Page 9 of The Malibu Secret

But I'm already anticipating the battle: "It's not a date." She'll recoil if I pull out her chair. She'll bristle if I open her door. She'll shut down if I try to slow dance with her. And still, I'll follow every damn rule because the truth is hammering in my chest—she's resurrecting parts of me I thought died with Alecia and Steph. One wrong move and she'll bolt. And I can't lose her. I won't.

I say "So," but what I really want to say is nothing at all—just reach across the space between us and run my fingertips down the soft skin of her forearm, feel the goosebumps rise beneath my touch. My hands physically ache with the need to touch her. Not sexually—though God knows I want that too—but the simple, primal connection of skin on skin. That’s just me, though. I touch. I hug. I’m the one crushing my brothers in bear hugs, the one who still kisses my father's cheek like I'm eight years old, the one who wraps my new stepmother Patricia in a hug so tight she laughs. But with Tally? I'm paralyzed, hands clenched at my sides, terrified of that icy glare she'd give me. "What do you say about going to Indigo tonight in Hollywood?”

“What’s there?”

I shrug. "I hit up open mic night once a month. Piano, vocals, the usual. I write my own stuff, so⁠—"

She cuts me off with a laugh that makes me wonder what I said wrong. She's shaking her head. "Jesus Christ. You're like someone ordered a romance novel boyfriend from a catalog. Top of your class at Hopkins, saving refugees with Doctors Without Borders, cooking better than a five-star chef, those ridiculous foot massages, and let's not even get into what you can do in bed. Now you're telling me you're some kind of singer-songwriter too?" Another head shake. "Look, you need to understand—I'm damaged goods with trust issues a mile wide. Go find yourself some preppy Elizabeth in a cashmere sweater set, driving a Volvo, and who'll smile politely at your perfection because she's too proper to scream about anything, even in bed."

What can I possibly say? Yes, before Tally, I exclusively dated women who wore pearl earrings with their tennis whites. Alecia would sooner die than mar her porcelain skin with ink—partly on principle, partly because the woman used numbing cream for bikini waxes. She was just the latest in my parade of Sarahs and Blairs and Ashleys, all with their monogrammed weekend bags and family summer homes in the Hamptons. Trust fund babies or corporate climbers, they all drove German cars and ordered white wine spritzers.

None of them set me on fire like Tally does. With the others, sex was scheduled, quiet, efficient—like filing paperwork. With Tally? Christ. We've broken in every surface in her apartment, and thirty minutes ago I had her against the wall, my first time ever doing that. Now I'm already plotting how to get her alone in the bathroom at the jazz club tonight.

But it's not just the physical stuff. There's something about her wildness that feels like oxygen after years of breathing filtered air. When she said I should find someone "too proper to scream," something clicked into place. I don't want proper. I want real. I want Tally.

I lean against the doorframe. "Injury or not, you need to get out of the house. Sitting around isn't good for your back. You need movement—like dancing."

"Seriously?" Tally snorts, her Mediterranean-at-noon eyes glinting with mischief. "After what we've been doing all afternoon, I've had more than enough 'movement' for one day." Her lips curl into a smile despite herself. "But fine, I'll check out this jazz club with you. You any good?" She catches herself and rolls her eyes. "Never mind. Of course you are. Mr. Perfect-At-Everything probably dances like Fred Astaire and sings like John Legend.”

"Hardly," I say. "And I can't create like you do. Can't bring a blank canvas to life or shape clay into something meaningful. Your talent is... extraordinary."

"Oh, I know I'm good," she says, tracing a finger along one of her tattoos. "I'm a badass artist. I just don't have your ridiculous range of skills."

I reach for her hand, my thumb brushing over her fingers, earning me the death glare, so I take my hand away again. "You sell yourself short. Your art speaks to people in ways I never could." The memory of her body against mine flashes through my mind—her generosity, her passion. She might claim she can't cook or play an instrument, but her talents run deeper than she knows.

“Okay,” I say. “So, we’re on for tonight then.”

Tally's eyes narrow as she lays in the bed. "Yeah, as long as I don't bump into anyone who knows both me and Celeste." She winces. "She'd have my head on a platter if she found out about this." She gestures between the two of us. "Not that there's a 'this' to find out about. Which is exactly the issue."

"I don't follow. Why would Celeste mind?"

"God, you have no idea." Tally leans forward. "She practically worships you. All her in-laws get the royal treatment, but you're her golden boy. Every time we grab drinks, I get the Cameron highlight reel—how your heart's too big for your own good, especially after everything with your wife and baby. How you're the only Kensington who didn't sell his soul for fame, fortune or both.” She stretches, showing her flat stomach and my mouth waters. "She's made it her mission to find you some perfect woman who'll love you like you deserve." A humorless laugh escapes her. "If she knew about us, she'd murder me on sight. She knows my relationship track record looks like a five-car pileup, that I’m an absolute train wreck and the last thing she wants is for you to be my next casualty." Tally meets his eyes. "Which you will be. Remember, this is just fun."

"Oh, I see what's happening here. Saint Cameron meets Rebel Tally." I shake my head, scrambling to prove I've got an edge too, but come up empty. No recreational drug use in my history. Never stumbled home drunk behind the wheel. Never thrown a punch in a bar—or anywhere else. That's Roman's domain. Sure, I surf some Saturdays and tackle black diamond slopes with my brothers, but while they live for the adrenaline rush, I'm just along for the ride.

The responsible Kensington—that's been my role since Dad walked out when I was 14, leaving me holding everything together. I became the stand-in father figure overnight, despite some of my brothers being just a year or two younger than me. Strangely, I never resented it. Something about being their rock when they'd come to me with tear-stained faces asking when Dad was coming home—it filled a need in me. That same instinct led me to medicine in underserved countries, and if I'm honest with myself, it's part of what pulls me toward Tally. Each time she calls herself a “hot mess,” a “Cat 5 Disaster” or a “train wreck,” something in me lights up. I want to be her safe harbor. Not that I'd ever admit that to her face—she'd probably launch me through her apartment window for even suggesting she needs someone to catch her when she falls.

Nonetheless, that’s what I’m dying to do.

Catch her when she falls.

Chapter Seven

TALLY

I’m sprucing myself up for tonight’s date with Cameron. He’s crashing here through tomorrow, so I sent him out to grab clothes and an overnight bag—and now that he’s actually gone, I can’t help missing him. Missing him! His flawless physique, those piercing eyes, a jaw sharp as glass, the grin that reveals perfect dimples, and his dark, tousled hair that’s begging for a trim. I’d love to be the one to cut it—because I’m pretty good with scissors—but that feels way too boyfriend-and-girlfriend-y for me. Not now, not ever. I even find myself craving the warm notes of his sandalwood-and-bergamot cologne, some high-end scent that only Ivy Leaguers like himself knows about.

But I’ve drawn a hard line: nothing beyond sex. No hand-holding at the jazz club, no gentle strokes on my forearm—or god forbid he brushes my bangs out of my eyes with that look he gives me. If he does, I’ll lose it. I’m a wreck, he’ll get tired of my rules and my mess, and eventually he’ll settle down with his Elizabeth or Sarah or Claire, hand in hand in a Volvo, driving just under the speed limit.

For now, though, I’m here for the mind-shattering sex and the multiple orgasms—pardon, “pain-killing sessions.” He’s right: we “worked out” for hours today, slamming against walls, lathering each other in the shower while he worshipped me with his mouth and I returned the favor, christening every piece of furniture in my place—twice. And dammit, he’s also right that since he first relieved my back pain yesterday—his lips, fingers, and tongue going deeper than I ever imagined—I haven’t had a single spasm.

But I can’t grow attached. He’s here only until tomorrow, then back to his ER shifts—and next month he’s off to Sicily for a year with Doctors Without Borders. So I can’t get used to him or count on him. If my back remains a chronic issue, I’ll just have to find another kind of relief.

Cameron shows up at my door looking like he stepped out of a men's magazine. The distressed jeans hug his thighs just right, and those leather captain lace-ups add an inch to his already impressive height. His dark t-shirt stretches across his chest under a perfectly tailored blazer. I can tell he wanted to bring flowers—his hands keep fidgeting like they're missing something—but thought better of it. Points for reading the room.

"You look beautiful," he says, his eyes traveling from my face down to my legs in the black dress I chose specifically because it shows off everything I've earned at the gym. The fabric clings to curves I've sculpted through countless squats and planks.

"Hmmm..." I say, checking my watch. "Where are we eating?"