Chapter 15 #2
His voice drops to a whisper. "And no. I've never wanted to admit that, even to myself.
" His fingers curl into a fist against his thigh.
"As if he had a choice in the matter, being born to a mother who needed cancer treatment but chose to have him instead.
" A muscle twitches in his cheek. "But I just think that his very birth caused the rest of us to not have a family.
To become essentially orphans, even though our father was technically still alive.
" He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing.
"We've all grown up with that open wound of our father's rejection and losing our mother so young.
But goddammit, it's not Max's fault. It's not. "
I can't look away from him— this beautiful, broken man drowning in rage and desperate to claw his way back to his family through the wreckage of his own heart.
I reach for him but don’t quite touch him. "Roman," I say softly, "you said 'yet.' That word holds possibility." My fingers hover near his clenched fist. "Your heart already knows there's a path back, even if you can't see it now."
The crystal pendant at my throat catches the light as I swallow what I really want to say about energy work and chakra balancing.
Those suggestions would only make him retreat.
What Roman needs is someone with credentials and letters after their name, someone who knows how to navigate the labyrinth of a man's grief.
But suggesting therapy to Roman Kensington feels like offering swimming lessons to a drowning man who's too proud to admit he's in water.
He nods. "I know." His gaze drifts to the clock on the wall.
"Damn. Three already? You must be exhausted.
" His fingers continue stroking Gracie's fur, but I notice the way his throat moves when he swallows.
"Listen, Lilith... it's pretty late. I'm worried about driving home like this.
Would it be okay if I crashed here?" He pats the sofa cushion beside him. "This looks comfortable enough."
My heart skips as I gather my courage. A billionaire Adonis in my bed? When would that chance come again? "You could use my bed," I offer, then feel heat rush to my cheeks. "That came out wrong—"
His expression brightens instantly. "I promise to be a complete gentleman," he says, tilting his head with that devastating smile.
"I think Jack left some pajama bottoms in the laundry," I say, trying to sound casual. They'll hit him mid-calf at best as Jack’s barely six feet tall, but the mental image of Roman's sculpted chest above borrowed pajamas in my bedroom will definitely keep me warm on lonely nights to come.
“That’ll be fine,” he says.
So, I go to the laundry room and pick out some of Jack’s pajama bottoms out of the pile on top of the washing machine. Then I go back out and hand them to Roman. “Here," I say. "Jack's a few inches shorter than you so…”
He smiles at my plaid pajama bottoms. I’m sure it isn’t his usual bedtime attire—probably silk or some designer sleepwear—but he doesn’t complain.
Then I realize I’ll need help getting out of this dress.
Actually, the back zipper stops at the top of the rear end, so I could manage on my own.
Still, picturing Roman tugging it down for me…
I shake my head. I have to keep things in check tonight—and so does he.
I barely know him, and if I let things go too far he might not respect me.
I need to stand apart from the other women vying for his attention. No hanky-panky tonight.
After a few minutes behind my bedroom door, he reappears, shirtless and in too-short pajama bottoms. My breath catches.
He’s perfect—no trace of fat, every muscle sculpted, an eight-pack framed by a lean waist. And there’s a tattoo on his chest: a rose wrapped in script.
Somehow it suits him, a subtle rebellion against the pristine billionaire image.
I step closer and read the words: Those who are hardest to love need it the most – Socrates.
A lump forms in my throat. He must’ve chosen it deliberately: to remind himself he deserves love, or that he needs it even if he pretends otherwise.
He watches me with a small smile. “Got it one drunken night. Total cliché, I know. But don’t you think it’s true? Difficult people often…”
“…need love the most,” I finish, blinking.
His dark eyes hold something—desire, compassion, all of it.
I squeeze past him in the doorway and he doesn’t move, so our bodies brush together.
My heart pounds as I stare into those obsidian eyes.
Finally he shifts just enough to let me through, and I feel a pang of disappointment.
I wanted him to kiss me—for a moment I think he almost did.
But if he had, I couldn’t have stopped myself.
And that, I tell myself, would be a mistake.
My heart pounding, I unzip my dress and pull on my most modest pajamas—long pants with a matching button-up top.
The silk nightie hanging in my closet calls to me in this heat, but I resist. Wearing that would be like hanging a neon sign over my head: "Take me now.
" And God help me, I want him to. But I can already see how it ends—me, completely wrecked over what he'd consider a casual fling.
I'd never be able to show my face at the resort again.
And I've grown attached to those weekday readings, surrounded by marble fountains and guests who arrive via helicopter.
The money's good, the setting's divine, and there's always that moment when I scan the lobby, hoping to glimpse Roman's tall figure moving through the crowd, my stomach doing that ridiculous little flip that makes me feel sixteen again.
I slip into the softly lit hallway, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“Um, the bedroom is ready.” I shake my head, cheeks warming.
That sounded way too suggestive. “I mean, it’s late and we should really sleep.
I have a queen-size bed—cozy, but not huge.
” My mind flutters: Should I shove a pillow between us like a barricade? No—that’s ridiculous.
He gives me a gentle grin. “I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself. We’ll just lie down and sleep, side by side.”
I force a nod, even though every nerve in me aches to press my skin to his.
He’s like a perfect marble sculpture come to life: flawless lines, warm skin.
My heart hammers as I slip beneath the cool, cotton sheets, fluffing the pillow.
He settles in next to me, breathing already deep and even.
Within minutes, his soft snores drift through the stillness.
Morning light filters in at six-thirty. I need to shower before the store opens, but the world is muffled by the weight of him: his arms draped over my shoulders, a strong leg thrown across mine. He’s sound asleep, hair tousled and thick, sleeping like a raven on my pillow.
I hesitate, reluctant to disturb him, but finally whisper, “Roman… I really need to get up.”
He jolts awake, dark eyes blinking, hair a tousled halo. He glances at his watch, face crumpling. “Oh—shit. I have to get to the resort.” He rises, fumbling into last night’s tuxedo pants, his white shirt half-buttoned, designer shoes shuffling on the floor. His movements are hurried, awkward.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” he breathes, stepping close to brush a quick kiss against my forehead. I close my eyes at the warmth of his lips. “Hope I didn’t—put you out.”
I shake my head, heart twisting. How can I tell him I don’t want him to leave? He straightens his collar, half-smiles. “I’ll see you next week at the resort, right?”
See you next week at the resort. The same thing as a dismissive “see you around.” Or “I’ll call you.
” My throat tightens. Guys like him don’t ask girls like me out.
Period. “You will,” I manage, forcing a casual tone.
He gives a small nod, then turns and is gone, the door clicking softly behind him.
I stand there, alone in the quiet room, and wonder why I bothered to hope.