Page 10 of The Malibu Destiny

I feel the blood drain from my face. "I can't afford⁠—"

"I've got it," he cuts in, voice like steel. "You think I want you at my resort giving readings while you're terrified of losing everything? This isn't charity—it's business. And to me?" He snaps his fingers inches from my face. "Pocket. Change."

I sigh. Pocket change to him is everything to me. “Well, thank you,” I say.

He shrugs, checking the Patek Philippe on his wrist. "Time to hit the road." His gaze lifts to catch Caspian strolling through the entrance, mid-chuckle at something Jack said. Jack's eyes are practically heart-shaped cartoon cutouts as he drinks in every inch of Caspian's frame. Meanwhile, Caspian remains blissfully oblivious to the effect he's having.

"Gotta bounce,” Caspian says.

"Right behind you," Roman says, then turns to me. “Diego will be coming in the next few days with those copper pipes—guaranteed leak-proof. And expect a call from Brett about the insurance." His eyes linger on mine a beat longer than necessary. "Take care, Lilith." He tilts his beer bottle toward Jack. "You too, though between the two of you, I'm not sure who needs more supervision. Talk about blind leading the blind.” A smile plays at the corner of his mouth as he shakes his head, then follows Caspian out the door.

He leaves and Jack flutters his hand in front of his face. "Oh. My. God. Two Greek gods just blessed our humble establishment with their divine presence. Shame they're both straight." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "But one of them clearly has the hots for you."

"Roman? Please," I roll my eyes. "He drove all this way to make amends for being an ass. He tried to fire me earlier, you know. I just pulled your famous 'selective hearing' technique." I smile, remembering our tiny UCLA-adjacent apartment where Jack would recount his work stories over cheap wine. His manager had fired him during the dinner rush, but Jack simply continued taking orders like nothing happened. The poor guy was so bewildered he never mentioned it again, and Jack ended up serving martinis there until graduation - three years after the “firing.”

Jack rolls his eyes dramatically. "Honey, please. Mr. Luxury Resort CEO drove an entire hour through LA traffic—an hour!—just to say sorry? When he could've fired off a text?" He leans in, voice dropping conspiratorially. "That man didn't come all that way for an apology. He came for you." He fans himself with one hand. "And did you see those muscles in that tank top? I swear, those abs were so defined I could've used them as a cheese grater. And believe me," he adds with a wink, "I would've volunteered for kitchen duty."

Heat scorches my cheeks. "Well," I manage to say, my voice catching. Roman Kensington noticing me? I might as well be a dust mote trying to catch a supernova. The man is carved from marble and midnight, for god's sake. "He saved my ass tonight. I'll give him that."

Jack fans himself dramatically. "Sweet mother of mercy, Lilith. Did you see him take charge like that? I'm still recovering." He clutches his chest. "The moment that pipe burst and he just—" Jack mimes ripping fabric, eyes rolling back. "And then watching him and Caspian muscle that bookcase through the doorway? Pure. Physical. Perfection." He clutches his chest. "It's like Apollo himself stepped out of my mythology books just to make you his mortal conquest." That’s Jack, always believing that gods walk among us.

Thinking about Roman's shoulders, I'm starting to believe it.

I grab Jack's arm. "Let's go. I need sleep or I'll collapse right here."

"Okay, little Lilith," he says, eyes glinting. "Just keep pretending there's not a wildfire between you and Roman god.” Then he laughs. “Roman god. Good lord. It was right there the whole time.”

I force a laugh but my heart hammers against my ribs as we walk the block home. The night air does nothing to cool the heat crawling up my neck. In bed, I press my thighs together, desperate to extinguish thoughts of those dark eyes, that jaw, those hands that could crush or caress. My skin burns everywhere he looked at me today.

God, I'm drowning. Wanting the boss like this? I'm playing with dynamite.

Chapter Seven

LILITH

I survey the store and feel like crying. It’s not a catastrophe—Roman and Caspian hauled in their muscles and Shop-Vacs, so the floor and rug are bone-dry. We even aired the place out to chase away any lingering mildew—truly the worst smell in the world.

“So,” Jack says, sliding books back onto the shelf. In half an hour the store opens, and I’ve got four readings lined up. No countesses or celebrities—fine by me. The rich folks at the resort are polite, but they’re not my crowd. “Roman god.”

“What about him?”

Jack waggles his eyebrows dramatically. "Honey, the universe is practically shoving Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Obscenely-Wealthy into your cosmic orbit! I mean, those cheekbones? Divine intervention. I'd sacrifice a goat if I thought it would help, but PETA would come for me, and I just got these nails done."

I shake my head. “He’s gorgeous and loaded, but…”

“But?”

“He might not be emotionally available.” I cock my head. “Come on, Jack: thirty-three, gorgeous, filthy rich, and still single? There’s a story there. And I steer clear of emotionally unavailable men.”

I don’t tell Jack about the tarot spread I did for Roman. It revealed an absent, alcoholic father who abandoned him and his brothers, leaving deep scars of betrayal and grief. I sense auras in people who emit them strongly—artists glow magenta, spiritual types shine indigo. Most folks barely register. Roman’s aura was jet-black: blocked energy, loss, distrust. The cards showed early trauma and loss, an alcoholic dad. My readings are accurate—that’s why I have a solid reputation among L.A. tarot readers—and Roman proved it when he hired me on the spot.

Jack snaps his fingers in a z-formation. "Lil, honey, if he's emotionally unavailable, he's practically gift-wrapped for you! You're like a walking therapy session with better accessories. Remember that aura reader with the unfortunate turban situation? Even she said your aura is greener than my thumb after I killed that cactus—and killing a cactus takes talent, darling."

I laugh. “You’ve got it backwards. Green thumb means you can make things grow, not kill them. You actually have a black thumb.”

“Semantics,” Jack says with a dismissive wave. “What matters is your green aura. The healing energy you radiate.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Just what our brooding billionaire needs, if you ask me.”

“I’m a compassionate healer,” I agree. I’ve never seen my own aura, but every psychic I’ve met insists it’s green. So if anyone can help Roman heal, it’s me. But that doesn’t mean I want a romance.