Page 11 of The Malibu Secret

The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Want to crash at my place for a few days?"

There's dead air on the line while I mentally kick myself. Cameron's back at work soon, but he's off by mid-afternoon, so he’ll probably stop in after his shifts to check on me. I'm in no rush to get back to Manic Muse—Blade's handling the shop just fine and my left hand isn’t healed, so I can barely hold a needle let alone create - so I’ll let Cam take care of me if he wants to. Am I seriously asking my mother to come and stay when I could have more of Cam’s brand of pain relief? Too late now.

Her silence screams the answer. Mom's got better things to do—probably some new deadbeat keeping her bed warm. Or maybe it's the fact she can't pop pills under my roof. I made that boundary crystal clear years ago.

"Tal," she finally says, "I'd love to, but⁠—"

"Forget it," I cut her off, hating the sting behind my eyes. "Gotta run. My friends probably think I've fallen in."

God, I can still hear her voice from my childhood: "Tally? You fall in or what?" And the way she'd warn I'd "float away" when I chugged too much water. Why do those stupid sayings still gut me?

"Tally, call me tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah." Part of me actually believed she'd say, "Of course I'll come, you need me." Stupid. She's my mother, not a Hallmark channel character.

I slide back to the table and lock eyes with Cam.

"My back's killing me again," I say with a meaningful look. "Unisex bathroom. Sixty seconds."

I shoulder through the packed dance floor toward the bathroom, only to find a line snaking down the hallway. Figures. Saturday night, club's rammed, everyone's bladder is full of overpriced drinks. I chew my lip. We'd be assholes to monopolize the bathroom while people are crossing their legs outside.

When Cam appears behind me, I grab his wrist. "Change of plans. Your car."

His mouth curls into that slow smile and we weave toward the exit. Careful not to touch more than necessary, obviously.

Chapter Eight

TALLY

We get to Cam's car, and he slams the seat back as I lunge for him, my body crashing onto his. I dig my fingers into his shoulders, pinning him against the leather while his mouth devours mine. His kiss ignites something primal—all teeth and tongue and desperation—the kind that leaves my lips raw and throbbing for days.

He grips my hips with bruising force, his fingers pressing into my flesh, making it clear this isn't some rushed car hookup. His hands slide to my lower back, finding that spot that's been white-hot with pain since the accident. The same spot that turns molten when he makes me come so hard I see stars, whether it's with his wicked mouth or that long, thick, perfect cock that ruins me for anyone else.

I tear at his zipper, fingers trembling with need, and he surges up against my palm, hot and hard beneath denim. His breath comes in ragged bursts against my neck, both of us panting like we're drowning in each other. Still half-dressed, my skirt hiked up around my waist, I put the love glove on him and then take him inside me with one violent thrust that sends electricity crackling up my spine. The sound that tears from his throat mingles with my own desperate cry as my body stretches to accommodate him.

I ride him savagely in the front seat of his Porsche, my hips slamming down with enough force to make the suspension groan, the windows fogging with our ragged breath as headlights occasionally slice through the darkness, illuminating our reckless, desperate claiming of each other.

He eases into a slower rhythm, his fingers working the knots in my back, each movement dissolving the pain bit by bit. I let out a breath and rest my head against his shoulder, feeling the heat of his skin against mine. There's a pressure building in my chest, words I don't dare release. How do I tell him that watching his fingers dance across those piano keys broke something open inside me? That yeah, the sex has been mind-blowing, but seeing that other side of him was what truly wrecked me? No way. Some things, once said, can't be unsaid. So I swallow hard and stay silent.

Afterwards, I'm laying there with my head on his rock-hard chest, counting each thump of his heart against my ear like a metronome. His fingers weave through my tangled hair, gentle as a summer breeze, and I'm letting him—fucking letting him—which tears at my insides like barbed wire.

I never let a dude do this intimate shit after sex. Not the hair-stroking, not the cuddling, not the goddamn vulnerability hanging in the air between us. What the hell is happening to me? It's only been a couple of days, for fuck's sake. I barely know which side of town this guy lives on. Never let a dude past the steel-plated door I installed around my heart years ago. So how is Dr. Perfect managing to slip through the microscopic cracks I never even knew existed, like water finding its way through concrete?

I glance back toward the club. "We should probably head inside. Don't you get, like, a trophy or something for playing that well?"

Cameron's laugh is soft, almost shy. "It's just open mic night. No prizes, just people sharing what they love."

"So where'd you learn to play like that?" I ask, tilting my head.

His fingers are still tangled in my hair, and I can tell he's waiting for me to swat him away any second. His touch is hesitant, like he's petting a cat that might scratch. "Got a toy piano for Christmas when I was three. One of those little ones—like Schroeder in the Peanuts cartoons. Instead of just smashing the keys, I tried to make actual music. Mom noticed right away." His voice softens. "She was good at seeing things like that." He pauses, looking past me. "Started lessons before my hands could even reach an octave. After she died—I was seven—playing became everything. Helped me process what I couldn't say."

I swallow hard, thinking about Cameron's mom. According to Celeste, Catherine was diagnosed with breast cancer while pregnant with Max. The doctors told her that terminating would probably save her life, but she chose her baby instead. She died just months after Max was born. Cameron was seven when she passed—unlike his brothers, he was old enough to have real memories of her. I can picture her walking him to his first day of kindergarten, cheering as he stood on a surfboard at four years old (a crazy Kensington family tradition), and bundling him up for ski lessons at five (another Kensington thing—their dad believed kids should learn scary stuff before they're old enough to overthink it). Now Cameron’s talking about how she noticed his musicality and nurtured it. I can't help wondering if his younger brothers like Max and Ansel resent him for having those extra years with her—for knowing the woman they never really got to meet.

I put my head back on his chest. "Your playing reminds me of my mother," I say, and then immediately regret it. I don't want to open that can of worms, not with him. Don't want to tell him about how Mom's hot mess makes mine look like normalcy.

Too late.

"Your mother played?"