Page 32 of The Malibu Destiny

I put my hand on his arm. “You speak of your father with a great deal of affection,” I note.

He shrugs, gaze drifting somewhere past her shoulder. "He'd take all eight of us camping sometimes. Build these massive bonfires. Taught us to fish. Mom's birthday was always the hardest—he'd start the day determined to stay sober, cooking her favorite pancakes for us. By afternoon, he'd be three bottles in, crying over photo albums.” He smiles and shakes his head. “One Christmas, he spent two weeks building us this elaborate treehouse, then fell off the ladder and broke his arm because he couldn't stay away from the whiskey. That was Dad—brilliant flashes of the father we needed, eclipsed by longer stretches of... absence."

Roman's face softens when he mentions his father. I notice, but stay quiet. Pushing would only make him shut down again.

"What about you?" he asks. "Your childhood?"

I sip my orange juice, the tartness matching the bittersweet memories. "Single mom raised me. Father was just a nameless one-night stand, according to Mom. But I had Cary Grant - always imagined he was my real father."

Roman's eyebrow arches. "The actor? Wasn't he⁠—"

"Dead before I was born? Mere technicality." I laugh softly. "I was four when Mom introduced me to him through her old movies. We'd curl up on our threadbare couch watching Bringing Up Baby and Arsenic and Old Lace. The Bishop's Wife at Christmas, always." I trace the rim of my glass. "To little me, he was everything—charming, handsome, elegant, that mischievous sparkle in his eyes. I'd fall asleep imagining him swinging me up onto his shoulders. Easier than wondering about a real father who never bothered to exist in my life."

I cock my head. Actually, Roman somewhat reminds me of Cary Grant, just more beautiful. As if that was possible to my childhood self, because, in my eyes, nobody was more beautiful than Cary Grant.

Roman smiles. “So, you had your mother…”

I nod. "Mom just got me, you know? When I was twelve, I told her I could sense what the trees in our backyard were feeling. Not in a weird way—just impressions." I run my finger around the edge of my mug. "Instead of worrying, she bought me this journal with a tree on the cover and said, 'Write it all down. I'd love to hear what they're telling you.'"

The confession hangs between us. I've just handed this gorgeous man the weirdest piece of my history, yet something in his expression makes me keep going. He takes a slow sip of orange juice, those dark eyes fixed on mine—not with the polite tolerance I'm used to, but with a spark that feels like recognition.

He leans in, eyes soft. "What did the trees tell you?" Not a hint of mockery in his voice—just genuine curiosity.

I take a breath. "They weren't words exactly, but impressions. My mother noticed how I'd sit there for hours. On my tenth birthday, she gave me my first tarot deck." I smile at the memory. "She said the cards would help me understand what I was already sensing.The first time I laid them out, something clicked. Like finding a missing puzzle piece. That's when I knew someday I'd create a space where others could make those same discoveries.”

“And your mother…”

“She was gone before I turned nineteen. Fifty-four years old. A stroke took her in the night." My voice catches. "The doctors said there were no warning signs. She carried a little extra weight, but nothing that should have..." I can't finish. The tears come despite my efforts to hold them back. Roman's thumb brushes them away, his dark eyes holding mine with such tenderness I feel my chest tighten. "The insurance policy she left—one hundred thousand dollars—felt like her final gift. Like she was still taking care of me somehow. I put myself through community college, earned my business degree, and when that little storefront on Venice Beach came up for lease, I just knew. Everything she'd taught me about following my intuition led me there. That shop became my sanctuary—built from her love, even after she was gone."

Roman shakes his head. "You're unlike anyone I've ever met. My life has been...different. Boarding schools. A Maserati for my sixteenth birthday. Ivy League education courtesy of my grandparents. Even this resort started with a loan from my grandfather—forty million dollars. Paid it back within a year with interest, but still."

My jaw drops. Forty million? I'd thought Mom's life insurance policy—a hundred grand—was life-changing money. The kind that let me open Mystic Tides. A million dollars in my account? That's fantasy territory. Something to daydream about between tarot readings and restocking crystal displays.

But now, with the shop...

Roman's eyes soften, reading my expression with unexpected precision.

"Lil," he says, his voice gentle. "The shop will be okay. I know the storm damage looks catastrophic right now. But I have connections—the best contractors in California. We'll restore everything, better than before. Mystic Tides isn't going anywhere. That place is your heartbeat. I won't let you lose it."

I narrow my eyes at him. "How did you know what I was thinking?"

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Maybe I'm catching your woo-woo vibes."

My hand finds his forearm, warm beneath my fingertips. "Your intuition is stronger than you think. Everyone has that inner knowing—that third eye. The universe whispers to us constantly." I lean closer. "Even science backs this up. Your subconscious processes millions of tiny details your conscious mind misses completely. That gut feeling? It's real. Your subconscious is basically a supercomputer compared to your conscious thoughts. So when something feels right or wrong here—" I tap just below my sternum, "—listen to it."

I close my eyes, hearing the rain softly patter against the window as my gut twists with certainty about Roman - that he's absolutely right for me. But my practical brain wages war against this feeling, like storm clouds gathering over the Pacific.

I hate when logic drowns out intuition. My brain keeps listing the reasons it won't work: Roman with his expensive suits and that jawline couldn't possibly want me long-term. He runs hotels where people worth billions relax by pools I could never afford to swim in.

But when he's with me, I notice things—the rough skin on his hands from years of surfing, the way his real smile changes his whole face. Something in me recognizes something in him, like finding a missing piece I didn't know was gone. It doesn't make sense on paper, but I feel it anyway.

Sometimes when he looks at me, I forget all the sensible arguments. Against all odds, this feels real.

I open my eyes to find Roman staring at me, something unguarded in his gaze that makes my breath catch. His lips are chapped from the salt water, and I remember their pressure against mine last night. I think about him sleeping in Jack's old pajama bottoms, how the morning light fell across his bare chest, how different he looked from the businessman in tailored suits. There's something almost startling about seeing someone so powerful half-dressed in borrowed clothes, vulnerable in sleep. Even now, I can hardly believe he's here with me.

He puts his calloused hand on my flushed cheek and caresses it with his thumb, rough skin against soft, as I can hear my heartbeat thundering in my ears like waves crashing against the Palos Verdes cliffs.

The storm returns. Rain hammers the windows. Outside, resort umbrellas strain against their anchors and the ocean crashes against the shore. Lightning flashes, followed by thunder that rattles the glass.