Page 34 of The Malibu Secret

Olivia nearly spits out her wine. "Oh my God, you won't believe this bride I had last week. Demanded we serve sushi—at an outdoor wedding. In August."

I scrunch my nose. I love sushi, but it needs to be fresh. Sushi at an outdoor wedding in August. No. Just no.

“What about you, Celeste?” I ask.

Celeste scrolls through her phone, then holds it up to show me a photo. "Max took this of Violet at the beach house. And I just sold a series treatment to Netflix. I’ll be the showrunner!”

We all clink our glasses at that one. Celeste is so amazing. Just a few years ago, she was struggling to sell any of her screenplays. Now she’ll be developing a whole series!

"And Patricia?" I ask, my voice dropping.

Celeste's eyes light up. "Mom's scans came back clean again. Remember how gray she looked a few years ago? Now she's planning a cruise with Cameron and Max’s dad."

I nod, thinking about the experimental treatment Max paid for—the one her insurance wouldn't cover. The one that costs more than my yearly mortgage payments.

“So, give me the Hollywood dirt,” I say. This is our ritual - Celeste is a screenwriter and her hubby is a major movie studio CEO, so she knows it all.

Then Celeste lunges forward so abruptly her necklace clatters against the table, her voice dropping to a hiss. "So Bryce Harrington? Complete nightmare on set. Threw an actual tantrum—like, screaming, stomping, the works—because they gave him green M&Ms instead of blue ones. Fired two PAs on the spot." She stabs her finger against her wineglass with each syllable. "And Madeline Frost? God. She trapped my husband against a wall at the Vanity Fair party, practically frothing at the mouth about her 'revolutionary' skin care line until security had to intervene." Olivia and I lock eyes, electric with gossip-lust, then practically dive across the table, knocking over a saltshaker in our scramble to get closer.

Yes. This is the good shit. Just normal, everyday stuff. Coming home to my kid, but also knowing Cameron's got my back when I need a minute to breathe. Win-win-win situation right here.

Unless Cameron hooks up with someone. Then we're in uncharted territory.

But I'll dynamite that particular problem when it explodes in my face.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

TALLY

I walk in after visiting the girls and find Cameron in the living room, Brinley nestled against his chest in one of those baby slings I used to mock—yet seeing him like that makes me melt. He’s folding laundry, and the instant our eyes meet, both his face and Brinley’s light up. She kicks and reaches for me, as though she already knows me. At barely three months old, she’s already showing personality, and, thanks to whatever is in my meds, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed with love every time I look at her.

“How were the girls?” Cameron asks, unfastening Brinley from the sling and passing her to me. She cups my cheeks and coos; I choke back tears.

“They were… the girls,” I shrug. “They both think I’m nuts for our arrangement.” I want to admit I feel insane too—only a madwoman would risk losing a man like Cameron. “Who’s my beautiful girl?” I ask Brinley while she gurgles, coos, smiles and grabs my nose. I shake my head at her. “Who’s my beautiful girl?”

God, I’m doing the one thing I swore I wouldn’t - cooing at a baby in a sing-song baby-talk voice. But I can’t help it. She really is my beautiful girl and I need to tell her that.

Cameron watches us for a second, a huge grin on his face. And then he motions to the piano. “Sit at the piano. I’ve written something for Brinley—a song I want to play at Indigo this Friday. Tell me what you think. Oh, and don’t worry: I’ve asked Patricia to watch Brinley so we can have a night out.”

I slide onto the piano bench beside him, confident this melody will be stunning; Cameron never does anything halfway.

He taps the keys and smiles. “Your mom actually helped me craft the melody. She’s an incredible composer with this offbeat perspective—something she shares with many creative minds who live with bipolar. Even under treatment, her creativity is as vivid as ever.”

As he plays, he talks about historical figures linked to bipolar: Beethoven, Van Gogh, Virginia Woolf, Tolstoy, Churchill, Hemingway, even Isaac Newton. “I really admire your mom,” he says softly. “Her courage to face her challenges and ask for help—that’s something extraordinary.”

I love the song, from its haunting minor-key melody to the raw, honest lyrics that catches in his throat. The song isn't dripping with saccharine sentiment like some tracks famous musicians have written for their offspring. Take "Isn't She Lovely" – those sparkling piano riffs had me hooked until I discovered Stevie Wonder penned it for his newborn daughter. Suddenly all I could hear was the musical equivalent of a diaper commercial. Don't even get me started on Creed's "With Arms Wide Open" with its overwrought vocals practically drowning in father-son tears. But not all parent-to-child musical offerings make me want to gag. Radiohead's Thom Yorke crafted that eerie, dissonant lullaby that feels more like a beautiful nightmare than a nursery rhyme, and Alanis Morissette's song for her kids, “Ablaze” has razor-sharp lyrics that cut through the typical baby-talk bullshit. Cameron's song belongs in that rare category – it's got teeth and truth, with syncopated rhythms that make your hips move and lyrics that make your heart ache.

I clap when he's finished with it and Brinley, who's sitting next to us in a special high chair with little cartoon giraffes on the tray, starts pumping her tiny fists and chubby legs like she's auditioning for a baby mosh pit. She doesn't laugh—apparently babies don't do that until they're around six months old—but she smiles so wide I can see her pink gums gleaming. She gurgles and makes those wet, bubbly baby sounds that somehow sound like pure joy.

I scoop her up, feeling her warm weight against my chest, her baby powder scent filling my nose. And it's such a revelation to look into those big blue eyes and actually feel that rush of warmth spreading through my chest that everyone talks about. When she grabs my nose with sticky fingers and makes that hiccuping gurgle sound, I don't fantasize about flagging down the first person walking by and begging them to take her—I just want to hold her closer.

I stare at Cam, genuinely impressed. "That song... wow. When did you come up with it?"

"Just scribbled it down during the 4 AM feeding," he says with a modest shrug. "So you really think it's good enough for tomorrow at Indigo?"

Tomorrow. At Indigo. My stomach flips before I remind myself: not a date. Definitely not a date. We're nothing like that.

"Absolutely," I manage, my smile feeling stiff. "But listen, Cam⁠—"