Page 43 of All Signs Point to Malibu

Sonia sighs and looks truly devastated. “They aren’t exactly on board with all of this. Liam says it’s ironic that it’s the only thing those two have agreed on in twenty years. The engagement took them by surprise.”

Naturally, since Liam had been vocally anti-marriage up until six months ago.

“He’s hoping they’ll come around before the wedding,” Sonia continues.

So, I’m not the only one who thinks this is rushed and perhaps not the best idea.

“Between you and me, I’m kinda okay with them not being involved. From what Liam says they can’t stand to be around one another and I don’t want those negative vibes on my wedding day, you know?”

Actually, I don’t. Unless WrestleMania 1000 was about to break out, I could never imagine not wanting the love of my life’s parents involved in my special day. Without parents of my own, the thought that Liam could possibly have this big life event without the support of his family breaks my heart.

But I force a smile. “I’m sure your day will be perfect,” I say. But hopefully there won’t be a day for the Jensens to miss.

I see her out and, in a much better state of mind, Sonia exits with a wave. I stand in the doorway, processing this new information. If Liam’s parents think this union is a bad idea, then I’m totally justified in feeling the same way. They know their son better than anyone.

But if Liam won’t take his parents’ feelings on the matter into consideration, what are the chances he’ll take my concerns seriously? He’ll likely only dig in even more out of stubbornness and an unwillingness to listen to advice with all of us seemingly teaming up against him.

The only way Liam is going to realize he’s making a big mistake is if he arrives at that conclusion on his own.

I just need to help him get there.

After ringing the buzzer on the front gate, I pull my Jeep into the circular driveway of the Mediterranean-style mansion and park near Hailey’s front door. This house is big enough for two families and Hailey lives here alone. I don’t judge her for her extravagant lifestyle. If this house gives her the safety and security she never had growing up, that’s her business.

I’m not sure why I’ve suddenly softened in my opinion of her, but I need to keep it in check.

I climb out with a bag of take-out food, go to the door and ring the bell. A melodic tinkling sounds within. A few seconds later, Hailey answers, dressed in yoga clothes—a bra top and shorts. I’m annoyed that I like what I see. I didn’t know she worked out, but those abs don’t create themselves.

Hailey eyes the take-out bag. “I already ate.”

“Good, ’cause I didn’t bring any for you.”

Hailey sighs and stands back to let me in.

I step inside and take in the elegant house. A spiraling staircase leads to the upper two floors. A big chandelier hangs in the foyer. Expensive artwork adorns the walls. Beautiful home. Again, not exactly what I’d been expecting. Guess I thought Hailey would have self-portraits of herself everywhere—a Romanesque statue in her likeness or something—but the house is tasteful and classy, lacking the usual pretense a home like this usually holds.

Next to me, Hailey sniffs and covers her nose. “Why do you smell?”

“Just came from a late football practice,” I say sniffing my shirt, then immediately wish I hadn’t.

“You don’t shower afterward?”

“I do when I’m going somewhere important,” I say, but I actually wish I had showered. The smell of the take-out and salty ocean air as I’d driven along the coast with the hardtop down had masked the scent of sweat in the Jeep, but inside her house, it’s a little much. I hadn’t planned on practice this evening, but Marcus couldn’t make the regular time slot, so we worked one-on-one. Not great, but at least it was something. The kid’s trying.

And he’d kicked my ass all over the field—which admittedly wasn’t saying much these days.

“Well, let’s get this over with so I can breathe again,” Hailey says, her voice nasally as she’s pinching the bridge of her nose.

I eye her lack of clothing. “You wanna get dressed first?” Not sure I’ll be able to focus with her in that. Unlike me, if she’s just finished a work-out, she doesn’t look or smell like it. In fact, she smells like coconut rum and pineapple—an intoxicating Caribbean cocktail. And she looks good enough to have the same bad decision-making effects.

“Not really,” she says, gesturing the way to her office off the front of the house.

Great, so I’ll be staring at her tiny waist and sexy curves while I try to eat. Disgusting.

I follow her into her office. It’s painted a shade of dark denim blue and the light pinewood furniture stands out against the coloring. Two large bookshelves host her own awards and achievements, but also those of her clients’.

Okay, so kinda cool. Maybe dropping them after six months is a business tactic and not because she’s cruel and heartless the way I always wanted to believe.

Framed magazine covers are leaning up against one wall, the glass broken. But there’s the definite fading of paint on the wall where they used to hang. I motion toward them. “The tremor?”

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