Page 37 of The Malibu Destiny

I scrunch my nose. "Mob movies aren't really my thing." The mere thought of violence flickering across a screen while I'm nestled under my hand-crocheted blanket with a bowl of lavender-salted popcorn makes my stomach twist into sailor's knots. War films with their earth-shattering explosions that make my teeth vibrate, survival stories where some poor soul always ends up as another creature's dinner, dusty westerns with their inevitable shootouts leaving crimson blooms on cotton shirts, zombie movies with intestines glistening like wet ribbons—they all leave me white-knuckled, my fingernails creating half-moon indentations in the armrest, my heart hammering against my ribcage as I dread the inevitable moment when a character I've grown attached to collapses into a lifeless heap before the credits mercifully appear. Needless to say, slasher movies with their butcher-knife gleam are the absolute last thing I'd ever voluntarily subject my sensitive soul to.

“Uh oh,” Ansel says. “Roman knows every single movie Scorsese has ever directed. You might be in trouble, Lilith. I just hope he doesn’t force you to watch a trilogy of Goodfellas, Casino and The Irishman, with The Departed thrown in for good measure.”

Oh. Watching a lineup like that sounds like absolute hell to me. Then again, if Roman’s by my side while I watch them, I might…be okay. Then I shake my head. No. I won’t be that girl. I won’t pretend to like things I abhor just because my totally hot boyfriend? Can I call Roman that yet? No. Too soon. Totally hot crush. That’s it. A totally hot crush likes something and if I just say “me too,” I’ll lose myself. Not doing that.

“Stop,” Roman says, watching my face. “If she doesn’t like mob movies, she doesn’t like mob movies. But you might like other Scorsese movies, like The Wolf of Wall Street or…”

“No, not Wolf of Wall Street. That one has some violence. Hugo,” Ansel says helpfully. “That’s a pretty tame movie, set in 1931.”

“The Age of Innocence,” Silas says. “That’s based on an Edith Wharton book set in the Gilded Age. I’ll bet you’d love that one.”

The Age of Innocence. That reminds me of that Gala night when I thought I’d have to make do with a Victorian-era dress, before Roman came to my rescue with that glorious green halter dress that absolutely took my breath away.

Yes, I do love that movie, actually. Period dramas like that usually sweep me away, as do historical fiction and any kind of biopic or biographical fiction. Give me the lush orchestral swells of Amadeus, the haunting piano melodies of Immortal Beloved, the sweeping landscapes of Gandhi, the frenetic mathematical scribbles of A Beautiful Mind, the glittering sequins and soaring vocals of Bohemian Rhapsody, the grainy black-and-white footage of A Complete Unknown, or the kaleidoscopic Elton John spectacle of Rocket Man over any smoke-filled, bullet-riddled mob movie, any day of the week.

Roman's smile softens his usually sharp features, the dimple in his left cheek appearing like it does in those rare magazine photos where he's caught off-guard. "Something tells me I'll have to keep enjoying watching mob movies with my brothers or Caspian," he says, his deep voice carrying that hint of gravel that makes my skin tingle. He leans forward, the expensive fabric of his wet suit stretching across his broad shoulders. "But that's okay. I like other kinds of movies, too. All different kinds of movies, actually," he adds with a playful glint in those obsidian dark eyes, "so I'm sure we'll agree on something."

“Okay,” Ansel says. “Let’s get out there.”

My hands tremble slightly on the board as we paddle out. I catch Roman's eye, and he gives me a reassuring nod before Ansel splashes water directly into his face.

"First one to wipe out buys dinner," Ansel announces, ducking Roman's retaliatory splash.

Silas snorts. "If we went by that rule, Roman would be bankrupt by now."

Roman's scowl breaks into a reluctant grin as we position ourselves beyond the break, waiting for the perfect wave. My shoulders loosen as I watch them, these powerful men transformed into boys by the ocean.

Silas, his sun-bronzed face creasing with mischief, calls over the crash of waves. "Hey, Roman! Remember when you insisted on surfing in Puerto Rico during Hurricane Marie?" He shakes his head, salt water droplets flying from his dark hair. "Only Roman would be crazy enough to think he could conquer fifty-foot monsters in winds that could tear the roof off a house."

Roman's jaw tightens as he runs a hand through his own wet, tousled hair. "I wasn't actually going to surf that day, you moron. Max was being a complete ass, getting everyone worked up about nothing." His voice carries over the roar of the ocean. "I just needed to shut you all up. One mention of surfing during a hurricane, and suddenly everyone forgot their petty arguments."

"Yeah, but Roman," Ansel chimes in, his lean body balanced perfectly on his board, "the fact we believed you'd actually do it says everything about your reputation."

Silas paddles closer, his muscular shoulders glistening with seawater. "And then you actually took that Gulfstream out in near-tornado conditions with lightning splitting the sky. If I'd known what you were planning, I would've drugged your morning espresso until that suicidal impulse passed."

Roman's eyes darken like the gathering storm clouds on the horizon. "You know exactly why I did that."

"Noble intentions," Silas concedes with a solemn nod before his expression lightens. "Noble but certifiably insane. If you'd crashed, we would've had your Darwin Award framed next to Mom's photo."

A massive wave begins to swell behind them, a wall of blue-green glass rising from the depths. Without another word, all three brothers pivot their boards in perfect synchronicity, powerful arms cutting through the water as they catch the wave's momentum, carving elegant lines down its face while I watch, breathless with admiration.

They all paddle back, their muscular arms slicing through the glittering turquoise water. Roman turns to me, droplets cascading from his sun-kissed skin. "I'll stay behind on the next one and make sure you can get up on your board."

I smile, my heart fluttering beneath my soaked rash guard. The pressure weighs on me like the ocean itself. When the next wave swells—a towering wall of blue-green glass—I gather my courage, push up from my stomach, and wobble to my feet. My legs tremble like palm fronds in a storm as I ride the churning foam for about ten breathless feet before the board slides out from under me. The ocean swallows me whole, salt burning my nostrils, my limbs tumbling in the frothy chaos.

Meanwhile, Roman and his brothers cut through the wave, their boards gliding smoothly as they trace clean lines across its surface, riding it until it breaks on the shore.

Roman says "Good job" when we've paddled back to the lineup, his voice deep against the rhythm of the waves. Sunlight catches in his wet eyelashes. "Now, for the next wave, keep your feet shoulder-width apart, back foot angled slightly. When you feel the wave catch, pop up in one motion—don't hesitate—and bend your knees more than you think you need to." His strong hands demonstrate, one palm flat like a board while the other makes a quick, decisive hop. "Weight centered, eyes forward, not down. The board goes where you're looking."

I nod nervously, salt water dripping from my chin as I try to commit Roman's instructions to muscle memory. When the next wave swells beneath me—a glassy blue-green wall of water—I pop up to standing just as he showed me, knees bent, arms out for balance. The board glides beneath my feet, and for a glorious moment, time slows. I'm flying, cutting across the face of the wave for a good fifty feet before my ankle wobbles and I tumble sideways into the churning foam. I surface with a gasp and a grin. Progress.

Roman paddles back out to me, water streaming from his tanned shoulders. "Great job!" he calls over the crash of an incoming wave. "Next time, try to pop up faster—knees to chest in one motion. And keep your weight centered over the board. When you see a good wave coming, start paddling earlier so you catch the momentum before it breaks."

I nod. The next wave rises on the horizon. I paddle hard like Roman showed me, arms burning through the salt water. The board lurches, and I push up to my feet, balancing on the slick surface. Then I'm moving across the face of the wave, spray hitting my skin, morning light everywhere. The wave curls behind me as I ride it all the way in. My heart pounds, and I can't stop grinning, my cheeks aching. I feel the triumph in my blood. I actually did it!

Roman high-fives me when he paddles back, droplets flying from his bronzed forearm. "You were amazing!" he exclaims, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're a natural out there. A water baby."

I smile, tasting salt on my lips. For the next three hours, the four of us ride the swells. I catch three more waves, each one a rush as the board skims across the water.