Page 57 of The Malibu Secret

"I know," Celeste says, beaming. "Last week at Gymboree, she spotted this boy hiding behind his mom's legs. Wouldn't talk to anyone. By the end of class, she had him building a block tower with her." Celeste tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes never leaving her daughter. "And there was this other little girl whose parents were screaming at each other during pickup. My Violet just walked over and held her hand until they were done."

I nod, feeling something warm in my chest despite myself. All the degrees and achievements in the world don't mean shit without a heart.

Shit. Seeing that look on Violet's face—that pure-hearted concern for others—it's like a knife to the gut. Cameron has that same look. The one I pushed away. The one who's probably making breakfast for little Miss Perfect right now, his shirt unbuttoned to show just a bit of his gorgeous and perfect chest. Cameron, who looked at me like I was his forever person. Who showed up when he said he would. Who called when he was running late. Who wouldn't have just disappeared one day like my mom’s loser guys. I run my tongue over the sharp edge of my incisor and taste blood as we get closer to Santa.

We reach the front of the line and place both girls on Santa's lap. Violet's an old pro at this—she sits there grinning like she's reuniting with a beloved uncle. Brinley, though? Her little face crumples, then she lets out a wail that probably has elves covering their ears at the North Pole. Click. Anndddd there's our Christmas memory preserved forever.

I can already picture teenage Brinley rolling her eyes when this photo makes its annual appearance. Maybe she'll laugh about it someday. Or maybe she'll add it to her list of childhood traumas to discuss in therapy, right after "Mom forced me to wear matching Christmas sweaters" and before "Mom wouldn't let me get a belly button ring at twelve." Whatever. As long as she doesn't end up preferring Willow over me—though honestly, I just want her to be happy. Santa's lap trauma and all.

Brinley's still screaming bloody murder as I pry her off Santa's lap. So much for holiday magic. We head to Javier's for overpriced tacos while Mom keeps staring at the photo, beaming like Brinley isn't having a complete meltdown.

"This would make the perfect Christmas card," Mom says, pointing to the picture.

"Right. And who exactly would I send it to? Everyone I care about is sitting at this table." I pause. "Well, maybe Olivia."

Mom gives me that look. "What about Cameron? Don't you think he'd want⁠—"

"Not. Another. Word." I stab my fork into a chunk of avocado. "And hell no."

The truth hits me like a hangover. Part of me knew Cameron was dying to take Brinley to see Santa himself. And maybe—okay, definitely—I rushed to do it first so he couldn't have that moment with her. I don't know why I'm being such a bitch about it, but the thought of him and Willow creating Christmas memories with my daughter makes something twist inside me that I'm not ready to examine.

Celeste methodically hands animal crackers to Violet, who's washing them down with apple juice. Brinley's passed out in her carrier after her Santa meltdown, having gone from 60 to 0 like she does. I catch Celeste's eyes darting to me, then away. Shit. That look means trouble.

"Tally," she finally says, voice too careful. "You know Cameron's not just Max's brother—they're practically joined at the hip."

My stomach drops. "Yeah?"

"The wedding stuff will be starting. Engagement dinner at the Patrician next month, then the shower, bachelorette party, rehearsal dinner…” She trails off, twisting her wedding ring.

My hands go cold. Here it comes—my best friend asking permission to celebrate the marriage of the man I'm desperately in love with to someone else. And what can I say? Of course she has to go to all these things. Willow will be her sister-in-law or something like that - I’m never good at who’s a sister or brother-in-law, let alone who’s a second cousin twice removed. But Max and Cameron are brothers. All the Kensington men stick together like glue. It's just how it is.

I shrug. "Whatever. Just don't expect me to follow your socials for a while. That shit's gonna be all over my feed—tagged photos, group selfies, the works. I don't need to see it."

Celeste's shoulders drop. "God, Tally. This sucks. I feel like I'm betraying you just by going to these things. You know you come first with me, right? But it's happening whether we like it or not."

I force a smile and jingle my car keys. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway... you up for a good Marvel flick at the Cineplex?"

“You good?”

I nod. “Fine.”

Fine? I'm about as fine as a fresh tattoo in salt water. Every time I picture Celeste getting dragged to all these wedding events, it's like someone's twisting a knife right in my gut. God knows how many parties these people have planned. The Kensingtons don't do anything small—they're throwing the engagement party at some fancy-ass country club, for Christ's sake. And the bachelorette party? Probably jetting off to some exotic locale. I don't know if Willow's family has a mansion in Italy or whatever, but the Kensingtons sure as hell do—some sprawling villa on Lake Como.

If they end up having the bachelorette party there, I'm literally going to vomit.

Chapter Forty-Seven

CAMERON

Events are moving too fast, and I can't seem to hit the brakes. My sports medicine fellowship consumes nearly every waking hour—I haven't seen Brinley in months, which gnaws at me constantly, though Tally hasn't exactly been pushing for father-daughter time. Despite my insane schedule, Asher managed to throw us an engagement party at the Patrician that would make Hollywood jealous. My colleagues from the hospital showed up in force, but I was blindsided by Willow's guest list. All this time together, and she never mentioned her father's photography career puts her on a first-name basis with supermodels, actresses, and other camera royalty.

Not that I was taken aback by this, mind you. I’ve grown numb to the spectacle of wealth. When your brothers include Max and Roman, who make billion-dollar deals before breakfast; Connor and Kalen, whose faces appear on magazine covers monthly; Silas, who designs jewelry for actual princesses; and Ansel, whose Grammy shelf requires its own wall—well, you develop a certain tolerance. Even Asher, who orchestrated our engagement event, counts Hollywood royalty - not to mention actual royalty - as his regular clients. I may have chosen the "humble" path of medicine, but the Kensington name still means I've shaken more famous hands than most people ever will. Yet watching the flash of cameras outside as another celebrity arrived to our party, I can't help wishing we'd eloped.

And that was just the engagement party. The celebrations continued with impressive frequency—Willow's bachelorette weekend was held at her Tahoe estate, where I'm told the ladies demolished several cases of Veuve Clicquot.

The countdown to my wedding day has begun—just one month to go. Everything's happened at warp speed since Willow and I got engaged at Christmas. Now it's May, and June 14th looms on the horizon. I keep repeating that this is what I want, that after all these engagement parties and wedding showers and deposits paid, there's no turning back. Yet I catch myself staring out windows, wondering what Tally's doing right now, how Brinley’s liking her Gymboree (I only know Brinley’s enrolled in Gymboree because Celeste told me) classes and if they ever think of me.

Especially Tally. Dammit, I catch myself staring at Willow's profile, searching for Tally's jawline, her smirk. The engagement photos scattered across our coffee table—posed kisses at sunset on the Santa Monica Pier, champagne toasts at the Griffith Observatory—they all feel like someone else's life. Meanwhile, Brinley's turning one next month, right around the time I’ll be married to Willow.