Page 25 of The Malibu Secret

Fan-fucking-tastic. Cue the crystal collection, goddess prayers for Brinley's protection, and sage smudging around my belly button. She'll probably whip out her tarot deck and try to predict whether I'll end up with a ring on my finger. Look, I actually like Lilith—she might be the kindest soul I've ever met. It's bizarre she ended up with Hurricane Roman, though watching her somehow tame that storm has been impressive. But I just can't pretend those shiny rocks of hers do a damn thing except look pretty on her shelf.

Lilith appears a half hour later, her dark hair bouncing with each step, wearing a pastel yellow sundress that practically glows against her tanned skin. That megawatt smile of hers could power my entire tattoo shop. Does the woman ever have a bad day? I somehow doubt it. I'm envious of her Disney princess vibe—the way people just naturally gravitate toward her, offering help or smiling back like she's sprinkled them with fairy dust. Not that I'd trade my tats and resting bitch face for her sunshine and rainbows routine.

She gives me a big hug that smells like patchouli oil and that herbal shampoo they sell at the co-op for seventeen bucks a bottle. "Tally, I've been dying to see you since I heard about the baby." Then she digs through her fringed macramé bag and pulls out—you guessed it—a crystal. It's opaque and white, like a chunk of frozen toothpaste. "This is Selenite. If you put it in your nursery, it'll cleanse the space." She rummages again and produces another rock, er, crystal, this one jet-black and lumpy as a lump of coal. "Black tourmaline. It'll shield your baby from negative energy."

Oh, fucking fantastic. She gives me two of the most boring crystals in the world—one that looks like someone's forgotten ice cube and another like something Santa would give to a kid on his bad list. Couldn't she have given me one of those really beautiful, funky ones, with purples and dark reds swirling together like a galaxy, something mysterious and beautiful that I could at least display without visitors thinking I'd picked up random gravel from a parking lot?

I force a smile, pocketing the crystals. It's sweet, really—she genuinely thinks these magic rocks will keep my kid safe or whatever.

But she’s not here to give me woo-woo crystals. She’s here to help and before I can say anything else, she's already grabbing the heaviest boxes and muscling them down the stairs to the U-Haul. Hard to be annoyed when she's doing the heavy lifting I shouldn't be doing anyway. Seven months pregnant means I'll take whatever help shows up, even if it comes with a side of crystal bullshit.

Twelve hours later, we're all sprawled across my new living room floor with pizza boxes and beer bottles scattered around us. Everyone except me, that is—I'm nursing apple juice like it's liquid gold. Seven months pregnant and I still can't bring myself to have even one sip of beer, though the doctor said it probably wouldn't hurt anything at this point. But hell, I've made it this far sober.

"So," Roman says, cutting through my thoughts, "when exactly are you planning to tell my brother he's about to become a father?" He cocks an eyebrow at me over his beer bottle, his other arm wrapped protectively around Lilith. She's nestled against him, her head tucked perfectly into the crook of his shoulder while he absently kisses her forehead every few minutes.

My chest tightens watching them. Not since those two pink lines appeared on that damn pregnancy test have I felt such a sharp ache of longing. Roman and Lilith have everything—that bone-deep certainty someone's always got your back. And here I am, running from it. Because what was my reason again? Oh right—I don't want to be fucking smothered.

“When he gets back,” I say. “In five months.”

Roman rolls his eyes. “You know it’s bullshit keeping him in the dark, don’t you?”

The words "none of your goddamned business" burn on my tongue, but I swallow them. I'm the one lying to his brother about the baby, after all. Cameron's got his loyalty, not me. I've seen the photos of Cameron with little Stephanie—the way he'd toss her into the air, catching her squealing with those surgeon's hands. I know he'd be the same with Brinley. Cameron's itching to rebuild, to find Wife 2.0 and Baby 2.0. Not replacing what he lost—he'd never—but filling that crater in his life with something tangible. As if rescuing refugees or saving lives at Cedars Sinai forty hours a week isn't tangible enough. Celeste says he wants his "forever girl." That phrase alone makes my skin crawl. Forever girl? I'm barely managing to be a today girl.

"I know, but I can't drop this kind of bomb on him from across the world. He needs to focus on saving lives over there. You think he can do that with thoughts of my carrying his kid keeping him up at night?" The justification tastes sour even as I say it.

Roman's knuckles go white around his beer bottle as he takes a long swig. His jaw clenches like he's biting back words. Lilith whispers something in his ear, and the tension drains from his shoulders like she's flipped some hidden switch. It's wild how she transforms him. Celeste says he used to be the kind of guy who'd cut in front of you in line and then blame you for being in his way. Now? He holds doors open and remembers birthdays. Though right now he's glaring at me like I keyed his car, which is fair. After all, I’m keeping his brother in the dark about the tiny human growing inside me that shares their DNA.

He finally sighs. "Fine. But when Cameron finds out you kept this from him, he won't just be pissed at you. He'll be pissed at all of us for being accomplices."

He's probably right—if he was talking about any other Kensington brother. But Cameron? Cam listens first, judges later. He sees the why behind the what. He'll get it once I explain.

Right?

Chapter Eighteen

TALLY

Once the last box is unpacked, I wheel in Mom's surprise—a baby grand piano for my new sun porch. God, I fucking love that porch. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the backyard where this massive pepper tree towers like it's been there since dinosaurs roamed. I can already picture myself scaling its branches, not just when Brinley's old enough to join me, but next week if I feel like it. I'll build a "treehouse" for her that'll double as my sketching sanctuary. The yard's already decked out with birdhouses, feeders, and this fancy raised garden bed. Mom can handle the planting—I kill cacti by looking at them—but she's itching to grow everything from cucumbers to kale. Lately I've been craving veggies like crazy. Brinley's turning me into some kind of health freak from the inside out.

When the movers position the piano, Mom descends the stairs and freezes. "Oh, Tally! You didn't!"

I just nod. "Sit. Play something."

She cracks her knuckles one by one, takes a deep breath that fills her lungs completely, and launches into Ravel's Gaspard de la Nuit. Her fingers dance across the ivory keys, coaxing out the delicate, crystalline notes that patter like midnight rain against a windowpane. The haunting melody hangs in the air, deceptively simple at first, before her hands begin to blur with the gathering complexity of the piece, her body swaying slightly as the tempo quickens and the music darkens.

Her fingers fly across the keys like she never stopped playing. Eyes closed, body swaying, she navigates this insanely difficult piece like it's nothing. Watching her, I'm seven years old again, cross-legged on the floor, wondering how those hands that make my sandwiches can create something so magical.

Just like when I was seven, I sit cross-legged on the floor while she plays, her fingers dancing over the keys. Bach, then Chopin, then Debussy’s “Reverie” - a piece that I love even more than Debussy’s more familiar “Claire de Lune” - then something I don't recognize but sounds like raindrops. Five grand for that baby grand—worth every penny I shouldn't have spent. The shop's killing it lately, though. Blade turned out to be tattoo gold, drawing crowds that spill over to my chair. Even Maya finally got her act together, her line work tight as hell now. Between the three of us, we're booked solid for months. Then there's the celebrity factor—I still get goosebumps remembering how I nearly fumbled my machine when Chris freaking Hemsworth walked in. One A-lister and suddenly everyone wants ink from the same shop.

I'm grinding harder these days, banking hours and cash. Baby girl's coming, and babies aren't cheap. College funds, art classes if she's got my creative streak, maybe private school with those fancy enrichment programs. My mind runs the numbers, making plans that oddly don't include Cam's wallet. Stupid, really. He could pay for four years of Juilliard without blinking. But something in my gut says he'll do the bare minimum—cut the required checks but nothing more. Wouldn't stretch far if he pushes for that joint custody he'll probably demand.

I look at my mom and smile. "You've still got it. Why don't you ring up that agent at IAG? He'd book you in a heartbeat."

"You really think I can handle that kind of pressure again?" She twists her hands together.

"Absolutely. You're⁠—"

The pain slices through me mid-sentence, hot and sharp. My first contraction. I double over, gasping for air. Shit. Should've dragged my ass to those Lamaze classes after all. Couldn't stomach it though—all those beaming couples with their matching outfits and synchronized breathing. Would've twisted the knife, especially with these damn pregnancy hormones making me fantasize about Cam moving in, the three of us becoming this perfect little family. Pure fucking delusion. Because right behind that cozy picture comes the panic—walls closing in, choking the life out of me. Gotta remember that feeling when I see him. Can't let some biological chemical trick convince me it's love.