Page 38 of The Malibu Destiny

Roman moves with confidence, reading the ocean's patterns perfectly. His shoulders work as he maneuvers, cutting through the foam with precision. The sun catches on his wet skin.

When he grins at me between waves, I can't believe he's looking at me—the same woman who's endured countless boring first dates—now surfing alongside a man who handles both business and waves without breaking a sweat. I'm still waiting for the catch.

Finally, the guys collapse onto their towels, breathing hard, hair wet and tangled. Roman, though, still looks ready for more. When his dark eyes meet mine, I catch a glimmer of something playful there.

"There's a secluded cove just beyond those jagged rocks," he says, pointing to where the shoreline curves out of sight. "Crystal clear water. No tourists. Let's go over there." He nods toward my faded canvas tote with its embroidered celestial symbols. "And bring your bag along."

My fingers brush the worn edges of my tarot deck inside my bag. Mom's gift, always with me. I wonder if the cards will reveal anything between us today.

I peel off my wetsuit, shivering as the damp air hits my skin. I pull my sundress over my bikini and wrap myself in my oversized sweater that smells like sunscreen.

Roman steps out of his wetsuit, water beading on his chest. He pulls on a gray hoodie, his dark hair sticking up. Though it's July, the "June Gloom" hangs over us -the locals know better than to expect true summer until mid-July, when the sun finally burns through the morning fog and stays until October's crisp evenings arrive. The June Gloom turns the Pacific slate blue beneath pewter clouds. True summer won't arrive for weeks, as any local knows.

I follow him to the cove, my sandals slipping on mossy rocks as we find a hidden strip of sand. In the tide pool between black stones, clear water reveals an underwater garden. Roman crouches down, pointing to purple sea anemones swaying with each ripple.

"Look at those," he says softly. "Aren't they beautiful?"

And they are—pulsing with life, both fragile and resilient against the constant push and pull of the ocean. I stand there watching the creatures sway delicately in the water.

My heart pounds as Roman and I find ourselves truly alone for the first time since that morning in his suite. No staff, no guests—just us. I remember the sunlight through those windows, the taste of espresso on his lips, the rough texture of his jaw under my fingertips. I'd wanted more then, and the thought that tonight I might get it makes my stomach flip.

He takes my hand, his grip warm and sure, and leads me to a cashmere blanket spread out on the sand. The sun is setting, turning the Pacific into a canvas of gold and amber.

I nestle against him and tell him about the green flash—that elusive emerald burst that appears for a split second as the sun's final curve disappears beneath the waves. "Most people go their whole lives without seeing it," I whisper, my head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder. "The atmosphere has to bend the sunlight just right, splitting it like a prism." I trace my finger along his jawline, feeling the slight stubble beneath my fingertip. "Finding you was my green flash, Roman—that one-in-a-trillion moment that happens when you've stopped looking for it."

Roman's smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. "I don't think the green flash is necessarily one in a trillion. But it's a very rare sight for sure. I've never seen it." He walks to the rocks and pulls out a bottle of champagne and two glasses from where he’d hidden them earlier, the sunset glinting off the crystal.

"I tucked this away last night, because I knew I would be spending the sunset here with you." He raises one dark eyebrow, his chiseled face softening. "Yes, I planned this whole evening down to the minute."

I can't help but laugh, the sound carrying on the salt-tinged breeze. Of course Roman has something meticulously planned. That's quintessentially him—the man who anticipates every possibility, who leaves nothing to chance.

We recline on the cashmere blanket, propped on our elbows, our shoulders nearly touching. The champagne bubbles in my glass, golden and inviting. I take a sip, tasting apple and something like toast. It hits my empty stomach fast, warming me from the inside out. One glass in and I’m already feeling it—my worries washing away with each swallow.

"So," Roman says, his voice low and intimate as he swirls the champagne in his glass, the dying sunlight turning the liquid to amber. "Would you like to do another spread for me?"

I reach for my silk-wrapped deck, which I'd tucked into my bag earlier with a strange certainty I'd need it. The cards feel warm against my fingertips, almost vibrating with potential. My heart flutters with anticipation—I can sense the universe aligning for us.

I shuffle the cards, their edges catching the sunset as I arrange them on the blanket. The reading unfolds better than I expected. The Ten of Cups shows fulfillment in our future, while The Sun promises joy ahead. In the past position sits the Three of Swords—conflict and heartbreak. Looking at the figure gathering abandoned weapons on the card, I realize this represents Roman's past, not mine. The Two of Cups forms our foundation—a soul connection. This spread tells me what I've suspected: Roman's romantic history is marked by struggle, but something better waits for us.

I trace my finger over the three of swords card, its pierced heart gleaming under the soft light. "Roman, these cards suggest you've experienced deep heartbreak. You've kept your soul locked away."

Roman's jaw tightens as he nods once. "It's not what you're thinking."

"Tell me what I'm thinking," I challenge.

"That I'm damaged goods." His voice drops lower. "That I push women away because my mother died when I was four and my father abandoned us. That I'm just another rich guy with daddy issues." He meets my eyes. "Maybe that's part of it, but there's more."

I tilt my head. "What more?"

He looks past me, his gaze distant. "I've dated incredible women—beautiful, brilliant, kind. Perfect on paper. But something was always...missing." His fingers drum against the blanket and he takes another sip of his champagne. "I could never shake the feeling that my perfect match was out there somewhere. And I refused to settle for almost-right, only to meet her later when I'd built a life with someone else." A muscle in his cheek twitches. "I couldn't bear creating that kind of mess—hurting someone who deserved better than to be my placeholder. So I waited."

I smile, my lips curving upward involuntarily. What he's trying to express through his careful, measured words—without dipping into what he'd dismissively call my "Woo-woo language"—is that deep down, he's always believed his perfect match existed somewhere in this vast world, breathing the same air, gazing at the same stars, waiting for their paths to finally cross. He refused to compromise his heart for anything less than that cosmic connection.

The realization washes over me like a warm wave—I've held that exact same belief, cradled it close through every disappointing date and lonely night. Finding your soulmate must be as miraculous as catching that elusive green flash at sunset, that split-second emerald burst when the sun kisses the horizon.

My fingers hover over the tarot spread, touching the edges of each card—The Lovers, The Sun, The Star, The Ten of Cups. I glance at Roman beside me, his profile lit by the candle between us. His breathing has slowed, and I wonder if he feels it too. Something clicks when we're together, like finding the right key for a stubborn lock.

The cards only confirm what I've suspected since that first day at the bookstore: this grumpy, beautiful man with his unexpected moments of kindness wasn't a random encounter. Some part of me has been waiting for him.