Page 6 of The Malibu Destiny

Max and I paddle out past the break. Between waiting for decent swells, he brings up Mom’s memorial service again. Thirty years in the ground, and suddenly we need a do-over because Dad finally decided to grace us with his presence. Cameron’s organizing the whole thing—says it’ll be “more meaningful” now that none of us are snot-nosed kids who barely understood what was happening the first time around. The Catherine Kensington remembrance ceremony, with the complete Kensington collection in attendance.

I’ve made my position clear to everyone: as long as Dad shows his face, mine won’t be there.

“We’ll all be there, even Ansel and Silas,” referring to the two brothers, besides myself, who were most likely to be wary of Dad’s return.

I cut him off. "Not giving into peer pressure." A swell rises beneath us like a gift from the sea gods. I ride it toward shore, Max carving the curl beside me. The timing couldn't be better—no more talk about Mom's memorial. Once beached, I paddle back out, arms burning against the push of the tide. Max follows. We bob like corks on the surface, scanning the horizon. That's surfing for you—ninety percent waiting, ten percent adrenaline. But those waiting moments? That's when my brothers and I really connect. When life's bullshit gets aired out between sets, nothing but endless blue surrounding us.

“Rome,” Max says, pressing. “At least talk to Cam about the Memorial. He really needs your input.”

Max buzzes around me like a fucking gnat sometimes. Love the kid to death—love all my brothers—but I've never had that bond he shares with Ansel, or what the twins have. The four of them pair off naturally: Asher with Silas (identical twins), Kalen with Connor (also identical twins). Then there's Cameron, who was busy playing dad while Granddad ran his Fortune 500 empire and Grandma ruled the society pages. That left me—Roman, the odd man out.

At school, I'd be throwing punches while Kalen and Connor, both younger than me, would try to back me up but couldn't land a hit to save their lives. Look at them now—Connor just accepted a best actor Oscar while Kalen is selling out arenas and can play three instruments like a god - piano, guitar and, weirdly, a cello. Those two are talented as hell, but soft. And the older twins? Asher with his genius IQ and Silas running the family jewels division? They'd rather negotiate than fight.

So there I was, the only Kensington who could break a nose properly, standing alone in the middle of six brothers paired like Noah's fucking animals and one other brother on the outside like me. Thank Christ for Caspian. When everyone else paired off, he became the brother I chose—the only guy in my life who understood that sometimes problems need to be solved with fists instead of words.

I guess that's why I don't feel much heat about skipping this memorial service. No one brother and I ever formed a real alliance, so there's no one who can guilt-trip me effectively. Silas stood with me initially when Dad showed up, both of us giving the cold shoulder, but Asher got to him with that lawyer-brain of his. Classic Asher—all rational arguments and zero emotion. And Silas? He folded like wet cardboard.

Look, I care about all of them, don't mistake me. But we've never been a united front, any of us. So when they call to lecture me, their words just slide right off.

I spot the wave bearing down on us. "Max," I say, "kindly shut the fuck up." I pop to my feet, catching the swell as it carries me shoreward, Max right beside me. We call him Little Max as a joke—nothing little about my 6'4" (same height as me) baby brother. He commands his surfboard the same way he commands his movie studio: with precision and flair that draws everyone's eye. At sixteen, scouts were begging him to go pro, but Max always had Hollywood in his sights. The stubborn bastard knew exactly what he wanted and went after it. Hard not to respect that.

Just then, Nina Harrington, my royalty concierge, appears on the shoreline, her arm flailing in my direction. Damn it. Saturdays are supposed to be sacred—my one day off after grinding through six straight days of fourteen-hour shifts. Still, Max's voice has been grating on my last nerve, so I paddle toward her, grateful for the interruption. "Mr. Kensington," she says, breathless as I approach. "We have a situation with Baroness Janssens from Belgium. Her helicopter can't take off in this wind, but she's determined to make the San Francisco Opera tonight. What should we do?"

I grip the towel, wiping sweat from my face. "We're taking the Chinook," I snap. Not just any helicopter—our military-grade CH-47, built to slice through gale-force winds like they're nothing. "I'll handle this personally." For a woman who drops fifty grand a night, I’ll fly the damn thing myself if I have to.

I jab a quick wave at Max before storming toward the resort. I need to change and get the baroness airborne. I pull on a t-shirt to go with my blue swim trunks, intending to grab a golf cart to take me to my suite in Building A.

But the moment I hit the marble lobby floor—Christ. There she is. That light blue sundress clings to curves that make my mouth go dry, the fabric a perfect contrast against her olive skin. She's gliding toward the beachfront gazebo like she owns the place, already commanding the space we set up last week. My fists clench involuntarily. The same primal hunger that hit me last week slams into me again—harder this time. I want to drag her into the nearest empty room and ravage her until neither of us can stand. The force of it makes me furious. With her. With myself. With the whole goddamn situation.

She looks at me, her amusement like a slap across my face. "Mr. Kensington," she says, one eyebrow arching dangerously high. "Mingling amongst the hoi polloi, I see, looking like you’re one of us.” Her eyes rake over me. "When I met you last week, I thought you were an Adonis carved from marble, but now I see that you have feet of clay like the rest of us mortals." She shakes her head and strides toward the door, the sunlight catching subtle auburn highlights in her hair.

I lunge after her. "Ms. Sydney!" My voice tears from my throat. She whips around, those topaz eyes burning into mine. "If you must know," I growl, "I was surfing, which is why I look like this." I rake my fingers through my salt-crusted hair, furious at myself. What the hell am I doing, standing in my own goddamn lobby half-naked in nothing but swim trunks and a shirt that clings to every muscle? I never let anyone see me as anything but immaculate in Tom Ford or Brioni. The humiliation scalds me from the inside out as Lilith Sydney's gaze lingers on me, seeing straight through to my core.

She dismisses my apology with a wave. "No need to worry. It's just amusing to see you wandering through your hotel lobby half-dressed as if you own the place—which, of course, you do." Her gaze drifts momentarily to my damp t-shirt before meeting my eyes again. "And that disheveled hair? Very Renaissance masterpiece meets California surf culture." She playfully fans herself. "Pardon me while I recover."

I roll my eyes despite being unable to look away from her face. Something about this woman throws me off balance—she shows no fear, no intimidation, and speaks to me with a familiarity that should get her fired for mocking my appearance.

Words fail me, so I retreat into the hotel, waiting impatiently for my golf cart to take me to my suite. Baroness Janssens has tickets to Madame Butterfly in San Francisco tonight—a critically acclaimed production of her favorite opera. She's counting on me, and I won't disappoint her. I'll personally ensure she boards our military-grade Chinook helicopter within the hour.

After the golf cart takes me to my suite, I storm into it, shower and dress in one of my immaculate Brioni suits, my hands still unsteady. Damn, that woman bothers me. There's only one way to fix this. Lilith Sydney has to be terminated—immediately. I don't care if she somehow nailed every detail in that reading. Lucky guess. Coincidence. Whatever. The fact remains: I can't have some tarot-flipping hippie getting under my skin like this. Nobody messes with my equilibrium. Nobody.

I check my watch. The moment the Baroness's jet leaves our airspace, I'm telling Miranda to handle it.

I get the Baroness up in the air and then I get to Miranda’s office. She doesn't even look up from her laptop when I slam her office door open. "I want that tarot reader gone."

"I just hired her, Roman. She's under contract." She finally meets my gaze, unflinching. "If you want her gone, handle it yourself."

No one else in my empire would dare speak to me that way. But Miranda's desk still has the coffee ring from when we stayed up all night eleven years ago, running numbers on napkins, wondering if my grandfather's loan would be enough to transform this crumbling property into something magnificent. I'd paid him back within twelve months with interest.

Now my resorts dot coastlines from the French Riviera to Sao Palo Brazil, Sardinia to Crete to Lake Como, Italy to Dubai to Beijing to Auckland, New Zealand. The flagship's guest list reads like a global Who's Who. But Miranda remembers the twenty-two-year-old kid terrified of becoming the family failure. She believed before anyone else did, which is why she's the only person whose "no" I accept.

“Fine,” I say. “Where is she now?”

“She's down at the beach cabana. Doing a tarot reading for Countess Vandermeer of the Netherlands. So, I suggest you wait⁠—"

I cut her off with a wave of my hand. Wait? When I want this woman gone from my resort immediately? I storm toward the door. I won't barge in on royalty—I have some standards—but I'll be right outside that cabana platform when she finishes, ready to tell her to pack her crystals and disappear. Permanently.

I slip into the vestibule of the cabana, realizing Lilith is already deep into a reading. “Countess Vandermeer,” Lilith says in that steady, soothing tone, and I can hear the Countess’s soft sobs. Guilty as I feel for eavesdropping, I can’t tear myself away—I’m curious to see how Lilith handles nobility.