Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
DINNER WITH CELESTE
Max
I'm loitering in the kitchen with the guys, pretending to savor this overpriced IPA while checking the doorway every thirty seconds for Celeste.
The bottle's already half-empty, and my fingers won't stop drumming against the label.
Gianni's hand suddenly cuts through my field of vision, his face a mix of amusement and concern.
I force a smile, but it's no use—the guy reads me like yesterday's financial report. Always has.
“What’s going on?” Gianni asks.
I shrug. "Nothing's changed." I roll my eyes.
"She's under my skin. Here I am, palms sweating like some teenager meeting his girlfriend's dad for the first time.
My stomach's doing somersaults. Never felt this before—like I swallowed a kaleidoscope of butterflies and they're all trying to escape at once.
" I shake my head. "I want her gone from this house, but I can't stand the thought of her being far away.
It's like I'm being torn in two different directions. "
Gianni's aware of my obsession with getting Celeste's space just right.
I cornered Iris with an interrogation that would've made the CIA proud—favorite colors?
Decor preferences? Clothing sizes down to the half-inch?
Shoe size? European or American? Iris has that insider knowledge I need.
I considered ambushing her mother and sister too, but they'd have tipped Celeste off immediately.
Instead, I swore Iris to absolute secrecy with a threat that made her eyes widen—something about advocating for her firing post-merger.
That's how determined I was to keep Celeste from discovering the hours I spent hunting down those perfect cashmere throws, the vintage record player, those Italian leather boots in her exact size.
If she connected those dots—saw the deliberate care behind every carefully selected item—she'd read my feelings like an open book.
And that terrifies me more than any business deal gone wrong.
Gianni sighs, a half-smile playing at his lips.
"Ansel," he calls to my brother, who's already elbow-deep in the refrigerator despite dinner being less than an hour away.
Ansel emerges victorious with an armful of ingredients, dumping them onto the marble island.
Despite sharing my build—all height and lean muscle—he eats like he's storing for hibernation.
I watch as he layers salami, cheese, and vegetables between two thick slabs of sourdough, creating a tower that threatens to topple with each addition. "Maybe you can reason with him.”
I arch an eyebrow at Ansel as he takes his first enormous bite.
Catching my look, he swallows and shrugs.
"Post-surf hunger waits for no salmon dinner," he says, then jabs a mayo-smeared finger in my direction.
"And stop dodging the point. You're in love with this woman.
Admit it, embrace it—who knows? Might be the best thing that ever happens to you. "
I throw my hands up like I'm stopping traffic.
"Hold up! Love? Where'd that come from?" My fingers rake through my hair while my throat constricts.
The cashmere of my henley suddenly feels like sandpaper against my skin.
Ansel watches me with that know-it-all look of his.
"That's ridiculous," I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel.
"Rosa and Nana are the only women I've ever—" I stop myself.
They earned it. Years of staying put, of proving they wouldn't disappear like my father.
Celeste? She's temporary by definition. Our arrangement has an expiration date.
"Not happening," I mutter, more to myself than to Ansel. "Not with her."
Ansel takes another bite of his sandwich, mumbling "Whatever" through a mouthful of bread. His eyes meet Gianni's across the table, and something passes between them—some silent message that makes my fingers curl into fists at my sides.
I cut Ansel off mid-sentence. "Shut up. You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Really?" Ansel raises an eyebrow. "So it's totally normal for you to obsess over every detail of a woman’s living space?
To drop six figures on lab-created diamonds?
To fill her closet with every designer label in existence?
" He leans back, studying me. "For someone who claims he wants her gone, you're certainly investing a lot in making her comfortable.
" A knowing shrug rolls off his shoulders. "Keep lying to yourself if you want..."
I glance at Gianni. He's silent, but that smirk says everything.
Damn him for siding with Ansel. If anyone can read me like a book, it's Gianni, and the fact he thinks I've fallen for her...
Christ. After tonight, I need to make myself scarce.
Back to fourteen-hour workdays. Back to international conference calls that stretch past midnight.
If I'm never at this beach house, whatever this is might fade.
It has to fade. My sanity depends on it.
Then she appears, and my lungs forget how to work.
Her sweater dress matches her eyes exactly, clinging to her figure and cutting off mid-thigh.
Those Manolos with the tiny jewels add four inches to legs that already seem to stretch forever.
Her red hair is piled artfully on her head, with tendrils framing her beautiful face, and around her neck is that Dolce & Gabbana piece I'd spotted at Saks, the one with the rainbow of stones that had stopped me in my tracks.
Her smile is bright, but there's a slight unfocus to her gaze that suggests she's been enjoying the premium liquor I made sure to stock—Dom included.
Can't say I blame her. Her friends flank her, all three radiating the particular glow of women who've spent the last few hours day drinking, thereby turning a shitty day of moving into something a bit less stressful.
Smart move. If you have to deal with cardboard boxes, might as well have champagne while you're at it.
Celeste stumbles in, cheeks flushed. "Hey, Max," she says, voice honeyed with alcohol.
She acknowledges the others with a nod before making her way to me.
Then she hugs me. When her arms circle my waist, the oxygen seems to vanish from my lungs.
The heat of her against me sends electricity down my spine, and my hands find their way to her shoulder blades of their own accord.
I'm acutely aware of every inch where our bodies connect, fighting the urge to let my fingers wander lower with everyone watching.
Her lips brush my ear, sending a shiver through me.
"Thank you," she breathes. "That place is... incredible. Seriously, thank you."
She pulls away, leaving a cold emptiness where her warmth had been. I jam my hands into my pockets before they can reach for her again. "Just thought I'd make the place livable," I say with a shrug I hope looks indifferent. "Since you're stuck here anyway."
I catch Ansel and Gianni watching me from across the room, their faces split with identical shit-eating grins.
I narrow my eyes, willing them to knock it off.
I'm not some lovesick teenager. I haven't fallen for her.
But their eyebrows just climb higher, and I have to look away before I give them the satisfaction of seeing me blush.
Celeste looks around. "Rosa? Can she join?"
"She is," I say. "She usually does. She's uh, my housekeeper, but also like a…"
"Mother," Ansel says helpfully.
I nod, grateful for the word I couldn't find.
Rosa's been around since I was an infant, cutting crusts off sandwiches and checking my homework long after her shift ended.
The day I graduated from USC, she cried more than anyone.
Her paycheck says "housekeeper," but the birthday cards she's kept for twenty-odd years tell a different story.
Celeste nods, her eyes searching mine. She has no idea about my mother.
Why would she? I've never breathed a word of it, and I don't plan to start now.
Something tells me that sharing that particular wound would be like handing her a key to every locked room inside me. That thought makes my chest tighten.
“Good,” she finally says. “I really hoped she would be here for dinner.” Then she looks around. “Where is this personal chef you speak of?”
The doorbell chimes as Ansel says, "He'll be right...
here." Francois sweeps in wearing crisp chef whites, assistants in tow.
They take over the kitchen, unpacking copper pans and knives with military precision.
Soon, wild-caught salmon sizzles on my indoor grill while Francois whisks basil béchamel in a gleaming pot.
His "simple supper" features sweet potatoes, heirloom tomatoes, and buffalo mozzarella, with broccolini awaiting hollandaise.
The salmon—delivered fresh this morning by Francois's personal fishmonger—will surely outshine whatever frozen fillets Celeste buys at Trader Joe's.
Rosa appears for dinner, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
I pour her a glass of Pinot. Though I employ a small battalion of cleaners who descend on the house twice weekly, Rosa alone stays on the property, occupying the guesthouse that rivals Celeste's quarters in luxury.
"How's the cottage treating you?" I always ask, though I always know her answer.
She's told me often enough she loves it there.
What I don't mention is how I've grown accustomed to her company at dinner, or those rare evenings when deadlines don't loom and we settle in for whatever's new on Netflix.
A half hour later, we all sit down to dinner. Celeste takes a sip of wine, then a bite of salmon. Her eyes flutter closed. "Oh my god," she says. "This salmon is incredible. And the sauce—béchamel, right?—it's perfect with the fish."