Page 35 of The Malibu Secret

He holds up a hand. "I get it. Just friends hanging out. No expectations."

"Right. And if some gorgeous woman catches your eye..." The words taste like vinegar, but I force them out anyway. "You should totally go for it."

Did those words actually leave my mouth? Christ, they did.

He just shrugs and says nothing.

Cameron changes the subject, thank God. "Tal, my family's doing our every ten years mountain thing next weekend. Up at Mammoth. Granddad's place is ridiculous—calls it a cabin, but it's basically a mansion on a lake. We do all the rich-people water sports." He hesitates. "I want them to meet Brinley. You should both come."

My throat tightens. Shit. The whole Kensington clan? I could bullshit some excuse about the shop, but the truth is, I'm interviewing two new artists next week. If I hire them both, we'd finally have enough coverage that I could actually take a weekend off. God knows the three of us have been running ourselves ragged.

Plus, Celeste mentioned she's going. Having her there would make it less... intense.

But still. A weekend with his family? That's crossing into territory that feels dangerously... couple-y. I shake my head at myself. This is exactly the kind of overthinking that makes me want to run. Another fucking landmine in this arrangement I suggested and now regret—but still need. I just can't dive headfirst into whatever this is without completely losing my shit.

I take a deep breath. "Okay, I'll go to your family's gathering." My stomach knots as I picture walking in with Brinley on my hip. Seven brothers, all staring daggers at the woman who lied about their niece being fathered by some rando instead of their beloved doctor brother. God, I'm going to need at least three shots of tequila to survive this. Too bad I’m breast-feeding, otherwise I’d have that tequila. But Brinley deserves to know her father's side of the family, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me.

Time to face the firing squad.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

TALLY

Welp, Cameron was not kidding when he said that his family's mountain retreat is a chalet, not a cabin. The massive structure looms against the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains, all gleaming cedar and floor-to-ceiling windows that catch the alpenglow at sunset. Mammoth's powdery slopes rise in the distance—a skier's paradise built on the sleeping giant of a volcano that last spewed lava seven centuries ago. The Kensington retreat sprawls across three levels, with ten bedrooms decked out in plush fur throws and rustic-luxe furniture that probably costs more than my Jeep and tattoo equipment combined.

Since it’s August, there’s no actual skiing or snowboarding—just a lakeside house and a weekend full of boating, waterskiing, kayaking, and whatever other fresh hell awaits. My only goal is to make it through without wanting to punch one of the Kensington brothers, though I’m sure each of them will give me ample reason.

First up is Roman, the most likely culprit. He’s toned down since marrying Lilith—maybe her psychic powers really did soften him—but a leopard never changes its spots entirely. I have a hunch we’ll be at each other’s throats before the weekend’s over. He’s fiercely loyal to Cameron, so at least his asshole behavior will feel justified.

Next is Max. I never warmed to him after how he treated Celeste when she first moved in—she was practically hired to marry him and desperately needed the money, yet he behaved as if she didn’t belong in their own home. I haven’t forgotten, and now I’ve given him solid reason to be pissed at me, so he’s another prime candidate for conflict.

Then there’s Silas, CEO of a major jewelry empire who regularly deals with royalty. Full of sarcasm, cold superiority, and convinced he’s better than everyone else, he’ll relish calling me every name in the book.

The rest should be manageable. Connor, despite being an Oscar-winning A-List actor, is apparently shy and insecure—a real sweetheart, according to Celeste. Kalen, the pop star, is always daydreaming, so he won’t cause trouble. Ansel is more like a loyal puppy: all energy and little bite, so he’ll back off but will probably rib me. And Asher? He’d sooner psychoanalyze me than shout insults—and since we both love art, we might actually have something worthwhile to talk about.

I check my phone for the fifth time in an hour. No missed calls from Mom. This weekend marks her first time alone in the house since moving in with me, and my stomach's in knots. She's been religious about her meds—that little chiming alarm on her phone going off like clockwork. The pills have worked miracles. Gone is the woman who'd ditch me for whatever loser bought her drinks, who'd pop pills like candy, who'd forget I existed when a new man came around. But what if she walks out that door while I'm gone? What if that alarm doesn't go off? Or worse—what if she hears it and ignores it? Two missed doses and she could spiral, and just like that, I'd lose her all over again. My hands won't stop shaking at the thought.

So, yeah, this should be a relaxing weekend on the lake, but it seems full of landmines for me.

When I step inside, I spot the biggest landmine of all. Silas—ever the sneaky bastard—either missed the memo that Cameron’s now living with his baby’s mother, or he noticed and just didn’t care. Or maybe he simply enjoys stirring shit. Whatever the case, he’s invited some woman named Dr. Willow Rosewood to spend the weekend with us. And the way he zeroes in on Cameron for an introduction tells me he’s plotting a classic setup.

“Cameron!” Silas calls as Brinley squirms in the sling on my chest and Cameron hauls our mountain of gear through the doorway—not just suitcases but all the baby essentials: diaper bag, high chair, travel crib, toys. He’s pulling it all on a red wagon. Silas meets my eyes and gives me that look—like he’s already penciling in how to piss me off before brunch. Forget Roman. Silas is now the prime candidate for the guy who’ll make me want to cut a bitch by Sunday. “So good to see you. You remember Dr. Rosewood, right?”

Of course Cameron remembers her. And of course Dr. Willow Rosewood is the human embodiment of every nightmare I’ve ever had about pretty, perfect women. She’s at least 5’10”, with huge blue eyes, thick chestnut hair so glossy it makes me want to shriek, and a face so symmetrical it hurts. Legs for days, flawless smile—she could be the poster child for Natural Beauty skincare.

I glance at her, then down at myself, and ugh. My breasts are still swollen from nursing and my stomach a soft Buddha pouch, thanks to zero workouts since the baby arrived. I haven’t had the energy for Pilates or P90X in months. Next to Willow, I feel like a soggy sandwich. I can’t help resenting her perfect flat stomach and perky ass and perkier breasts.

She’s a doctor too—probably a Yalie or Hopkins grad like Cameron. Sure enough, Cameron wraps her in a hug, pecks her cheek, and they launch into memories of med school at Hopkins.

I need Celeste. Now. I have to learn everything I can about this Willow Rosewood.

And Celeste apparently brought her nanny along, Esmé, so I can have some alone time with my friend this weekend. As long as she doesn’t mind that Brinley will be ever-present in her little sling on my chest this weekend.

Boy, I envied Celeste having a nanny when it was just Mom and me tag-teaming Brinley. Now that Cameron’s in the mix, though, he’s better than any nanny, mainly because he’s so easy on the eyes and, yes, I still fantasize about him all the time.

I spot Celeste by the sliding glass window that opens onto the deck and yank her outside by the arm. It should be peaceful out here—I can hear bullfrogs croaking, whippoorwills calling, and beyond the trees a deer and a flock of wild turkeys meander through the underbrush. The lake is glass-smooth at dusk, with only a handful of boats still out, though tomorrow morning it’ll be crowded again, I’m sure. Despite the calm, my heart is pounding.

Because I’m the idiot who convinced Cameron we weren’t a couple. I’m the one who pushed him to date other people. And now, looking back into the living room at Cameron and Dr. Willow deep in conversation—probably medical talk, or more Hopkins hijinks, though what kind of hijinks happens in med school, I have no idea—I realize he looks perfect next to her. If anyone could be Daddy’s money all grown up, with a mansion in the Hamptons and another in Ojai or Big Sur, it’s Willow.