Page 66 of The Malibu Secret

Chapter Fifty-Five

CAMERON

Later, I pull Max aside to get the full story on what happened after I called off the wedding. I half expect him to report guests flipping tables or my almost–mother-in-law having a public breakdown. Really, though, I just need to know whether those six months I spent agonizing over centerpieces and cake tastings were completely wasted.

Max shakes his head. “No, everyone was fine. Word got around that you had an emergency, though nobody knew exactly what it was. But I promise you, nothing went to waste—the food, the cake, even the band showed up. People drank at the open bar, they loved the spread, and both cakes were a hit. You did great, Cameron. Well, actually Asher did great—he planned the entire thing.”

I nod. “Asher does have good taste.”

“Yeah, so everyone partied.”

I ask, “How did Willow’s parents take it?”

Max shrugs again. “They figured that if you had an emergency, you had to deal with it. They thought the event would be postponed, not canceled outright.”

My chest tightens. Now that they know what really happened, I’m sure they hate me. I don’t like making anyone hate me—especially when I deserve it. And in this case, I truly deserve their anger. Not for ditching the wedding to look for Tally—I could never regret that. That rash decision is the only reason Tally’s alive. But I deserve their hate for dragging Willow into my disaster in the first place.

I clear my throat. “How’s Silas handling it all?”

Max takes a deep breath. “He’s upset. To be honest, most of us are. We thought Willow was perfect for you. We know Tally has her issues and might never give you what you need. But the heart wants what it wants. So we all wish you’d fallen for someone more stable. If you’re happy with Tally, though, that’s what matters. We just hope you’re happy.”

I grimace. Tally and I still have a lot to figure out. I don't know exactly what we are to each other, or where this road leads. Being beside her feels right, but whether we're building something permanent remains unclear.

Still, I know staying was the right choice.

For now, that's all I need to know.

Chapter Fifty-Six

TALLY

I open my eyes and holy shit, it feels like I got hit by a semi. My leg's wrapped in this bulky splint, and I'm somehow in a private hospital room—just me. No roommate. No idea who pulled those strings, but my bank account's already screaming. Sure, I've got insurance, but it's nothing fancy. That $15,000 deductible plus 20% coinsurance? I'm screwed.

Then it all floods back. The fall. The ravine. My leg snapping like a twig. Screaming until my throat was raw, but nobody came. No water. Just that pathetic excuse for a blanket while the wind cut through me at thirty degrees. I remember thinking: this is it. This is how I die. Even heard search helicopters at one point, their spotlights sweeping the darkness, voices booming over loudspeakers asking hikers to keep an eye out for me. They were looking in all the wrong places.

So who the hell found me?

Then Cameron walks in and my pulse stutters to a halt. My eyes dart straight to his left hand—bare. No ring. Shit. That doesn't necessarily mean anything though. Could be at the jeweler's getting sized. Maybe the platinum gave him a rash. Whatever. I'm not about to assume he ditched Willow at the altar.

But wait...I rub my temple, trying to sort through the fog. During that nightmare in the ravine, didn't he call out asking for my location? And didn't I mumble something about mile four? Christ, I was so out of it. I also thought I saw my toddler scrambling down that same rocky slope—which is obviously batshit impossible. So yeah, probably just another fever dream from my screwed-up brain.

"Cam," I say, my voice catching in my throat. "What' s going on?" Dammit, it's been, what, six months since I've seen him? Six months since I've seen those ocean-blue eyes, that perfect jawline with just enough stubble to make my fingertips tingle. My heart hammers against my ribs like it' s trying to escape. I don't want this reaction. I don't want to feel like I'm seventeen again, breathless and stupid.

I have to remember, he's a married man. Presumably anyway. I mean, of course he is. That entire wedding was locked and loaded, and from what Celeste told me, it was going to drain a small fortune. Grass-fed Wagyu beef with caramelized edges, wild-caught Alaskan salmon drizzled with some fancy French sauce I can't pronounce, all prepared by some hotshot five-star Michelin chef with a name like a sneeze.

Celeste bombarded me with pictures of the cakes—her bridal cake towering six tiers high, pristine white frosting with delicate swirls the color of a Hawaiian sunset, and sugar pearls that glistened like morning dew draped all around each layer. His groom's cake was this clever little masterpiece with a baby blue fondant base topped with the sculpted torso of a doctor, complete with a real stethoscope wrapped around it and tiny edible surgical instruments scattered across the top.

They had that sprawling Victorian mansion with the manicured gardens and amazing courtyard all booked, with guests flying in from as far as Sydney and London. And her dress—God, her dress was hand-stitched by that famous designer, Claire Pettibone, whose gowns have graced everyone from Silicon Valley royalty to Hollywood A-listers, all those intricate lace patterns and beadwork that probably cost more than my Jeep. So yeah, there wasn't a penny pinched for this whole extravaganza, which means the chances he actually left her at the altar are about as likely as me winning the lottery while being struck by lightning.

He slides onto the bed beside me, taking my left hand in his. I can't help but stare at his fingers, searching for that telltale indentation—the ghost of a wedding band hastily removed before walking through my door. Maybe that's it. Maybe he's just trying to spare the almost-roadkill girl any additional trauma. But something in those eyes of his tells a different story.

When he brushes my hair back from my face, his gaze lingering on mine, my chest tightens. Fuck. That's the same look he used to give me. If he's somebody's husband now but still looking at me like that? Hard pass. I've got enough shit to process—like how I nearly became a skid mark on the highway of life, how I almost left Brinley without a mother. Out there in that ravine, I'd made my peace with Cameron and Willow raising her. Christ, they might've erased me completely from her life. Mom wouldn't stand for that—her precious grandbaby and all—but still.

So, here we are, the two of us laying in this hospital bed together, my body curled against his like a question mark. His fingers trace slow circles through my hair, each movement sending tiny electric currents down my spine. That cologne of his—Dior’s Sauvage Elixir—wraps around us like a velvet shadow. It's all dark notes of truffle and night-blooming flowers, so at odds with the sunshine of his personality, like he's carrying midnight with him in broad daylight.

His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek in a rhythm steady as a metronome, and the thump-thump of his heart pulses against my ear. I just want to freeze this moment, pretend he’s not married, that the antiseptic hospital smell isn't reminding me this isn't real. I nestle deeper into the hollow of his shoulder, and the sigh that escapes him ripples through us both.

“So,” I finally say. “How was the wedding?”