Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
LILITH
Roman is driving me home in his Bugatti.
A Bugatti! Five million dollars worth of hand-crafted exclusive Italian engineering, and this is his car.
The leather seats are butter-soft, and the engine makes this low rumble that vibrates through my whole body.
I keep sneaking glances at him, then at my newly chipped nail polish, then back at him again.
This man is the sun and I’m riding in his car, a car that is worth more than I could make in several lifetimes, literally. Pinch me now.
When he shifts gears, his knuckles flex, and I have to look out the window before he catches me staring.
I've dated nice guys before—sweet baristas and one very earnest graphic designer—but Roman is something else entirely.
He belongs on magazine covers, not driving me home after a gala that has his last name.
He looks over at me, his dark eyes lingering a moment too long.
My stomach flips. Is that desire I see? The thought that Roman Kensington might want me—physically—sends a flush of heat across my skin.
But that's all it could ever be between us, right?
A brief collision of bodies, nothing more.
Still, the idea that someone like him would find me attractive makes my pulse skitter wildly.
Sure, Jack tells me I'm gorgeous all the time, but best friends have to say that.
They're contractually obligated to make you feel like a diamond when you see yourself as cubic zirconia.
But even if Roman wanted a one-night thing...
I couldn't. Not my style, not even for him.
I shake my head, dismissing the thought.
There must be some other explanation for his attention.
Roman's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as he pulls into my driveway, killing the engine with a sharp twist. "Lilith," he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Those readings—you got inside my head. How the hell did you do that?"
I meet his burning gaze. "It's a gift," I say, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Are you finally admitting some people might have abilities you can't explain?"
He leans closer, the leather seat creaking beneath him.
"I've spent my life dismissing all of it—the zodiac bullshit, chakra alignment, crystal healing—as expensive lies for gullible people.
" His jaw clenches. "But you..." His eyes lock onto mine, searching.
"You're different. You saw things nobody could know.
" He exhales sharply. "Maybe there are forces in this world I can't control or understand.
" A dangerous smile cuts across his face.
“Guess I need to revisit my non-belief in UFOs and Big Foot.”
I inhale slowly to steady myself. "Would you like to come inside for some hot tea?"
"I'd love to," he replies without hesitation. I wait for the inevitable "but" that doesn't come. Roman unbuckles, steps out, then points a finger at me. "Don't move. That door mechanism is tricky as hell."
Glancing around the sleek interior, I realize there's no visible handle.
Normally, being trapped would trigger my claustrophobia—I'm perfectly fine in small spaces until I can't escape, then panic sets in.
Like when elevators stall or bathroom doors jam.
But watching Roman stride confidently around the hood of his luxury car, I feel only anticipation.
He'll open my door now, and maybe next time, he'll teach me how to do it myself.
Next time. The possibility makes my pulse quicken.
He opens the door and leans down, his sandalwood and bergamot cologne hitting me as he points to a button tucked into the door frame. "Press here first, then push the door up slightly to clear the roofline." His smile catches me off guard. "You'll get used to it."
You'll get used to it. Four simple words that shouldn't make my pulse quicken, but they do. As if this isn't just a one-time ride. As if there will be a next time, and a time after that. He said it so easily, too—the way people talk about certainties, not maybes.
I get out of the car and then climb the steps to my little townhome.
I push open my front door, conscious of Roman's presence behind me as we step into the darkened hallway.
The clock on my microwave reads 2:17 AM.
Not even six hours until I need to unlock Mystic Tides.
My fingers brush the light switch, hesitating.
Miranda's schedule flashes through my mind—no resort readings tomorrow or the next day, just two packed days next week. Back-to-back sessions for hours.
"Would you like some tea?" I ask, turning to find Roman closer than I expected, his frame filling my tiny entryway.
Two days a week. That's all I might see of him, and even then, he'd probably be tied up in meetings while I shuffle cards for wealthy strangers.
My chest tightens at the thought. Sure, he'd joked about me getting used to his car, but reality is reality.
I've seen Sera with her runway legs and practiced laugh hovering near him.
That's his world. Not mine—with my secondhand furniture and a mortgage I can only afford because Jack splits it with me.
He sits on my couch, his tux pants against the cracked leather.
"Sure," he says. Gracie winds between my ankles, meowing like she's starving though I fed her hours ago.
The armrests bear her claw marks from when she was a kitten.
I could replace the couch now that the bookstore's loan is paid off, but with rent hikes coming, that money's going to savings.
Roman shifts, looking as out of place as a Rolex at a discount store.
His world of penthouse views and private jets couldn't be further from my Costco mattress and the Prius outside that's pushing 150,000 miles.
I put the kettle on and turn to Gracie, who's circling my ankles with theatrical meows.
"Drama queen. You'd think I've been starving you for days.
" I reach for the bag of Smalls—organic, wild-caught, worth every penny if it means keeping her healthy into her golden years—and fill her bowl.
She attacks it like it's her last meal, then abandons it half-empty when she spots Roman.
Before I can even pour the hot water, she's made herself at home on his lap, her rumbling purr audible from across the room. His large hands look surprisingly gentle as they stroke her fur. I can't help but smile. If Gracie approves of Roman, that's worth more than any background check.
I return with two steaming mugs and set them on coasters atop my splurge coffee table—solid oak that cost a month's rent.
Roman has transformed in the minute I've been gone.
His bow tie dangles from one hand, his collar gapes open, and he's sprawled across my sofa like he owns it, one hand absently stroking Gracie's fur. Those dark eyes follow me, unblinking.
“So…” I break the silence, wrapping my fingers around warm ceramic. "The cards spoke to you after all?"
His lips curve slightly. "You could say that." Something flickers behind his eyes—vulnerability, maybe—before he continues. "Twenty-two years since my father walked out. After Mom died—refused treatment for her cancer because she was carrying Max—Dad crawled into a bottle and never emerged."
I sip slowly, letting the silence stretch. The cards had already shown me his fractured family tree, but this confession feels different—raw, unfiltered.
"He vanished," Roman continues, voice rougher now. "No goodbye, no forwarding address. My grandparents stepped in, raised eight boys without answers. Dad became this...forbidden topic. Like mentioning him might summon something worse than his absence."
I rest my palm on his forearm, and a shiver runs through me at the contact. His gaze drops to where I'm touching him, then lifts to meet mine. Something flutters in my chest.
"I can't imagine how hard that must be," I say softly.
His shoulders rise and fall. "After vanishing for two decades, he waltzes back expecting a hero's welcome.
And my brothers? They rolled out the red carpet.
" The muscle in his jaw tightens. "It cuts deep, you know?
Standing alone while my own blood acts like I'm the unreasonable one.
I can't just hand over forgiveness like it's nothing.
What he did..." His voice roughens. "My brothers keep pushing, like I'm the problem.
" He looks away, swallows. "Being the odd man out in your own family—it hollows you out. "
I nod. "I understand it's still difficult for you. But—"
He drops his gaze to the floor before meeting mine again, his eyes clouded with something raw and unguarded.
"I get it," he says, voice barely audible.
"My grudge probably says more about me than him at this point.
I just..." He pauses. "I'm not convinced he deserves forgiveness yet.
" His expression shifts, eyebrows lifting slightly.
"Huh. 'Yet.'" A slow shake of his head. "Didn't realize that's how I actually felt.
" His throat works visibly. "Something about you makes me say things I didn't even know were inside me. "
I smile and sip my tea. “And your youngest brother. Max.” I remember now the card reading I gave him when I told him that he resented his youngest brother. Will he confess about that, too?
He shakes his head, his dark hair falling across his forehead. "That's another buried deep thought you managed to figure out." His eyes drift upward to the textured ceiling, jaw clenching. "God, what kind of person am I? But yes. I've always resented Max."