Page 27 of The Malibu Destiny

So, I go to the laundry room and pick out some of Jack’s pajama bottoms out of the pile on top of the washing machine. Then I go back out and hand them to Roman. “Here," I say. "Jack's a few inches shorter than you so…”

He smiles at my plaid pajama bottoms. I’m sure it isn’t his usual bedtime attire—probably silk or some designer sleepwear—but he doesn’t complain. Then I realize I’ll need help getting out of this dress. Actually, the back zipper stops at the top of the rear end, so I could manage on my own. Still, picturing Roman tugging it down for me… I shake my head. I have to keep things in check tonight—and so does he. I barely know him, and if I let things go too far he might not respect me. I need to stand apart from the other women vying for his attention. No hanky-panky tonight.

After a few minutes behind my bedroom door, he reappears, shirtless and in too-short pajama bottoms. My breath catches. He’s perfect—no trace of fat, every muscle sculpted, an eight-pack framed by a lean waist. And there’s a tattoo on his chest: a rose wrapped in script. Somehow it suits him, a subtle rebellion against the pristine billionaire image.

I step closer and read the words: Those who are hardest to love need it the most – Socrates. A lump forms in my throat. He must’ve chosen it deliberately: to remind himself he deserves love, or that he needs it even if he pretends otherwise. He watches me with a small smile. “Got it one drunken night. Total cliché, I know. But don’t you think it’s true? Difficult people often…”

“…need love the most,” I finish, blinking. His dark eyes hold something—desire, compassion, all of it. I squeeze past him in the doorway and he doesn’t move, so our bodies brush together. My heart pounds as I stare into those obsidian eyes. Finally he shifts just enough to let me through, and I feel a pang of disappointment. I wanted him to kiss me—for a moment I think he almost did. But if he had, I couldn’t have stopped myself. And that, I tell myself, would be a mistake.

My heart pounding, I unzip my dress and pull on my most modest pajamas—long pants with a matching button-up top. The silk nightie hanging in my closet calls to me in this heat, but I resist. Wearing that would be like hanging a neon sign over my head: "Take me now." And God help me, I want him to. But I can already see how it ends—me, completely wrecked over what he'd consider a casual fling. I'd never be able to show my face at the resort again. And I've grown attached to those weekday readings, surrounded by marble fountains and guests who arrive via helicopter. The money's good, the setting's divine, and there's always that moment when I scan the lobby, hoping to glimpse Roman's tall figure moving through the crowd, my stomach doing that ridiculous little flip that makes me feel sixteen again.

I slip into the softly lit hallway, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Um, the bedroom is ready.” I shake my head, cheeks warming. That sounded way too suggestive. “I mean, it’s late and we should really sleep. I have a queen-size bed—cozy, but not huge.” My mind flutters: Should I shove a pillow between us like a barricade? No—that’s ridiculous.

He gives me a gentle grin. “I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself. We’ll just lie down and sleep, side by side.”

I force a nod, even though every nerve in me aches to press my skin to his. He’s like a perfect marble sculpture come to life: flawless lines, warm skin. My heart hammers as I slip beneath the cool, cotton sheets, fluffing the pillow. He settles in next to me, breathing already deep and even. Within minutes, his soft snores drift through the stillness.

Morning light filters in at six-thirty. I need to shower before the store opens, but the world is muffled by the weight of him: his arms draped over my shoulders, a strong leg thrown across mine. He’s sound asleep, hair tousled and thick, sleeping like a raven on my pillow.

I hesitate, reluctant to disturb him, but finally whisper, “Roman… I really need to get up.”

He jolts awake, dark eyes blinking, hair a tousled halo. He glances at his watch, face crumpling. “Oh—shit. I have to get to the resort.” He rises, fumbling into last night’s tuxedo pants, his white shirt half-buttoned, designer shoes shuffling on the floor. His movements are hurried, awkward.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” he breathes, stepping close to brush a quick kiss against my forehead. I close my eyes at the warmth of his lips. “Hope I didn’t—put you out.”

I shake my head, heart twisting. How can I tell him I don’t want him to leave? He straightens his collar, half-smiles. “I’ll see you next week at the resort, right?”

See you next week at the resort. The same thing as a dismissive “see you around.” Or “I’ll call you.” My throat tightens. Guys like him don’t ask girls like me out. Period. “You will,” I manage, forcing a casual tone. He gives a small nod, then turns and is gone, the door clicking softly behind him.

I stand there, alone in the quiet room, and wonder why I bothered to hope.

Chapter Sixteen

LILITH

The night after Roman's sleepover, I find myself wide awake under a full moon. I grab a glass of merlot and slip out to my postage stamp-sized garden. Jack materializes beside me, right on cue—midnight is his natural habitat.

Jack prances over and hip-checks me with enough drama to qualify for a daytime Emmy. "Spill the celestial tea, Lili-pad! Which Hollywood demigods deigned to breathe the same oxygen as you mere mortals at the gala? I need names, faces, and any wardrobe malfunctions—preferably in that order."

I bite my lip, picturing Jack's meltdown if I mentioned brushing elbows with George Clooney, Leonardo DiCaprio, or—heaven help us—Chappell Roan. Some details are better left unsaid.

"Just the usual rich people," I shrug. "It was magical until someone baptized my handmade dress with champagne. Twenty-four hours of stitching, down the drain—though maybe it's salvageable."

"Disaster! You spent the whole night looking like a walking wine spill?"

My lips curve upward remembering Roman's rescue mission—his personal shopper arriving like a fairy godmother with a replacement gown. Each moment with him pulls me deeper under his spell. Yet this morning he'd vanished with a vague promise to see me at the resort, leaving me to decode what exactly we are to each other.

"No. Roman actually had his personal shopper deliver a dress to me. It was breathtaking—midnight green silk that caught the light when I moved. And it fit perfectly."

"Shut up!" Jack's eyes widened. "That man doesn't do anything halfway, does he?"

"There's more." I raised my palm when Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Not what you're thinking. Blake met someone at the gala—I think she might be the one for him—so Roman drove me home. It was after two, and his home is forty minutes away I guess, so when he asked about crashing on the couch..." I tucked my hair behind my ear. "I let him have the other side of the bed. We just slept."

"Lilith, you ‘ho! This is major!"

"I know, and I'm..." I traced the rim of my teacup. "There's this electricity between us. Anyone would feel it—he's gorgeous. But it's more than that. He's like a storm barely contained in human form. Sometimes I think we recognize in each other what we're missing. I'm drawn to his intensity, that fire I've never let myself have. And I think he craves the calm he sees in me."

Jack squeezed my hand with a dramatic sigh. "Honey, I'm absolutely living for this romance novel you're starring in," he said, "but that man's emotional walls are thicker than my winter moisturizer layer. The way he eye-devours you? Chef's kiss. But sweetie, can Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Emotionally-Constipated actually unclench enough to let you past the velvet rope? That's the million-dollar question."