Page 80 of The Malibu Arrangement

I had a bachelor party, of course, but it wasn't what anyone expected. No strip clubs. No tequila shots. No waking up with a tiger in the bathroom. For the first time in my life, I didn't crave the next beautiful stranger. Instead, I found myself on a private jet to Lake Como with Gianni and my brothers, landing at his family's centuries-old villa with its terracotta roof and cypress-lined drive. Days blurred between skiing on Piani di Bobbio's double black diamonds and soaking in thermal pools at QC Terme, steam rising around us like ghosts while we nursed glasses of Barolo. The old Max would have been bored. This Max wasn't.

Not that Celeste would've given me grief over a typical bachelor party - she has faith in me, and rightfully so. Damn right, rightfully so! Before her, I never earned a woman's trust, always keeping an escape route ready. The harder they tried to hold on, the faster I bolted. But with Celeste? There's this... stillness. I don't look for exits anymore because she's everything I didn't know I was searching for. Never in a million years did I imagine needing someone like her - this brilliant, fearless woman with creativity pouring out of her veins. She doesn’t put up with my bullshit, which is refreshing because so many others do. She cracks up at the same ridiculous jokes I do, even the ones that make everyone else stare at us like we're insane. We've built this private universe of inside jokes and references that only make sense to us, which is exactly how it should be. She sees through me. I understand her. And that's nothing short of magic.

Now I'm in my hotel room at the Vineyard Hotel, a 5-star resort nestled among rolling vineyards with views that stretch to the horizon. The castle's medieval spires are just visible in the distance, a ten-minute drive away. We've been given the Grand Suite—a sprawling space where my heels sink into plush ivory carpeting as I wander from the separate lounge with its crystal chandelier to the bathroom where veined marble gleams under soft lighting. The wedding party has been relegated to the split-level Atrium Suites downstairs, where I imagine them unpacking their garment bags while I run my fingers along the cool granite of the wet bar.

Celeste enters our suite, drops her bags, and I can't help but watch her face. After months of living together—and soon to be married—she still hasn't grown jaded to the luxury surrounding us. She circles the room with those ocean-blue eyes widened in wonder, radiating joy like a spotlight. That's what hooked me—how she finds magic in what I've always dismissed as ordinary. I needed someone who could make me see my world as the miracle it actually is. Without her, I'd sleepwalk through this privileged life, blind to its gifts. She keeps me grounded too, challenging me when needed—hence the $10 million check I wrote to the animal shelter last month.

Speaking of which, I've secured the ultimate wedding surprise that will mean more to her than our marriage itself: Piper! Hugh and Gail are divorcing, and their kids lost interest in the poor dog. I honored my million-dollar promise, splitting it evenly between them. Piper's currently at our Malibu house with a professional sitter (Rosa's here in England for the wedding). I can picture Celeste's face already when that dog's whole body starts wiggling with excitement. The red diamond necklace from Christie's—one of fifty natural specimens on earth—cost me ten times the amount I “paid” for Piper, but I know which gift will truly capture her heart. That's precisely why I love this woman.

Celeste's lips part as she steps through the suite. "Max, this is..." Her voice trails off as she wanders from room to room, fingertips grazing the velvet upholstery, pausing at the fireplace. In the bathroom, she gasps at the marble tub big enough for two. "I keep waiting for someone to realize I don't belong here and kick me out," she says with a self-conscious laugh. "At least I can ask for extra towels without having to use Google Translate. Small victories for the girl who's never owned a passport before now."

I laugh and wrap my arms around her waist, feeling the delicate curve beneath my fingertips. "Yes, you know the language here, but we're going on our grand tour of Europe after this. So you'll have to stick with me, otherwise you'll be lost, lost, lost, Ms. Raisin Pop girl."

The memory flashes between us—Celeste's animated retelling of her horrified expression in that fluorescent-lit Canadian convenience store, her nose wrinkling at the purple can labeled "Raisin" in French. I can picture it perfectly: the way she dramatically recoiled, declaring it the most disgusting flavor concept she'd ever heard, until Tally explained, through tears of laughter, that "raisin" meant "grape" in French.

"Stop," she says, her giggle bubbling up like champagne. Her cheeks flush that perfect shade of pink that always makes my chest tighten. "I'm sure I'm not the only tourist who's been traumatized by Canadian bilingual labeling. But yes, with your linguistic superpowers, I'll need you as my personal translator through the cobblestone streets of Paris and the wintry plazas of Barcelona." She taps my chest with one manicured finger. "But when we reach Prague, with all those impossible consonants stacked together, I think we'll both be delightfully lost. I can't wait to see the great Max Kensington struggling to order coffee."

"Well," I counter, pulling her closer until I can smell the jasmine in her hair, "lucky for us, most Czechs speak English. But we'll be lost together under those Gothic spires, so there's that."

Prague wasn't my idea. It was the way Celeste's eyes had lit up when she showed me those photos—medieval bridges dusted with snow, Christmas markets glowing amber against twilight, baroque facades catching the golden hour. "Magic," she'd whispered, and I'd immediately called my travel coordinator. We'll see it first, wrapped in its winter splendor, before continuing to France, Italy, Spain, and Portugal—six luxurious weeks of honeymoon that we've carved out from our careers. Iris can handle Kensington Pictures; she's been practically running it anyway while I've been distracted by falling in love. This time, it's a real honeymoon for my real wife—not like our first "wedding," that sterile business arrangement that somehow transformed into everything I never knew I needed.

Chapter Sixty-Four

A DOWNTON WEDDING

Celeste

My heart races as Highclere Castle comes into view through the window of our rented 1922 Rolls Royce. The vintage car was my touch—I wanted our Downton Abbey wedding to feel authentic down to the last detail. I've dreamed of walking these grounds since falling headfirst into the Crawley family saga, though I came to it backwards. While everyone else was obsessing over the series during its original run, I kept seeing headlines in my daily Washington Post scrolls about shocking plot twists and character deaths. I filed it away as another British phenomenon I'd eventually check out. Then the first theatrical film released, and on a whim, I let a friend drag me to see it. I liked the movie so much that I decided to try out the series on Amazon Prime. One week and six seasons of binge-watching later, I was completely transformed. That first episode—when Lord Grantham showed more concern for third-class passengers on the Titanic than the aristocrats—had me hooked.

Now, after watching each episode at least half a dozen times, I'm actually here. My heels click against the polished marble as I wander through Highclere Castle's grand corridors, trailing my fingertips along cool stone walls that have witnessed centuries of history. Our wedding will take place in the saloon—that breathtaking central hall where ornate oak paneling climbs toward a vaulted ceiling, and stained glass windows cast kaleidoscope patterns across the floor. I pause at the entrance, tilting my head back to admire the balconies of the upper floors that encircle the space like a Victorian theater, imagining guests leaning over the intricately carved railings to witness our vows.

My hands aren't shaking. My heart isn't racing. This wedding feels right—a celebration Max and I crafted together, not some spectacle thrust upon me. The guest list reads like a family album rather than Variety's power rankings. The castle's in-house caterers will serve our meal, no celebrity chef required. Each face I'll see today belongs to someone who matters deeply to one or both of us. We're exchanging vows because we can't imagine life without each other, not because a contract demands it. The absence of Hollywood royalty (save for Max's brother Connor and their grandfather) feels like a blessing rather than a compromise.

I wander through the castle's grand rooms, tracing the fictional footsteps of the Crawleys. In the saloon, the library, the breakfast room where aristocratic dogs once lounged beneath the table. I pause in the spot where Lord Grantham received news of the Titanic disaster. Standing in the formal dining room, I'm surrounded by ghosts of dramatic dinner conversations. I close my eyes, smile, and let the castle work its magic. The iconic theme music practically echoes off the ancient stones.

This time around, I picked my own dress - a simple white column with a halter neckline that flatters my swimmer's shoulders. Instead of a cathedral veil, tiny crystal flowers crown my hair like stars. No Episcopal bishop in gold-trimmed robes today; just a smiling magistrate in a simple suit.

When we say "I do," the small crowd erupts. Later, under a white tent on the castle grounds, Max takes my hand for our first dance. The familiar notes of Arctic Monkeys' "Baby, I'm Yours" fill the air - the same song from our first wedding.

"I picked this song the first time because it was already true," Max whispers against my ear. "I just couldn't admit it then."

I pull back to search his face, my heart stuttering. All those months of tension, of fighting feelings behind cold shoulders and closed doors - he'd been falling too. That first night at the dinner when he glared across the table, when I thought he despised me... we were already orbiting each other, caught in a gravity neither of us understood.

Two people, secretly in love while pretending otherwise. What are the chances?

Epilogue

Celeste

The six-week honeymoon melted away like gelato in the Roman sun. In Rome, we zipped through narrow cobblestone streets on a mint-green Vespa, my arms wrapped around Max's waist, the cool air tousling my hair as we chased the golden light to the Trevi Fountain. His body tensed against mine with each turn, a preview of how he'd move above me later that night. In London, we huddled under a shared umbrella on the top deck of a crimson double-decker, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind my ear that made me forget about the tourists around us. Paris greeted us with buttery croissant flakes on our laps at a wrought-iron café table, my foot tracing up his calf beneath the table, his eyes darkening with promise. Max's surprise—a Parisian penthouse with herringbone floors and floor-to-ceiling windows—became our sanctuary where love-making filled our nights and my back arched against cool marble countertops in the afternoons while my screams of pleasure filled the walls. Barcelona's Sagrada Família casted rainbow shadows across my naked skin as we christened the hotel balcony at dawn, while Prague's Christmas Market warmed us after hours spent learning each other's bodies in ways that made even December evenings feel like midsummer.

Max guides me through our front door with his hands over my eyes. "This tops even the pink diamond," he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.

When he lifts his hands, I freeze. There, tail whipping so hard her entire body sways, stands Piper. My Piper. The same pink-nosed pit bull I'd cried over for weeks after a family adopted her from Inland Valley.

"Piper!" I drop to my knees as she bounds toward me, her paws skidding on the hardwood. Fifty pounds of muscle and slobber collide with my chest. I bury my face in her brown and white fur, breathing in that familiar dog smell as she covers my cheeks with frantic kisses.

"How?" I manage to ask, looking up at Max through tears.

He kneels beside us, one hand on Piper's head, the other finding mine. "Let's just say I made the previous owners an offer they couldn't refuse."

Piper wedges herself between us, tail still going wild, as Max pulls me closer. "Welcome to your forever home, sweet girl," he says to Piper, then turns to me with eyes that hold everything I never knew I needed. "Both of you."

As his lips find mine, I think about my mother's recovery and new love with Michael, my inbox filled with three major studios offering commissions to me to write screenplays, and now this—this man who tracked down the dog I thought I'd lost forever. The man I was forced to marry, the man I once despised—now the absolute center of my universe.

The impossible has become my everyday life.