her exact size. If she connected those dots—saw the deliberate care behind every carefully selected item—she'd read my feelings like an open book. And that terrifies me more than any business deal gone wrong.

Gianni sighs, a half-smile playing at his lips. "Ansel," he calls to my brother, who's already elbow-deep in the refrigerator despite dinner being less than an hour away. Ansel emerges victorious with an armful of ingredients, dumping them onto the marble island. Despite sharing my build—all height and lean muscle—he eats like he's storing for hibernation. I watch as he layers salami, cheese, and vegetables between two thick slabs of sourdough, creating a tower that threatens to topple with each addition. "Maybe you can reason with him.”

I arch an eyebrow at Ansel as he takes his first enormous bite. Catching my look, he swallows and shrugs. "Post-surf hunger waits for no salmon dinner," he says, then jabs a mayo-smeared finger in my direction. "And stop dodging the point. You're in love with this woman. Admit it, embrace it—who knows? Might be the best thing that ever happens to you."

I throw my hands up like I'm stopping traffic. "Hold up! Love? Where'd that come from?" My fingers rake through my hair while my throat constricts. The cashmere of my henley suddenly feels like sandpaper against my skin. Ansel watches me with that know-it-all look of his. "That's ridiculous," I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel. "Rosa and Nana are the only women I've ever—" I stop myself. They earned it. Years of staying put, of proving they wouldn't disappear like my father. Celeste? She's temporary by definition. Our arrangement has an expiration date. "Not happening," I mutter, more to myself than to Ansel. "Not with her."

Ansel takes another bite of his sandwich, mumbling "Whatever" through a mouthful of bread. His eyes meet Gianni's across the table, and something passes between them—some silent message that makes my fingers curl into fists at my sides.

I cut Ansel off mid-sentence. "Shut up. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Really?" Ansel raises an eyebrow. "So it's totally normal for you to obsess over every detail of a woman’s living space? To drop six figures on lab-created diamonds? To fill her closet with every designer label in existence?" He leans back, studying me. "For someone who claims he wants her gone, you're certainly investing a lot in making her comfortable." A knowing shrug rolls off his shoulders. "Keep lying to yourself if you want..."

I glance at Gianni. He's silent, but that smirk says everything. Damn him for siding with Ansel. If anyone can read me like a book, it's Gianni, and the fact he thinks I've fallen for her... Christ. After tonight, I need to make myself scarce. Back to fourteen-hour workdays. Back to international conference calls that stretch past midnight. If I'm never at this beach house, whatever this is might fade. It has to fade. My sanity depends on it.

Then she appears, and my lungs forget how to work. Her sweater dress matches her eyes exactly, clinging to her figure and cutting off mid-thigh. Those Manolos with the tiny jewels add four inches to legs that already seem to stretch forever. Her red hair is piled artfully on her head, with tendrils framing her beautiful face, and around her neck is that Dolce & Gabbana piece I'd spotted at Saks, the one with the rainbow of stones that had stopped me in my tracks. Her smile is bright, but there's a slight unfocus to her gaze that suggests she's been enjoying the premium liquor I made sure to stock—Dom included. Can't say I blame her. Her friends flank her, all three radiating the particular glow of women who've spent the last few hours day drinking, thereby turning a shitty day of moving into something a bit less stressful. Smart move. If you have to deal with cardboard boxes, might as well have champagne while you're at it.

Celeste stumbles in, cheeks flushed. "Hey, Max," she says, voice honeyed with alcohol. She acknowledges the others with a nod before making her way to me. Then she hugs me. When her arms circle my waist, the oxygen seems to vanish from my lungs. The heat of her against me sends electricity down my spine, and my hands find their way to her shoulder blades of their own accord. I'm acutely aware of every inch where our bodies connect, fighting the urge to let my fingers wander lower with everyone watching. Her lips brush my ear, sending a shiver through me. "Thank you," she breathes. "That place is... incredible. Seriously, thank you."

She pulls away, leaving a cold emptiness where her warmth had been. I jam my hands into my pockets before they can reach for her again. "Just thought I'd make the place livable," I say with a shrug I hope looks indifferent. "Since you're stuck here anyway."

I catch Ansel and Gianni watching me from across the room, their faces split with identical shit-eating grins. I narrow my eyes, willing them to knock it off. I'm not some lovesick teenager. I haven't fallen for her. But their eyebrows just climb higher, and I have to look away before I give them the satisfaction of seeing me blush.

Celeste looks around. "Rosa? Can she join?"

"She is," I say. "She usually does. She's uh, my housekeeper, but also like a…"

"Mother," Ansel says helpfully.

I nod, grateful for the word I couldn't find. Rosa's been around since I was an infant, cutting crusts off sandwiches and checking my homework long after her shift ended. The day I graduated from USC, she cried more than anyone. Her paycheck says "housekeeper," but the birthday cards she's kept for twenty-odd years tell a different story.

Celeste nods, her eyes searching mine. She has no idea about my mother. Why would she? I've never breathed a word of it, and I don't plan to start now. Something tells me that sharing that particular wound would be like handing her a key to every locked room inside me. That thought makes my chest tighten.

“Good,” she finally says. “I really hoped she would be here for dinner.” Then she looks around. “Where is this personal chef you speak of?”

The doorbell chimes as Ansel says, "He'll be right... here." François sweeps in wearing crisp chef whites, assistants in tow. They take over the kitchen, unpacking copper pans and knives with military precision. Soon, wild-caught salmon sizzles on my indoor grill while François whisks basil béchamel in a gleaming pot. His "simple supper" features sweet potatoes, heirloom tomatoes, and buffalo mozzarella, with broccolini awaiting hollandaise. The salmon—delivered fresh this morning by François's personal fishmonger—will surely outshine whatever frozen fillets Celeste buys at Trader Joe's.

Rosa appears for dinner, wiping her hands on a dish towel. I pour her a glass of Pinot. Though I employ a small battalion of cleaners who descend on the house twice weekly, Rosa alone stays on the property, occupying the guesthouse that rivals Celeste's quarters in luxury. "How's the cottage treating you?" I always ask, though I always know her answer. She's told me often enough she loves it there. What I don't mention is how I've grown accustomed to her company at dinner, or those rare evenings when deadlines don't loom and we settle in for whatever's new on Netflix.

A half hour later, we all sit down to dinner. Celeste takes a sip of wine, then a bite of salmon. Her eyes flutter closed. "Oh my god," she says. "This salmon is incredible. And the sauce—béchamel, right?—it's perfect with the fish."

Something in me stirs with surprise that she knew it was béchamel, then shame at my surprise. Father's voice echoes in my head: A gentleman knows his sauces as well as his wines. I’ve had years of lessons on which fork to use when, which vintage wine pairs with what dish, what sauce goes with what meat or fish. I’ve had summers in Provence when I was five, learning which forks to use for escargot versus fish. The “gentlemen’s finishing school” occupied a limestone château with lavender fields stretching beyond its iron gates, where Madame Beaumont would rap my knuckles with a silver letter opener if I slouched or spoke out of turn during our endless formal dinners.

I assumed Celeste wouldn't know these things. What else might I be wrong about? I study her across the table, wondering if I'll ever get the chance to find out.

I study her face. "Yeah." My eyes dart around the table. Celeste, tipsy and oblivious to my signals, continues chatting with her equally buzzed friends. Meanwhile, Ansel catches my eye and smirks. Gianni nudges Rosa, both of them watching me with knowing looks. I can feel my face betraying me, wearing my feelings like a billboard. "I'm glad you like the meal," I manage, unable to disguise the tenderness in my voice.

She laughs, that bright sound that makes my chest tighten. "Isn't it funny? This fancy béchamel sauce is basically just fancy SOS—you know, shit on a shingle. Got me through college. Made with those little packets of Buddig meat for thirty-nine cents at Aldi, white bread, and whatever gravy I could scrape together from flour, margarine, and milk. That and Top Ramen." She shakes her head, and I can't look away from the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Between that diet and all the cheap beer, it's a miracle I functioned. And now here I am, eating what's essentially the same thing, just with a French name and better ingredients, prepared by a fancy professional chef.”

I always found it ironic that béchamel sauce—with its fancy French name that sounds like it belongs in expensive restaurants—is essentially what broke college students eat regularly. It's fundamentally just a roux with milk added. That's how Celeste recognizes it despite her modest background.

Her words continue to tumble out, the wine obviously loosening her tongue. "I was terrified of coming here," she admits, gesturing with her glass toward the sprawling house. "Walking through those doors felt like Belle stepping into the Beast's castle—all that cold marble and emptiness." She smiles, nodding towards Rosa, who's beaming at her while she sips her Pinot. "Then I met your Mrs. Potts, and suddenly..." She trails off, eyes widening as she takes in the ocean view through floor-to-ceiling windows. "And this place. It's like something from a fairy tale after all."

Her fear of moving in here should've bothered me, but it doesn't. I get it more than she realizes. She stepped from her world into mine—from Earth straight to Mars. When she compared this scenario to Beauty and the Beast, I couldn't help but smile. We both know how that fairy tale ends. Maybe I am her Beast, waiting for her to discover I'm not the monster she imagines. And Rosa? Pure Mrs. Potts—the maternal teapot offering comfort when everything feels strange. That cartoon played endlessly in our house when I was little. Mom loved the story, so Dad would put it on several times a year, tearing up every time, probably because it reminded him so much of her.