Page 58 of The Malibu Secret

Celeste texts me updates: “Got her first top tooth.” “Started walking yesterday, so she’s an early walker!” “Said mama and pointed to Tally.” "Said ‘kitty’ today and chased it across the living room." I read these messages in the middle of meetings, in bed at 3 AM, when I’m having dinner with Eli or Willow or one of my brothers or my father, and each one is a knife twist I can't stop reaching for. The video Celeste sent me of Brinley running across the floor after the cat while screaming “kitty here!” brings tears to my eyes, yet I can’t stop watching it and demanding more.

My bachelor party will be taking place in Paris this weekend. We'll all be traveling to Max's place in the Grós-Caillou district - a sleek penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Eiffel Tower, marble countertops cold to the touch, and that distinct scent of luxury that only comes with seven-figure real estate. He uses it for his quarterly business trips and took Celeste there during their honeymoon, where they apparently drank champagne on the wrought-iron balcony every sunset.

From there, I'm told we'll sample rare vintages in dimly lit cellars with centuries of dust on the bottles, pedal through the manicured gardens of Versailles with their geometric precision, and engage in other sophisticated pursuits befitting a guy who'd rather sip aged Bordeaux than wake up with a misspelled Chinese character tattooed on his ass and a Bengal tiger prowling the bathroom tiles.

Roman pulls up in his Aston to drive me to the airport. He's been able to read me like a book about this whole wedding—probably because Lilith keeps feeding him intel. His wife may not be psychic in the traditional sense, but she reads tarot and claims she can see auras around emotionally charged people. My aura, according to her, might as well be flashing warning signs.

I see Roman, who’s looking like he wants to be anywhere else and I wonder what Lilith has told him about me. I shake my head. “I’ve told her to keep her cards in their box," I say as I toss my bag in the trunk.

Roman shrugs. "Doesn't need them to see you're having doubts.” He gets into the driver’s seat and I get in the passenger seat and look out the window. We’re silent for a few minutes. “Listen, bro," he finally says, eyes on the road. "You can bail anytime. Nobody's gonna hold it against you—well, except maybe Silas, since he orchestrated this whole setup."

I've heard this speech before. Each time, I insist everything's fine, this is exactly what I want. But the truth? If Tally showed up right now, I'd cancel everything and marry her by sunset. No elaborate reception, no three hundred guests. She'd hate all that anyway. Tally would probably want something simple—maybe at that gallery she loves, with just a few people - Brinley, her mother, Celeste, Olivia - and the artwork as witnesses.

"Nope," I say, gut-punched by the thought of hurting Willow. She's decent through and through. I like her, no question. Can't find a damn thing wrong with her, which is weird. Everyone's got their shit. Most people, anyway. Maybe Willow really is perfect.

So why the hell am I still so drawn to Tally's mess?

And Christ, Willow's family—her dad shoots for National Geographic, her mom saves kids' lives as a pediatric surgeon, and they welcomed me like I'm already wearing their family crest. Night and day compared to the chaos Tally grew up in.

But Tally's moved past it all, and she's solid with her mom now. And Marisa—she's not just her diagnosis or the pills that made Tally's childhood a minefield. The woman's brilliant. Destroys me at chess half the time. Fuck, I miss those games—Marisa across the board, that little smirk when she's about to corner my king eight moves out. I'd see that look and know I was screwed, but whatever. Never cared much about winning anyway. Just liked watching her work.

I stare out the window, letting out a heavy breath. Roman tilts his head, those designer sunglasses hiding his eyes but not his disapproval.

"Dude, just cancel already. We're supposed to be hitting Paris this weekend, and you look like you're walking to your own execution."

"I said I'm fine," I snap, my tone sharper than intended.

"Bullshit. When I was marrying Lilith, I was counting down the hours. Couldn't sleep, couldn't eat—just wanted her to be my wife already. You? You've got that same look you had when we took old Bear to the vet that last time."

My stomach twists at the memory. "Don't bring the dogs into this."

"Cameron." Roman's voice softens, using my full name like he means business. "You've always been the one who faces problems head-on. When Dad walked out, you stepped up—fourteen years old and already the family backbone. Every scraped knee, every broken heart—we all came to you. So why are you running from this?"

What am I supposed to say? That for once in my life, I acted without thinking it through? I was just... responding. To Tally and her damn walls. To her practically gift-wrapping me for Willow. To facing the fact that Tally might never want what I want—a real future—while Willow's been ready for that all along. And Silas got in my head with all that talk about how sometimes you need to override your heart with your brain. Because hearts can be idiots, right? Hearts lead people into train-wreck relationships every day. We've all seen it—couples who are clearly poison for each other, but they "followed their hearts" straight into misery. That's the road Tally and I would be heading down if she can't get past her commitment issues. Just another relationship dumpster fire. So maybe Silas is right. Maybe the smart move is to ignore your heart when it's clearly steering you toward a cliff.

I shake my head. "I'm not running away from anything." Roman arches one eyebrow, his expression calling bullshit without saying a word. "Look, can we just—" I sigh. "Fine. Yes. I'm in love with Tally. Happy now?" I drag my palm down my face. “But I like Willow and she would be perfect for Brinley. I know that. She’ll be a great mother, a fantastic role model.” What I don't say is that I've been holding back with Willow, physically and emotionally, because some part of me is still waiting for Tally. "But Tally and me together? We're like those tragic couples in literature—doomed from the start. You know those stories, Roman. Tristan and Isolde. Romeo and Juliet. Paris and Helen. Heathcliffe and Catherine. When passion burns that hot, it doesn't keep you warm—it incinerates everything in its path."

Roman leans back in his seat, his eyes still carefully watching the road. "Look, bro. You're acting like it's either safe-but-boring or passionate-but-destructive. Why not hold out for both passion and stability? You say Willow's great, but where's the fire? Why not wait for someone who gives you butterflies without all of Tally's drama? What's your hurry anyway?"

I rub my temples. What is my hurry? The question hits harder than it should. Am I just trying to hurt Tally the way she hurt me? To show her I can move on too? Christ, I hope that's not it. There's got to be more to this than petty revenge. This isn't me—rushing into forever because my pride took a hit. Roman sees right through me. I've always been the rock, the one my brothers call at 3 AM when their lives are imploding. The Cameron I've built myself to be wouldn't make a decision this big for such small and petty reasons.

I clear my throat. "I just need to lock it down. So I can provide a stable home for Brinley."

The words hang in the air like a bad joke. What stability am I offering my daughter? A father who's about to marry a woman he doesn't love, and a mother, who he does love, living across town with her tattoo needles and that goddamn smile that still keeps him up at night. Soon I'll be signing custody papers, watching the clock during weekend visits, and passing Brinley back and forth in some parking lot. And every time I see Tally—those eyes, those lips, that attitude—I’ll have to pretend my chest isn't caving in, that I'm not still completely fucking wrecked by her.

We get to Max's plane and I paste on a smile. Roman's the only one who really gets me. It's like he once said—the other guys all paired up naturally. Silas and Asher share a face, same as Connor and Kalen. Max and Ansel, barely a year apart, might as well be twins too. That left Roman standing alone, same as me. We gravitated toward each other like the last two kids picked for dodgeball. Not that I don't love all my brothers—I do. But when shit hits the fan, it's Roman I call first. Or it was, anyway. Now he's running triathlons with Max, and I'm wondering if Ansel might need a new buddy. The thought makes my smile feel even more plastic.

Fine. I'll just put on my big boy pants and enjoy Paris, damn it.

But when you have to give yourself a pep talk about a vacation in the City of Light, you're already screwed.

Chapter Forty-Eight

TALLY

I need to get the hell out of town. Cameron's tying the knot with Willow this weekend, and I can't stomach being anywhere near it. Celeste has been my reluctant informant—I practically have to waterboard her for details, and then she watches me melt down over each update. Tahoe bachelorette extravaganza. Peninsula Hotel shower number one. Spago for shower number two. Claire-fucking-Pettibone sewing the dress by hand. Paris bachelor party. 71Above for the rehearsal dinner.

"So the Peninsula penthouse suite shower wasn't enough?" I'd snapped at Celeste when I saw the pictures from Spago. "She needed TWO fucking showers?"