Page 68 of The Malibu Secret

Jesus, this ring though. His brother Silas tracked down this natural black diamond that flashes with these secret colors when it hits the light—deep reds, blues, these moody forest greens. The platinum band twists around like some badass roses-and-thorns situation. He says it reminds him of me—which, yeah, the thorns part is pretty damn obvious. But then he goes and says I'm mostly roses to him. Beautiful. Colorful. Sweet, if you can fucking believe that.

Cameron's been a freaking saint about this wedding. When I told him I'd rather get a full-body tattoo of Satan than have some big white circus, the relief on his face was priceless. Probably still traumatized from flushing half a million down the toilet on that Willow disaster. I shut down the Vera Wang nightmare scenario real quick. "One bow tie shows up, and I'm pulling a Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride,” I warned him, though I've never actually seen that movie—Celeste has, because of course she has.

I shot down the fancy catering (told Olivia to leave her chef hat at home and just bring her dancing shoes), and vetoed any cake that that’s taller than my forearm. Cameron gets it. He's done the whole society-page bullshit before—that Italian villa place with Alecia, and the Beverly Hills mansion he almost used for Willow. Now he just says, "The only thing that matters is you showing up."

Last night in bed, with moonlight slicing through our vaulted ceiling and spilling across that massive fig tree outside our balcony—the one I'm definitely hanging a tire swing on for Brinley—he gripped my waist and breathed against my neck, "Jesus Christ, Tally, I wish we were married already. Right fucking now."

"Well, you better," I said, digging my nails into his shoulder. "Because if you aren't desperate to marry me, we have a serious fucking problem, don't we?"

He crushed his mouth against mine before pulling back. "No. Listen to me. When I was about to marry Willow, my stomach was in knots—the bad kind. Roman saw it. He told me how he couldn't sleep for three days before marrying Lilith, how his heart hammered every time he thought about making her his. With Willow? I would’ve been counting the hours till it was over." He seized my hand, the one with the blinding 3-carat diamond, and pressed it hard against his thundering heart. "But with you...God, Tally. I can barely breathe when I think about making you mine forever. I'm burning alive waiting to call you my wife."

It's fucking surreal - when we're in bed, his fingers weave through my hair like he's memorizing every strand, his hand grips mine so tight I feel our pulses syncing, and he wraps around me like he's terrified I'll disappear. All the shit I used to run from, I now can't live without. Post-sex, my head against his thundering heart, his fingertips tracing the ink on my skin like sacred text, whispering things that crack me open - that's what destroys me. The sex? Christ, it's nuclear. When he's inside me, I scream until my throat burns. When his tongue claims me, I shatter so completely I forget my own name. But after? When we're sweat-slicked and breathing like we've been drowning? That's when I feel branded by him. Owned. Saved. That intimacy hits harder than any orgasm, and I never saw it coming.

“Ha. Well, I guess that says it all. We were meant to be, as much as I tried to pretend otherwise.”

Yeah, Cameron gets it. He knows now I've been in love with him since that first night, even if I couldn't admit it to myself, let alone him. I finally told him everything—how I pushed him away because I was convinced I'd wreck his life like I thought I'd wrecked my mom's. How Sibley helped me see I'd been carrying my mother's addiction like it was my own damn fault. Like if I'd just hidden her pills better or hadn't set her off, she wouldn't have relapsed again and again. Like her getting caught was somehow always on me.

So now he knows. All of it. And when he understood I pushed him away because I loved him too much to drag him down with me, everything shifted. He hauled me to a couples therapist—Dr. Wallace, a thousand bucks an hour—who turned out to be worth every penny. Six sessions, three times a week for two weeks, and suddenly I could see my patterns clear as day. The work I'd been doing with my regular therapist for months had laid the groundwork, but nearly dying was what really woke me up. Dr. Wallace just helped me cross the finish line—to where I'm standing today, about to marry Cameron without a single doubt in my heart.

So, now, here we are, in this sun-drenched art gallery with its gleaming hardwood floors and white walls adorned with vibrant local artwork, surrounded by the people we love in their casual attire and genuine smiles.

No stuffy reception—we're all heading to O'Malley's, that dimly lit dive bar with the cracked leather booths and neon beer signs, to shoot pool on the worn felt tables and throw darts at the cork boards with years of tiny holes. We'll buy everyone pints of frothy local IPAs and greasy loaded nachos, of course, and then we're going to Indigo, with its intimate stage and blue mood lighting, to hear my Mom's fingers dance across the ivory piano keys. To me, that's a perfect reception.

Only problem is that Brinley can't go, with her chubby cheeks and wispy dark curls, but she'll be hanging out with Violet and Esme, Violet's nanny who smells like cinnamon, at Celeste's mansion, so it won't be too terrible. She'll be at the wedding, though, toddling down the aisle in her tiny cream-colored dress with the satin bow. She doesn't understand, although she's 16 months old with those bright, curious eyes that follow everything, so maybe she understands more than I think she does.

And Brinley is hilarious now. In her Gymboree class, she builds wobbly towers of primary-colored blocks, dances with her arms flailing wildly to "The Wheels on the Bus," and creates finger-paintings with bold purple and green swirls that show me she'll have the Steele gene for artwork because it's pretty damned good for a sticky-fingered kid her age.

She's learning all the things I didn't learn until I got into kindergarten—how to share her favorite stuffed giraffe with the drooling boy next to her, how to wait her turn on the mini-slide, how not to scream and throw a tantrum on the polished marble floor of the Westfield Mall, which she actually did one day, becoming dead weight in her little denim overalls and screaming loudly enough to wake the dead. But she's doing well in Gymboree, and her social skills, according to her Gymboree lady with the perpetually cheerful voice and rainbow-colored scrunchie, are exceptional.

I'm hoping that what's showing up in her this young will be what she'll end up being—she's already empathetic when she pats crying kids on the back and creative with her finger paints and I know she's extremely intelligent as she was talking and walking earlier than many of her peers.

Yeah…I’m one lucky bitch, that’s for goddamn sure.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

CAMERON

Four Months Later

The difference between marrying Tally and what would have been marrying Willow couldn't be more stark. With Willow, every morning felt like waking up to dread. I'd lie there staring at the ceiling, mentally rehearsing the pep talk I needed just to make it through another day of our engagement. "Just get through the ceremony," I'd tell myself. "The feelings will follow." When Roman confessed how he'd been counting down the days until he could make Lilith his wife, how he couldn't sleep from excitement, I had nothing to say. The truth hung between us—he'd always seen through my relationship with Willow.

My other brothers adored her, naturally. However, Dad, who liked Willow well enough on paper, would get this look sometimes. Nothing you could point to, just a flicker of something uncertain when he watched us together. I think he knew what Roman knew.

I finally understand Roman's impatience before he married Lilith. Every morning I wake up with this ache in my chest, counting the days until Tally becomes my wife. I want it yesterday. I want it now. That's how it should feel, right? When you've found the one person who completes you. And Tally—tattoos, sharp tongue, trust issues and all—is undeniably mine.

Sometimes I catch myself in cold sweats thinking about the near miss. If Tally hadn't gotten lost in those woods... Christ. I'd have gone through with the wedding to Willow instead. In that shadow life, I'd only see Brinley on weekends and holidays. I'd pass Tally in hallways, at birthday parties, at school events—always keeping a respectful distance while something essential inside me withered.

I’ve treated patients with phantom limb pain. That's what life without Tally would be—a constant ache for something vital that's missing. I'd be trapped in the worst possible scenario: waking up beside someone I settled for while dreaming of the woman carrying my child across town. Half-alive. Half-dead. Wanting what I couldn't have while having what I didn't want.

And Willow... well, she's doing fine. Last I heard, she found another pediatric oncologist to date—someone who understands her crazy schedule, her dedication. My buddy in radiology says they're practically inseparable. Maybe he's the one she was meant for all along. I genuinely hope she's happy. Surprisingly, she seems to harbor no ill feelings about me walking away the day of our wedding. The proof arrived yesterday: sterling silver champagne flutes with our names and wedding date engraved on them. Classy move, Willow. Always classy.

Of course, Tally has called the shots on the wedding, and what she wants is a cool breeze of relief washing over me. She wants it all low-key, which is sweet, sweet music to my ears, because the thought of planning another wedding like the one I planned with Willow…I'd sooner scoop out my eyeballs with a rusty spoon while sitting in a bathtub full of lemon juice. It was excruciating enough doing that once, even though Asher handled most of the details with his color-coded spreadsheets and minute-by-minute timelines because that's his thing.

But if Tally wanted something elaborate - the five-star catering with those tiny appetizers nobody can identify, the premium open bar with signature cocktails named after us, the six-tier fondant masterpiece, the photographers stalking our every move, the sprawling mansion with crystal chandeliers, the cascading exotic flowers flown in from three continents, the rehearsal dinner that costs more than my first car, endless showers where people play ridiculous games, overseas bachelor parties, and all the other trappings of wedding insanity, then I would've done it all with a smile plastered on my face. Because it's Tally with her wild laugh and constellation of freckles across her nose, and I'd walk barefoot through a mile of burning coals for her.

Still, I'm beyond thrilled to do exactly what she wants, which is to rent out that industrial art gallery downtown with the exposed brick walls, make sure everybody wears whatever the hell they want - including the two of us, although I plan on wearing my favorite light blue button-down that she says brings out my eyes, that herringbone tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, and those black pants she can't keep her hands off me in. And she'll be wearing that black skirt that hugs every curve, that vibrant top with delicate lace sleeves that showcase her tattoos perfectly, and the necklace I bought her so many months ago, giving it to her right before I left for Sicily. It’s the necklace she touches absently whenever she's thinking – with its cascade of different jewels catching the light, emerald green as her eyes, amber topaz like whiskey in sunlight, sapphire blue as midnight, ruby red as passion, and pale green beryl like the first leaves of spring.

Tally thinks we're just going to Indigo to watch her mom's piano set. She has no idea I've arranged with the manager to take the stage after her mother finishes. My palms are already sweating at the thought of sitting down at that piano bench, looking out at her, and playing the melody I've been practicing for weeks. The lyrics are raw—everything I've wanted to tell her but couldn't find the right moment for. My brothers will absolutely roast me for it. I’m totally expecting lots of shit being given by them in the months to come. Total cheese-fest. But watching her face when she realizes the song is for her? Worth every second of potential humiliation. This is happening, cringe or not.