Page 41 of The Malibu Secret

"Christ, Celeste!" I snap, whirling around. "Yes! Wolves with razor teeth and glowing eyes that hunt screenwriters specifically!" I push aside a branch that whips back, nearly hitting her. "Lucky for you, all those damn movies you mainline for 'work' have prepared you perfectly for this exact scenario."

“Tally-”

I shake my head. "Those predator attack movies like The Grey and Frozen - the stuck ski lift movie, not the Elsa and Anna movie - get it all wrong. Wolves avoid humans whenever possible, just like bears do. Wolf conservation groups despise that kind of fearmongering—it just leads to more hunting." I can't help but roll my eyes. "Even Great Whites, despite what Jaws would have you believe, typically steer clear of people."

Celeste lifts her chin. "I'm well aware of shark behavior, thank you very much. When Max and I started surfing together, he prepared me for Great White sightings. My first encounter? Total panic attack. Max couldn't stop laughing. These days?" She shrugs with casual confidence. "I barely notice them anymore."

I nod. "Bears and wolves tend to avoid humans. Mountain lions, though..." I pause dramatically, watching Celeste's eyes widen before I crack a smile. "They usually keep their distance too."

Celeste scans the trees nervously. "Where did you learn all this wildlife stuff?"

"Just something I've always loved." A flock of wild turkeys crosses our path, their iridescent feathers catching the light. "One of my foster families had this remote cabin. I'd disappear for hours with my sketchbook. After a few close encounters, I figured I'd better understand what makes animals tick—or attack. Turns out, most just want you to respect their space."

I shoot Celeste a look, and she gets it. I've hiked plenty of trails before. I never got lost then, and I won't now. Even when I'm not paying attention, my brain catalogs every fallen log and distinctive tree.

"You're sure you can get us back?" Celeste's voice pitches higher, doubt written all over her face.

"Trust me, Celeste."

We reach a stream, and I peel off my boots and socks, sighing as the cool water rushes over my feet. Perfect. This hike is exactly the reset I needed before heading back to face Cameron. I need to set boundaries—last night was a mistake, not a standing invitation. He needs to focus on Willow and stop fantasizing about something that's never happening again.

Celeste glances at her watch, but kicks off her shoes and peels away her socks anyway. We settle side by side on the stream bank, letting the current wash over our bare feet.

I spot movement in the shallows and point, grinning. Tadpoles. “See those? When I was a kid, I'd scoop up tadpoles in jars and watch them at home. I was obsessed with catching that moment—you know, when the tail shrinks away and those tiny legs push through."

Celeste's laugh rings out, the tension visibly melting from her shoulders. She's finally forgetting about being lost. "I tried that too! Mine always ended up belly-up before anything interesting happened."

"Tap water," I say with a knowing nod. "It's like poison to them compared to this." I swirl my toes through the clear stream. "I only had one survivor that went the distance. Watching those legs sprout and that tail disappear—like witnessing magic. After that, I retired from my tadpole-snatching career. Mission accomplished."

We sit, side by side, watching the tadpoles dart around like tiny black bullets. I'm transfixed, heart hammering against my ribs.

"You know," I say, my voice barely audible over the roaring in my ears, "I wonder if I could rip myself apart and rebuild completely. Like these tadpoles—they dissolve their own bodies from the inside out to become something else entirely." Thunder growls in the distance. The air crackles with electricity, raising the hair on my arms. Two PM. Storm coming. We need to go, but I can't move.

"What do you mean?" Celeste's eyes burn into me.

"Just—" My throat constricts. "Some creatures destroy themselves to evolve. What if I could tear down everything I am?" My fingers dig into my thighs. "Become someone who doesn't hyperventilate at the thought of forever with Cameron."

Celeste grips my shoulder, her nails leaving half-moons. "That's what you really want, isn't it?"

"God, yes." The words rip from me. "I'm desperate to be the woman who deserves him on his knee. Who can wake up to that face for fifty years without running. Who can love him back with the same fucking intensity that he loves me. Who can say the words ‘I love you’ back to him when he says it to me.”

"Cameron says he loves you?"

My skin flushes hot, then cold. Last night floods back—his words branded against my neck, my back arched, both of us slick with sweat, trembling. "Yeah," I whisper. "But..." Christ. I almost told her how he'd confessed his love between our fourth and fifth time, his voice breaking as he pushed inside me again. “Never mind.” I sniff the air and it smells like rain.

“But?” She elbows me. “Go on, Tally.”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.” Then I shoot her a look that she knows means to back off, which sucks for her, because I HATE it when somebody starts to say something and then doesn’t finish. But I’m not telling her about last night.

“Tally-”

“Let’s get back before it rains.”

So, Celeste and I head back to the chalet. We crunch through the ground and, before I know it, we’re back where we need to be. I hear Celeste breathe a sigh of relief, which tells me that there was at least a little part of her that was afraid that I really didn’t know the way back, which means that she gives me little credit for not being an idiot.

We get in there and the chalet door swings open as Michael Kensington arrives with Patricia—Celeste's mother and his new bride. Patricia's cheeks glow with a vitality I barely recognize compared to the hollow-faced woman of a few years ago, when cancer had whittled her down to bones and will. Now her fitted sweater shows off arms toned from those five-weekly Pilates sessions she mentions in every conversation, and her legs look strong enough to power through those Peloton rides she documents religiously on Instagram. The way she gazes at Michael—like he personally hung the moon—makes perfect sense. He's cut from the same cloth as Cameron: gentle eyes, ready smile, the kind of man who'd give you his last dollar without hesitation.

Roman practically bounds across the room to his father. I nearly do a double-take watching them embrace, Roman's arm slung around Michael's shoulders as they walk in together. The sight is as jarring as seeing Roman and Max sharing inside jokes these days. For months, Roman wouldn't even stay at family gatherings if Michael showed up—now here he is, beaming like a lighthouse.