Chapter 3 #2
“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.