Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
HOME AGAIN…
Celeste
I venture into the main house, Max's domain, moving from one cavernous room to another.
I check all ten guest bedrooms with their pristine white linens and ocean views, even the master suite with its emperor-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling windows—empty.
The home gym with its gleaming equipment stands unused.
The indoor pool's surface remains unbroken, its azure water reflecting the recessed lighting.
The glass-walled atrium filled with exotic plants, the cedar-scented wine cellar, and the private spa—where the infrared sauna glows amber, the sensory deprivation tank waits like a sealed tomb, and the cold plunge pool radiates an eerie blue—all vacant.
Then I go to the theater, which is as vast and opulent as any AMC multiplex, with a forty-foot screen that dominates the far wall and approximately one hundred plush leather recliners arranged in gently sloping tiers.
The air smells faintly of buttered popcorn and expensive cologne.
And there he is, up front, silhouetted against the flickering blue light, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward as he stares at the screen.
He's wearing wireless Bose headphones, the kind that cost more than my monthly mortgage, and watching what appears to be old home movies.
I'm staring at this video of a woman with honey-blonde hair, and she's laughing with her head thrown back like she's having the time of her life.
She's wearing this yellow sundress with little daisies on it that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Next to her is this guy who looks exactly like Max—same jawline, same blue-green eyes that make you feel like you're drowning.
Holy shit, that's his dad. The guy's chasing after what must be Max and his brothers—six dark-haired boys running around like they own the world.
They're darting in and out of the shadows under this massive oak tree, looking like something out of a Ralph Lauren commercial.
Max keeps dabbing his eyes with a crumpled wad of Kleenex.
Those massive shoulders—the ones that fill out Armani suits like they were born for it—are all hunched forward now, making him look like some wounded bear.
I can hear his breathing from here: small, controlled little hitches.
God, I know that sound. It's the sound guys make when they'd rather die than let anyone see them fall apart. I freeze mid-step in the doorway. Holy shit. This is THE Max Kensington, and he’s crying.
Something twists in my chest—not quite pity, but close.
Those same hands would probably punch a wall if he knew I was standing here gawking at him like this.
I back away, one careful step at a time, praying the stupid antique million-dollar floorboards don't give me away.
I tiptoe back to my home, to my bedroom, the plush cream carpet silencing my footsteps as I slip between the cool Egyptian cotton sheets.
I trace the uneven bumps on the ceiling with my gaze, counting each popcorn texture until my vision blurs.
My eyelids feel like sandpaper when I finally force them closed, willing my racing thoughts to quiet.
Sleep remains elusive. The rhythmic crash of Pacific waves filters through my cracked window—a sound that usually lulls me into dreams now merely punctuates my anxiety.
The late November air carries a bite that seeps through the glass, so I cocoon myself in the electric blanket's artificial warmth, its low hum competing with the thunderous beating of my heart.
God, these 24 hours have been…consequential.
Mom looking like a ghost against those hospital sheets.
Then Rosa calmly spilling Max's whole tragic backstory.
But nothing prepared me for seeing the guy who's been treating me like crap for weeks completely fall apart.
Shoulders heaving while watching his parents on that old home movie, like he could climb inside the screen and live there instead.
His dad with that arm around his mom, both of them smiling like nothing bad would ever happen.
And Max just sitting there in the blue glow, trying to touch something he can't have anymore.
Around 7 in the morning, I'm still awake, staring at the moonlight casting silver rectangles across the ceiling when the door hinges give a soft whine.
Max's silhouette appears in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway sconce.
He stands there for three heartbeats, his breath audible in the silence, before the door clicks shut again.
He's checking if I'm home, which of course I am - my beat-up Prius is clearly visible in the circular driveway, parked like an eyesore next to his gleaming Bentley.
I call out his name, my voice echoing through the house.
It's my day off, and Max's too—at least I think so.
Didn't he mention something about Saturdays being sacred?
I start to wonder what he does with this time, then catch myself.
My own Saturday stretches empty before me.
Tomorrow's packed: brunch with Tally and Liv, then sneaking over to Cedars to check on Mom.
She needs rest today, but by tomorrow she should be well enough for visitors, maybe even ready to come home.
He inches his way back after I call out, his footsteps barely audible on the hardwood.
"Just wanted to make sure you got home from the hospital alright," he says, lowering himself into one of those oversized armchairs that somehow screams my name—the kind you sink into rather than sit on, wrapped in that soft sky-blue fabric I've always loved.
How he managed to find furniture that might as well have come straight from my daydreams is beyond me, but there it is, proof he was paying attention all along.
His beauty is almost painful to look at.
He's wearing a navy cotton t-shirt with matching cashmere sweats—the kind that cost more than my monthly mortgage.
That dark hair of his is tousled, as if he's been running his fingers through it.
I search for traces of the tears I witnessed earlier, but find none.
Did I imagine them? His face maintains that familiar mask, but something has shifted in his gaze.
A flicker of sympathy? A hint of emotion?
Whatever it is, for the first time since I've known him, he seems less like some untouchable deity and more like a man who bleeds when cut.
I nod. "I did." My fingers twist in my lap. "About seeing you at the hospital." I can't meet his eyes. "I was a mess. I shouldn't have—"
"I understand," he says, voice gentle as a hand on my shoulder. "No explanations needed." His chest rises with a deep breath. "How's your mother doing?"
"Better." I rap my knuckles twice against the wooden headboard.
"The doctors got ahead of the sepsis before it spread.
If Lexi hadn't rushed her to the ER at the first mention of pain when urinating—" I swallow hard.
"Most people would've just grabbed cranberry juice from the store and hoped for the best. But because of Lexi, Mom was already getting treatment when things took a turn. "
Max nods, smiles, and rakes his fingers through his hair, squinting against the sunlight. "Do you surf?"
I shake my head.
"Want to learn?"
The thought of being tossed around by waves while trying not to drown doesn't exactly appeal to me.
But Rosa mentioned Max has been surfing since he was four—trained by some champion in the monster waves at Big Sur.
He could probably teach me without much effort, assuming he doesn't lose his temper when I inevitably wipe out a dozen times.
Still, it's a chance to spend time with him, to maybe crack that wall he's built.
"Sure," I say, forcing confidence into my voice. "Looks like fun."
His hands can't seem to stay still, and those ocean-colored green eyes lock onto mine.
"I usually hit the waves on Saturdays. My brothers tag along most weeks—sometimes it's just Gianni, other times the whole crew shows up.
Everyone's busy elsewhere today, though.
" He pauses, a hint of vulnerability crossing his face.
"If you wanted to try surfing... this would be a good time. Just us."
My pulse quickens at the thought. A whole day with Max?
I picture myself on the surfboard, still safely on the beach—he'd start with the basics, of course.
He would stand so close behind me, his chest nearly touching my back as he guides my arms outward to find my center of gravity.
I can almost feel his exhale against my neck, his fingers sliding between mine to adjust my grip.
Just imagining it steals the air from my lungs.
I nod. "But it's late November. The water must be pretty cold."
He smiles. "That's why god made surf shops. There's a great one on the PCH. You can get a wetsuit there.” He looks at his watch. "Meet in the main house in a half hour?"
I nod and smile. "Sure." My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Is it pounding because of fear or the thought of spending hours next to Max in the water? Probably both.
The last time I went into the ocean, I got caught in a rip tide.
I still wake up sometimes gasping for air, feeling phantom seawater filling my lungs.
I had to be rescued by a lifeguard, and every time I get into deep water it’s like PTSD - I panic just a little.
And don't even get me started on sharks.
Discovery Channel's Shark Week ruined beaches for me forever.