Page 36 of The Malibu Destiny

Jack is right—I'm one lucky bitch.

I gasp as we step inside. "Roman, this place is incredible!"

He surveys the space with a casual glance and the corner of his mouth lifts. "It'll do." His eyes soften when they land on me. "You look exhausted. We both deserve a break after these past two weeks. Come surfing with me today."

Surfing? My heart skips. Roman doesn't invite just anyone to join his sacred ritual. That last day over breakfast, his voice had dropped to a reverent whisper describing those Saturday mornings with his brothers—the only moments when his notorious temper truly subsides.

I've barely managed to stand up on a board twice in my life. But the thought of Roman showing me his private stretch of beach, away from the chaos of my flooded bookstore and his emergency flights to San Francisco...I can already feel the salt spray on my face, see his rare, unguarded smile.

"I'd love that," I tell him, meaning every word.

Roman grinned. "Perfect. I've got everything ready—board, wetsuit, the works. You'll meet Silas and Ansel today. Just two of the brother horde, not the whole Kensington circus at once." He pauses, then shrugs. "Though honestly, they're all pretty decent guys. I'm the family terror." A self-deprecating smile crossed his face. "Or as I prefer to call it, the one with standards. We'll swing by the resort first so you can change, then hit the waves." His eyes brightened with genuine excitement. "God, I can't wait—ocean, surfing, you."

I nudge his shoulder playfully. "The family terror? Clearly they've got the wrong Kensington brother."

Roman's eyes darken slightly. "Trust me, they don't." He runs a hand through his hair. "But around you...I don't know. I'm different." He glances away, as if embarrassed by the admission. "Even my brothers noticed. They've all stopped by since the storm to check on the resort, and every single one asked what's gotten into me." His mouth quirks up. "Connor actually checked my coffee for mood stabilizers." He reaches for my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "Turns out I don't need medication. I just need you."

I don't know what to say. I'm floating on a cloud of bliss as I walk next to him toward yet another gleaming luxury SUV—a Lamborghini Urus that sits like a crouched panther in the California sunshine, its obsidian paint job reflecting the swaying palm trees above. The curves of its aerodynamic body catch the light in a way that makes my breath catch.

I never knew Lamborghini made SUVs. I'd only seen those flashy sports cars hugging the road, driven by men with something to prove. This one's different though—practical but still impressive. I glance at Roman as he reaches for the door handle, hoping this is his only Lamborghini.

But anyhow, I wish I could tell him that he fundamentally changed me the way he says I changed him, but I really can’t. My heart has always been full of light, brimming with the kind of contentment that made friends call me their "sunshine girl," but what I feel now is different—it's as if someone turned up the saturation on my already colorful world. While Roman tells me I've transformed him from stormy to serene, I can only think that he's taken my everyday joy and amplified it into something that makes my skin tingle and my chest ache with its intensity.

The door of his sleek black Lambo SUV closes with a satisfying thunk. "So," he says, his tanned fingers drumming against the leather steering wheel. "I didn't even ask you if you surfed. If you don't, that's not a biggie. I'm a great teacher." His smile reveals perfect white teeth against sun-bronzed skin.

"I have, actually," I say, adjusting the hem of my floral sundress over my knees. "I know the fundamentals at any rate. I'm not good, though. I hope that's not a problem."

“Not at all." He chuckles, his deep voice filling the luxury car's interior as he turns the key in the ignition. "My brother Max sometimes brings his wife, Celeste, surfing with us. And she, for lack of a better word, sucks. Can't read a wave to save her life. Last time, she nose-dived three boards in a row and still insisted on paddling back out like a half-drowned cat with something to prove. Of course, that’s all moot now as Celeste has apparently given up surfing for now because she’s bonding with their baby, but she’ll be back once she actually gives up some control to the nanny.”

"So, I guess I don't need to be perfect out there, then."

"Christ, Lil, if you can paddle that little ass of yours out past the break and stand up for five seconds without eating shit, you're already outperforming my sister-in-law." I run my hand through my salt-stiffened hair, squinting against the glare bouncing off the Pacific. "Max is so goddamn gone for her that he'll waste a perfect swell playing lifeguard while the rest of us are shredding. Used to give him hell about it—called him every name in the book." I feel my jaw tighten, watching the waves curl and crash. "Now I wonder if he wasn't the smartest Kensington all along."

We get to the resort, and I go to the changing room for the beach. Polished teak doors open to a space more day spa than beach hut. Marble floors gleam under soft lighting, with plush robes hanging from wooden pegs. The showers have rainfall heads and fancy toiletries. Even the air smells expensive.

I think about the beach restrooms I knew before. The metal toilet seats that burned your thighs in summer. The cement floors always flooded with dirty water. The graffiti-covered benches. This place is definitely for the one percent.

I always hated public restrooms. The fungus in every corner, the bleach that never quite worked. Toilets without seats, or worse—with seats but covered in stains. You'd hover, trying not to breathe. But here? Clean marble, soft lighting, and actual flowers. Like everything else in this place.

Roman provided me with a wetsuit, of course—a sleek black Neoprene second skin that hugs my curves while promising to shield me from the Pacific's bone-chilling embrace. Even in summer, these waters never warm beyond a teeth-chattering sixty degrees, nothing like the bathwater waves I'd once floated in off Myrtle Beach, where the Atlantic caressed rather than shocked. But those warm southern seas come with their own price tag—monster hurricanes that could flatten a coastline in hours. Fair trade, perhaps.

I meet Roman on the private stretch of beach hidden from prying eyes, just around the rocky bend from his resort's manicured shoreline—a pristine half-mile crescent of platinum sand nestled between jagged cliffs that rise like sentinels against the horizon.

He has a beginner's surfboard just for me – a nine-foot foam monstrosity in a garish shade of aqua blue that makes me think of kiddie pools. It's nothing like his sleek six-foot fiberglass shortboard with its custom black and gold design that gleams like obsidian under the California sun. I know enough about surfing to understand why mine needs to be longer – for stability – while his shorter board lets him carve through waves with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. I've watched enough surf competitions to not be a total novice, but my wobbly knees and uncertain balance will never match the fluid grace that seems to run in the Kensington DNA.

I see Ansel and Silas striding toward us like twin luxury yachts parting ocean waves. Both of them so gorgeous my mouth actually waters—the Kensington DNA should be studied by scientists. Ansel, the musical genius behind Kensington Recordings' global empire, tosses his sun-kissed dirty-blonde hair back from his face, revealing those hypnotic aquamarine eyes dancing with secrets and promises. His full lips curl into that trademark smirk that's launched a thousand Instagram fan accounts. Beside him, Silas exudes the quiet intensity of old money—fitting for the CEO of Kensington Jewels who personally negotiates with royalty for their precious stones. His raven-black hair, identical to Roman's, contrasts dramatically with those electric sapphire eyes framed by lashes so thick and dark they look almost artificial against his golden California tan.

Roman pulls each brother into a bear hug, then turns toward me with a hand at the small of my back. "Lilith from the Gala," he says, by way of introduction. Before I can extend my hand, they're both wrapping their arms around me like I'm a long-lost cousin. Something inside me melts a little. Growing up in a house where we greeted the mailman with hugs, this feels like the Kensington version of being handed a key to their fortress.

Ansel's eyes dance with mischief. "So you're hanging out with our very own Sonny Corleone?"

Roman's jaw tightens. "Sonny got a bad rap. Sure, he had a temper, but the man was loyal to his core. Died for it, even." He leans forward, voice dropping. "Sonny would've given you the clothes off his back. Michael would've ordered your execution without blinking. Hell, he had his own brother whacked."

"I hope Lilith's brushed up on her mob movie references," Silas says with a smirk.

Roman turns to me. "Have you?"

I offer a noncommittal shrug. Pop culture osmosis has taught me enough—the hotheaded Sonny with his fists-first philosophy, calculating Michael who'd sacrifice anyone for the family business, and poor Fredo, forever seeking approval until that final fishing trip. I study the brothers' faces, wondering which one might be their Michael. Probably none. I bite back a smile. Roman's nothing like Sonny anyway. The comparison doesn't fit him at all.