Page 35 of The Malibu Destiny

"Let me handle this," Jack says with a wink. He sashays back inside, his voice carrying through the open door. "Lilith, honey, do you have any idea what most women would give for this kind of attention? And it's nothing to him—financially speaking." Jack's tone softens. "Look, I may not be a straight man, but I’m still a man with brothers, so I understand them. They need to feel useful. When you keep refusing his help, you're rejecting more than his money."

Her eyes widen as she gives a barely perceptible nod. "God, everything you're describing sounds like fantasy. Brazilian Rosewood shelves, hand-woven rugs, Brazilian Walnut flooring, and a stained glass entrance? I've spent nights scrolling through design sites, knowing I'd never afford a fraction of what you're offering. And we're practically strangers." She shakes her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I can't imagine how to repay this kind of generosity."

"Lil," I lean forward, my voice softening. "Your repayment is making this the most extraordinary metaphysical bookshop anyone's ever seen. I've already visualized it in my mind—hell, I might be more excited than you are. That's all the payment I need—watching your place outshine every other shop in Los Angeles."

Her smile finally breaks through, a flash of light that hits me like a punch to the gut. Jack twirls her across the hardwood, but when he spins her toward me, I seize her waist and pull her against me. Sam Smith's "Fire on Fire" floods the room, the same damn song from the Gala—the one about two broken souls finding each other in the wreckage. My pulse hammers as her body melts into mine.

Jack clears his throat with theatrical flair. "Well, well, well," he drawls, but I barely hear him. Her eyes—those impossible topaz-jade eyes—lock onto mine, burning through me. We're just in jeans, nothing like that night at the Gala, but Christ, the electricity is the same. Maybe stronger. "I'll just... skedaddle to the boardwalk for some carbs," Jack stage-whispers, waggling his eyebrows. "Though clearly you two are about to devour each other like it's an all-you-can-eat buffet of sexual tension, so... toodles!"

But, of course, we're interrupted again. The contractors arrive right on schedule. Jake, my flooring specialist, walks in first with his crew trailing behind him. "We need to clear everything out," I tell him, gesturing at the cluttered space. "Let's load the shelves and inventory into your truck before you tear up this disaster of a floor."

For the next few hours, we form a human chain, passing books and fixtures from hand to hand until Jake's truck is packed. While his team begins demolition, I review tomorrow's schedule: Nick for the new windows, Theodore for the custom door with its stained glass celestial design that will complement my specially ordered rug. Patrick will come in with the bookshelf installation. And, last but not least, Shane will install a new marble check-out counter and marble display case, where Lilith will sell her crystals and assorted sundry items such as her Buddha statues.

When the renovations are complete, Lilith will walk through those doors and her jaw will drop. The marble, the chandeliers, the ocean view—it'll all come together perfectly. Still, even the most exquisite resort in California can't hold a candle to the way her eyes light up when she laughs.

But I can't stop thinking about those death traps she calls tires. "Lil," I say, trying to sound casual, "those tires of yours are balder than my Uncle Thomas.” She rolls her eyes, but I press on. "I know a guy who can replace them today."

What I don't mention is that Mateo usually has his hands full with vehicles worth more than most people's homes. The kind with Italian names that purr like satisfied cats. Not exactly in the same league as Lilith's rust-speckled sedan. But Mateo owes me one, and besides, I'd rather replace her tires than watch her slide off the road in the next rainstorm. A new car would be ideal, but I can already picture her face if I suggested it—like I'd just proposed she grow a second head.

I pull Lilith's car into Superperformance, and Mateo's shoulders start shaking before I even cut the engine. By the time I step out, he's doubled over with laughter.

"Laugh it up, fuzzball," I say, channeling my inner Han Solo. "This is my girlfriend's ride. Show some respect." I slide my black Amex across the counter, which only makes his lips twitch harder as he tries to compose himself. Part of me wants to join in—the car is ridiculous compared to what I usually drive—but I keep my face neutral. “New tires, oil change and check her out, top to bottom, and fix anything that’s wrong. And stop laughing. Not everybody drives a Rolls.”

"My bad," Mateo straightens up. "Just never thought I'd see Roman Kensington step out of a decade-old Prius with tires balder than Dwayne Johnson. But we'll treat her right. Ready by closing."

"Perfect. Need to get back to Venice."

Mateo murmurs something to George, who disappears and returns with a gleaming Rolls, which I’ll use to get back to the shop. As I settle into butter-soft leather, I call back, "Check everything—brakes, fluids, the works. Can't have her stranded somewhere at 2 a.m. or hydroplaning off a road."

I steer the Rolls back toward Venice, where Lilith still needs my help during her recovery. The thought hits me somewhere on the 405—I've fallen hard for this woman. Today, I drove her beat-up Prius to my mechanic, who couldn't stop laughing at the sight of me behind its wheel. The tires were so worn you could see the steel belts peeking through. And I didn't care one bit.

If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

Chapter Twenty

LILITH

After two weeks of construction, my bookstore is finally finished, and I'm speechless. I run my fingers along the Brazilian Rosewood shelves, feeling their smooth grain beneath my touch. My shoes make a satisfying click against the Brazilian Walnut floors as I walk the perimeter, admiring how the midnight blue Persian rug anchors the space with its hand-stitched stars and moons. Sunlight streams through the stained-glass celestial bodies embedded in the new front door, casting colorful patterns across the marble checkout counter.

I blink back tears. Roman still hasn't seen it—he's been trapped at the resort attending to actual Danish royalty who specifically requested his personal attention. While I've been here supervising repairs and replacing inventory lost in the flood, he's been checking in daily.

This morning, as workers packed up for good, a delivery arrived—a bouquet of rare black dahlias, black Baccara roses and midnight orchids, their petals edged in silver, nestled among sprays of baby's breath and eucalyptus.The blue matches my Persian rug perfectly. Somehow, without seeing the renovations, he knew exactly what would belong here.

Jack's eyes widen as he spins in a slow circle, taking in the gleaming Brazilian Rosewood bookshelves, the Brazilian Walnut hardwood floors, the celestial stained glass mural in the middle of a new solid door, and the crystal chandelier that casts rainbow prisms across the newly polished hardwood floor.

"Oh, lady," he says, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper. Jack fluttered his hands dramatically. "Honey, this man is capital-S Smitten with you! Only a billionaire who's gone completely gaga would zhuzh up this place like a fairy godfather on steroids and send those black Baccara roses—which, FYI, cost more per stem than my first Prada knockoff. Congratulations, sweetie, you're now the proud owner of the most fabulous New Age bookstore this side of Sedona. The spirits are smiling!”

I laugh, fidgeting with the sleeve of my gauzy lavender blouse. "Oh, Jack, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Like you said, this renovation was pocket change to Roman and he seems like he wanted a project. And that project is me. That's all."

Jack rolls his eyes dramatically, his chunky silver rings catching the light as he gestures wildly around us. "Say what you want, but this is the kind of thing a man in love will do. And what are you talking about, the man needs a project? As if running a string of elite resorts that host royalty, celebrities and billionaires on the regular isn't enough of a project? Not to mention training for that MMA charity tournament in December where he's getting those gorgeous cheekbones pummeled for a good cause. No. That man needs a project like a hole in his perfectly chiseled head, Lilith." Jack's manicured fingers curl into exaggerated air quotes when he says "needs a project." "Stop denying it. He's head over Gucci loafers for you. You're one lucky bitch, I'll give you that."

My breath catches when I spot the man of the hour coming through the door, his six-foot-four frame filling the entryway, dark hair slightly tousled from the coastal breeze.

God, every time I see him, my lungs seize, butterflies swarm like a hurricane behind my ribs, and goosebumps race across my skin. His jawline could cut glass, those piercing obsidian eyes scanning the room with the intensity of a predator.

He's devastatingly beautiful, but it's more than his chiseled features or the way his tailored navy suits hug his broad shoulders. It's more than his razor-sharp intelligence or how he shows up for me when I need him the most. It's more than how he carried me through rain-soaked streets when my shop flooded and took care of me afterwards. There's something electric between us—like two puzzle pieces clicking into place after being lost for centuries.

I doubt Roman, with his pragmatic business mind, believes in soul connections, but my tarot cards have never lied. Even as my logical side whispers it's impossible for this billionaire who commands luxury resorts across continents to choose ME, my heart recognizes the truth in how his gaze softens when it finds mine across the crowded room.