Page 58 of The Malibu Destiny

"I'd love to go," she says, kissing me, her lips tasting faintly of the herbal tea she'd been drinking.

We make love again, slower this time, my hands mapping every curve and hollow of her body as if committing it to memory. Neither of us have anyplace to go today, as it's Saturday and I always take Saturdays off to surf. Surfing will happen today, of course, as usual, the Pacific waves calling to me like an old friend. But later on today.

For right now, there's just the two of us, drowning in each other in Egyptian cotton sheets that feel like clouds against our skin.

Chapter Thirty-Three

ROMAN

I'm meeting my father at Sea Foam Brew on Monday to discuss the eco-hotel project. After twenty-two years of silence, I'm as ready as I'll ever be—which is to say, not ready at all. That's why I chose this particular coffee shop on Venice Beach. It's only a block from Lilith's store, where I can escape afterward when my nerves are shot to hell.

When my father walks in, I rise to my feet, jaw clenching when I see Max trailing behind him. Why is my youngest brother so invested in this project? The man has a newborn at home and runs a freshly-merged studio that's been churning out blockbusters like a factory. Plus, he’s training for the Iron Man next year. He shouldn’t have time to breathe. Yet here he is, playing mediator.

Smart move on my father's part, bringing backup, in case Hurricane Roman turns into a Cat 5. Maybe the old man knows me better than I thought.

I clear my throat. "Dad." The word feels like a stone in my mouth. Sure, I agreed to this meeting about his proposal, but that doesn't mean I'm rolling out the welcome mat.

"Rome." His voice breaks, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Classic Michael Kensington manipulation. All I see is the same weakness that infected half my brothers. "Thank you for coming."

I tap the proposal on the table, pages bleeding with my red ink corrections and other ideas I wrote in the margins. "It has potential." My attention shifts. "Max. Didn't expect to see you here."

Max straightens his tie. "I've been studying up on resort development. Thought I could contribute something valuable."

I arch an eyebrow. "Between running your company and changing diapers? Does Celeste know you've taken on another project?" I shake my head. “She must be thrilled.”

"It's just something on the side," he says with a shrug.

I study him, seeing him differently now. Another brother falling into Dad's orbit, willing to sacrifice precious hours with his family to chase approval from a man who abandoned us all. And for what? To dabble in something he knows nothing about.

Still...I can't help but admire Max's loyalty, misguided as it is. The fact that he’s here, and he’s sacrificing precious moments to help Dad with this project - it's all so transparent. He thinks if Dad stays busy with blueprints and investors, there won't be time for whiskey and disappearing acts.

My chest tightens watching him shoulder a burden that was never his to carry. I want to grab him by those tense shoulders and tell him what took me years to learn: Dad's demons are his own. We didn't pour the drinks then, and we can't stop them now. Max needs to loosen his white-knuckle grip before Dad inevitably does what Dad's always done—choose his own path, consequences be damned.

I glance at Max. "With your schedule, I'm surprised you even have time to hit the bathroom. Your call, though. Just don't get your hopes up." I arch one eyebrow, and his slight nod tells me he understands.

Dad clears his throat. I've been staring at everything but him since he took a seat. "Rome, you have no idea how much it means that you're considering my eco-resort concepts. I could really use your guidance on making something like this work."

Something in my chest constricts like a fist closing around my heart as my father—his salt-and-pepper hair catching the late afternoon sunlight—seeks my expertise. I blink hard against the sudden burn behind my eyes and remember when our roles were reversed: me, a gap-toothed kid with scraped knees, hanging on his every word, thinking he hung the moon. The way his calloused hands guided mine around a fishing hook slick with worm guts.

I think about him teaching me to ski in Switzerland. His hands were steady on my shoulders while I stood there shaking, convinced the bunny slope was actually a death-defying cliff. His voice broke through my terror as he repeated our code: "Pizza to slow down, French fries to go, Roman. I won't let you fall." I was only 4 then—the same year he taught me to surf. Years later, we'd race each other down black diamonds, shouting like maniacs the whole way. The bastard always won, which drove me crazy, but damn if it wasn't a good time.

I think about his steady grip on my surfboard as I wobbled atop my first wave. The sharp scent of fresh-cut pine as we hammered together a lopsided treehouse that felt like a mansion. I was barely ten, voice still high and clear, when he vanished—but not before he'd leaned close one evening, bourbon on his breath, to give me advice about girls, specifically one girl I was crushing on and wanted his advice about how to approach her.

I shake my head, trying to push away memories that hit me like a rogue wave. My throat tightens, and I notice my hands trembling against the table. Shit. I walked right into this trap. I'm not as bulletproof as I thought.

"So, Dad," I manage, reaching for my phone. "I implemented similar sustainability measures at Verde.” I swipe through photos of the resort renovations. "Lilith actually suggested—" I stop cold. He’s going to ask who she is and what do I tell him - what is she to me? The word "girlfriend" feels both too juvenile and too significant. "Partner" sounds like we share a law firm or we’re gay. "Significant other" is what guys who drink kombucha say. And "friend" doesn't begin to cover what goes on between us as often as we can see each other.

Dad's eyes light up like I just offered him a winning lottery ticket. "Lilith? Who's that?"

Great. I just handed him the perfect opening. Now he'll try to extract personal details, thinking if I talk about my woman, he can mention Patricia, and suddenly we're bonding like he didn't disappear for two decades. Like we're normal. Like we're actually father and son.

Max is practically vibrating in his seat, his eyes lit up like it's Christmas morning. I know that look—he's itching to spill everything about Lilith to Dad. Our eyes lock across the table. His excitement dims as he reads the warning in my eyes - I’m giving him the same look I gave Blake right before I roundhouse kicked him to the floor. That's how it's always been—seven brothers who know exactly where the line is with me, and how quickly I'll cross mine if they step over theirs.

I open my mouth, but something makes me stop. "She's..." The syllables of Lilith's name sit heavy on my tongue. I work my jaw. Fuck that. This man standing in front of me—he doesn't get access to her. That's not something he's earned.

My jaw tightens. "Never mind." Max's face falls. I catch his eye, my expression hardening into a warning. Dad shifts in his chair, his gaze flicking between us. At least he has the decency to stay silent.

Dad nods, his green eyes dimming like lights in a power outage. Did he honestly think I'd roll out the red carpet to my inner world after all these years? That I'd pour him a scotch and tell him about Lilith, about the nightmares that still wake me? This meeting has an agenda, typed and printed: business only. Nothing else is on the table—certainly not the father-son heart-to-heart he seems to be fishing for.