Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
LILITH
I survey the store and feel like crying. It’s not a catastrophe—Roman and Caspian hauled in their muscles and Shop-Vacs, so the floor and rug are bone-dry. We even aired the place out to chase away any lingering mildew—truly the worst smell in the world.
“So,” Jack says, sliding books back onto the shelf. In half an hour the store opens, and I’ve got four readings lined up. No countesses or celebrities—fine by me. The rich folks at the resort are polite, but they’re not my crowd. “Roman god.”
“What about him?”
Jack waggles his eyebrows dramatically. "Honey, the universe is practically shoving Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Obscenely-Wealthy into your cosmic orbit!
I mean, those cheekbones? Divine intervention.
I'd sacrifice a goat if I thought it would help, but PETA would come for me, and I just got these nails done. "
I shake my head. “He’s gorgeous and loaded, but…”
“But?”
“He might not be emotionally available.” I cock my head. “Come on, Jack: thirty-three, gorgeous, filthy rich, and still single? There’s a story there. And I steer clear of emotionally unavailable men.”
I don’t tell Jack about the tarot spread I did for Roman.
It revealed an absent, alcoholic father who abandoned him and his brothers, leaving deep scars of betrayal and grief.
I sense auras in people who emit them strongly—artists glow magenta, spiritual types shine indigo.
Most folks barely register. Roman’s aura was jet-black: blocked energy, loss, distrust. The cards showed early trauma and loss, an alcoholic dad.
My readings are accurate—that’s why I have a solid reputation among L.A.
tarot readers—and Roman proved it when he hired me on the spot.
Jack snaps his fingers in a z-formation.
"Lil, honey, if he's emotionally unavailable, he's practically gift-wrapped for you!
You're like a walking therapy session with better accessories.
Remember that aura reader with the unfortunate turban situation?
Even she said your aura is greener than my thumb after I killed that cactus—and killing a cactus takes talent, darling. "
I laugh. “You’ve got it backwards. Green thumb means you can make things grow, not kill them. You actually have a black thumb.”
“Semantics,” Jack says with a dismissive wave. “What matters is your green aura. The healing energy you radiate.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Just what our brooding billionaire needs, if you ask me.”
“I’m a compassionate healer,” I agree. I’ve never seen my own aura, but every psychic I’ve met insists it’s green. So if anyone can help Roman heal, it’s me. But that doesn’t mean I want a romance.
One, he’s way out of my league—a billionaire versus a tarot reader renting a tiny shop, living with a friend because I can’t afford my own place, driving a used Prius I can’t replace with an electric car.
Two, I’m not even sure he wants my help.
I can only guide people who choose to heal.
While I wish I could do crystal healing or chakra balancing or aura cleanses, I’m really just good at drawing out emotions and identifying blockages—the first step toward real healing.
Still, I assemble a small gift in case I see him again: an amethyst for calm, a black tourmaline to absorb negativity, lemon balm to lift and soothe, hawthorn and rose to ease emotional pain. I tuck them into a silk-lined wooden box. He probably won’t take it, but I prepare it anyway.
I smile when I look at my little gift. But who am I kidding? I probably won’t see the guy again.
Even though I dearly hope I do.