Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
CELESTE’S NEW HOME…UGH!
Max
Of course, that's the only reason I sent Jack, my personal shopper, to every high-end boutique from Rodeo Drive to South Coast Plaza—Neiman Marcus with its marble floors and hushed lighting, the Dior store with its gleaming white displays, Chanel with those iconic interlocking Cs everywhere, and Gucci's sleek green and red striped aesthetic.
I handed him a meticulously detailed list of items: flowing summer dresses in sea-foam green that would complement her eyes, butter-soft leather handbags, tailored women's power suits in navy pinstripe, charcoal gray, and a bold crimson that would make her impossible to ignore and delicate gold jewelry.
Jeans, slacks, blouses and tees. I also bought her designer shoes—sleek Louboutin pumps and peep-toes with their signature red soles that would turn heads at industry parties, Louboutin thigh-high boots and butter-soft Ferragamo flats she could slip into after long days at work—investments disguised as gifts, necessities masquerading as indulgences.
Also multiple Blahniks—those iconic stilettos with delicate straps that wrapped around her ankles like jewelry—alongside Prada's architectural statement pieces with their gleaming silver buckles, and those impossibly high Jimmy Choo sandals that will make her legs look even longer when she wears them with summer dresses.
I had to estimate her size by memory—the slender curve of her waist when I held her while she cried on that day I went to her condo, the way her borrowed slippers slipped off her heels when she walked—but I'm fairly confident I nailed both her dress and shoe sizes.
I also called her boss, Iris, and picked her brain for hours, swearing her to secrecy.
Today is Saturday, and, for me, Saturdays are sacred. It’s the only day I don't wake at 5 AM to the buzz of emails flooding my phone. The only day I'm not trapped in the office until sunset, especially now with the Dreamscape merger consuming every waking hour.
I text Ansel and Gianni at dawn: "Surf's up." Out there, with nothing but my board and the rhythm of the waves, my mind finally quiets. The ocean doesn't care who Max Kensington is. It doesn't demand quarterly projections or merger strategies.
I need that silence today before tonight's dinner with Celeste—my reluctant attempt at hospitality.
I'm not naive. If I completely freeze her out, she'll vent to someone.
Then suddenly Page Six runs a headline about our "marriage of convenience," and I'm juggling a PR nightmare on top of everything else.
A decent meal and civil conversation seems a small price for her discretion.
The water's biting cold in late November, but I zip my wetsuit tight and make my way down to the private stretch of beach.
Above me, clouds hang low and heavy, threatening rain, while the wind tosses my hair and stings my cheeks.
Perfect. Everyone thinks Southern California weather equals endless summer, but they've never lived through our "May Grey" or "June Gloom"—those mornings when overcast clouds blanket the coast and you need a sweater until noon, only to shed layers by midday, then bundle up again as evening approaches.
November feels like those months' darker cousin.
The sun retreats by five now, after the time change, leaving everything in shadow.
I welcome it. There's something comforting about a sky that reflects what's inside me.
I bob in the water, waiting for the guys.
They paddle out in their wetsuits, boards gleaming.
I raise my hand, and soon we're all stretched out on our boards, scanning the horizon.
When the swells come, we catch them one by one.
None of us are amateurs—Dad made sure of that.
When Ansel and I were kids—barely a year apart in age—he hired Lance Williams to train us.
Lance wasn't just any instructor; he'd claimed the World Surf League championship three times and represented the national team for five consecutive years.
I was four when Lance first set me on a board in the punishing Northern California surf.
Dad's philosophy: master Big Sur's monster waves, and you can handle anything the ocean threw at you.
Despite my initial terror, something clicked.
These days, I've ridden everything from Raglan’s perfect left-handers in New Zealand to Nazare's towering walls in Portugal to the legendary breaks at Jeffreys Bay, South Africa—some of the most formidable surf spots on the planet.
As I wait between swells, I catch myself picturing Celeste out here beside me.
Would she surf? Or would she be like most newcomers, eyes darting below the surface, convinced every shadow is the fin from Jaws?
I've lost count of the Great Whites I've seen glide beneath my board—sleek, prehistoric, utterly indifferent to my existence.
That's the thing about sharks—they're just commuting to work like the rest of us, hunting their next meal, completely uninterested in the strange human balanced on fiberglass above them.
Would Celeste be as calm about the creatures?
An image keeps sneaking into my mind: Celeste on a surfboard beside me, her red hair piled high, tanned skin against a neon pink wetsuit.
Each time I imagined this, I'd force myself to think of something else.
Dangerous territory. If I let myself imagine her in my daily routines—sharing waves at dawn, across the dinner table, under my sheets—I'd be done for.
She'd slip past my defenses and then vanish like my father did.
That same raw, gutting emptiness from when I was seven would claw its way back into my chest, only this time it would tear me apart from the inside out.
I'd clawed my way back from that abyss once and it almost did me in.
There wouldn't be enough of me left to try again.
By the time we paddle back to shore, my arms feel like overcooked spaghetti.
Worth it though—these hours on the water saved my sanity today.
Between the chaos at Kensington Pictures and this arrangement with Celeste, I need my release valves: Gianni shouting at me to push through one more set, the satisfying thwack when Steve the mannequin takes my right hook, and days like this when it's just me, the guys, and the Pacific.
The three of us trudge back to the house, sand caked between our toes, sweat drying on our backs.
"Hit the showers and stick around for dinner if you want," I tell Gianni and Ansel.
Might as well have the guys over for dinner since Celeste's probably inviting Olivia and Tally - after all, I invited them myself.
Francois, my chef, texted earlier about tonight's menu: cedar plank salmon with some kind of French glaze, roasted broccoli with garlic, and a salad that'll probably have those tiny tomatoes I can never remember the name of.
Guy makes enough food to feed a football team, so we're covered.
The guys hit the showers, and I follow suit, scrubbing off the sweat and grime before throwing on a fresh henley and jeans. We congregate in the kitchen.
And I wait for Celeste in my kitchen, my fingers drumming against the marble countertop, my stomach twisting itself into knots.
I check my reflection in the polished chrome of the refrigerator, smoothing down a wayward strand of hair.
I haven't felt this way since I was sixteen, waiting by my locker for Melissa Donovan to walk by.
Me, Max Kensington, CEO of a billion-dollar company, with sweaty palms and a racing heart.
Goddamn, I have a major crush on this girl.
What is this world coming to?