Page 31 of The Malibu Destiny

I hang up and the realization hits me like a rogue wave—Lilith has completely derailed me. Outside, the El Niño storm of the century is battering my multi-million dollar resort, and here I am, daydreaming about a woman who reads tarot cards instead of supervising my emergency response team. Hell, Max seems more concerned about my property than I am. That ends now.

I turn around, scanning the empty living room. Following a hunch, I check the bedroom and find Lilith asleep on the bed, curled on her side. Her dark hair spreads across the pillow, and her lips are slightly parted as she snores softly. She shivers. I grab a throw blanket from the closet and cover her. Before leaving, I bend down and kiss her forehead, catching the scent of sandalwood in her hair.

"Bye, Lilith," I murmur, my voice barely disturbing the air. "I'll be back to check on you tomorrow."

With one last look at her peaceful face, I stride from the suite, already mentally shifting gears to rejoin my team.

Chapter Eighteen

LILITH

I wake up the next day after the nightmare at the shop in a luxurious suite with Egyptian cotton sheets and a view of the misty coastline. For a moment, I almost think I'm still dreaming.

Outside, a gentle rain taps against floor-to-ceiling windows, nothing like last night's howling tempest that had rattled the shop's windows and sent my crystals vibrating on their shelves. My muscles ache as if I've hauled sandbags for hours—which I practically did—and my fingernails are still rimmed with dirt despite my shower.

Bone-tired doesn't begin to describe it. Every time I close my eyes, I see my waterlogged tarot cards floating across Mystic Tides' wooden floors, and my stomach clenches with the sickening fear that my sanctuary might be beyond saving.

Last night, Roman promised to help rebuild the shop, his voice rough with determination against the backdrop of my ruined store.

Then he kissed me against the mahogany-paneled wall—a kiss that scorched through my body like wildfire, that made my knees buckle and my mind go blank. I woke this morning in this ridiculous suite with its ocean view and Egyptian cotton sheets, still feeling the ghost of that kiss. My fingers keep drifting to my lips without permission, and every time the hotel phone rings, I nearly jump out of my skin, wondering if it's him calling from somewhere in this sprawling resort he owns.

Just then, I hear a knock at my door. I open it, and there’s Roman on the other side. He balances a silver tray with crepes dusted with sugar, a small bowl of berries, bacon, a croissant, and orange juice. There’s also—oddly—a small bowl of butternut squash soup. A single orchid stands in a vase beside the napkin. Somehow he’s brought all my favorite breakfast foods, as if he’d been reading my mind.

"Thought you'd be hungry," he says as I open the door, his tall frame silhouetted against the misty gray afternoon, raindrops glistening in his dark hair.

"Actually, I'm starved," I say, my stomach growling in anticipation. "I don't think I ate yesterday. I was too busy trying to save my life's work."

"We can eat on your terrace," he suggests, gesturing toward the sliding glass doors. "It's still raining, but I'll enclose it so we don't get too wet. You can still see the ocean through the rain from here—all silver-tipped waves crashing against the cliffs."

We step onto the terrace. The infinity pool’s blue glow meets the darkening sky at the horizon. Steam rises from the hot tub nearby. Bougainvillea and hibiscus frame the space, their colors vivid against white stone. In the center sits a marble table on iron legs. When the first raindrops fall, Roman claps twice. Glass panels rise from the floor, sheltering us from the storm.

I smile as I sit down, trying not to stare at the croissants and bacon. My stomach growls. I imagine Roman, with his resort and fancy cars, expects women who know which fork to use without thinking. I can feel him watching how I hold my spoon—away from the bowl, not toward, the way my grandmother taught me. But part of me wants to be like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—kick off my sandals, climb onto the table, and eat those croissants with my fingers, crumbs falling everywhere.

Roman glances at me, his dark eyes softening. "How are you feeling today?" he asks, spearing a strawberry with his fork. Steam rises from his soup as he waits for my answer, the breakfast spread between us untouched.

"Better," I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I slept really well. That bed is amazing—I didn't want to get up this morning." I close my eyes briefly, remembering. "I've never slept on anything that comfortable before."

"Grand Vividus mattress," Roman says with a hint of pride, his broad shoulders straightening. "$400,000 worth of Swedish craftsmanship, hand-stitched with horsehair and layers of breathable cotton." His lips curve into a rare smile. "I outfit all my rooms with them. Got them wholesale at half the retail price—an investment that pays for itself when sheiks and tech billionaires tell me they had the best sleep of their lives."

Half a million dollars for a mattress? No wonder I felt like I was sleeping on a cloud. My Purple mattress from Costco suddenly seems like a joke—like comparing a tricycle to a Ferrari. I can't let myself get used to this kind of luxury though. This billionaire fantasy world isn't meant for small-time psychic bookstore owners like me.

"Jack around?" Roman asks, scanning the room.

I roll my eyes. "Ten bucks says he's at the indoor pool right now, batting his eyelashes at some hedge fund manager. He's on a mission to land himself a wealthy husband and transform into the trophy spouse he was born to be."

Roman's laugh is low and warm. "Well," he says, his fingers threading through my hair as his gaze locks with mine. "I guess his best friend has caught herself a billionaire. Maybe he's hoping to do the same."

My pulse quickens beneath my skin. There he goes again, hinting at something lasting between us. I push the thought away. Men like Roman collect hearts like trophies. I've read enough cards to know when someone's playing a game, and I won't let my heart become another conquest on his shelf.

I look out the window at the ocean. The storm has passed, but the waves still crash against the rocks at the edge of the private beach. The water is gray and rough, sending up sprays of white foam when it hits the shore.

"I love the ocean," I say, pressing my palm against the cool glass. "There's something so timeless about it. Like the droplets of water in the ocean are some of the same ones that dinosaurs drank, that filled ancient seas, that have been part of this earth since before humans even existed."

Roman's eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes another bite of caramelized bacon. "You see magic in ordinary things, don't you?"

Heat rises to my cheeks. "I guess I do." I trace the rim of my water glass. "The ocean speaks to me. Those waves were rolling in before we even existed." I glance up to find him watching me intently. "And the redwoods up north—some are thousands of years old. Standing there, you feel time differently." I smile, suddenly self-conscious. "In my readings, I'm just trying to tap into something bigger than myself. Not forcing anything, just... listening."

Roman nods and looks towards the ocean. “I love the ocean, too, but for a different reason than you….It’s where I belong.” He smiles. “My dad taught us all to surf on our fourth birthdays. Had this thing about starting exactly then or you’d never master it.” Roman shakes his head. “Dad was full of weird ocean superstitions. No wearing red on the beach—sharks. He had us thank the waves after surfing or he said we’d get bad ones next time. No eating oranges before paddling out or a tiger shark might get you.” His smile softens. “Crazy stuff, but I believed every word.”