Chapter 20 #2
We get to the resort, and I go to the changing room for the beach.
Polished teak doors open to a space more day spa than beach hut.
Marble floors gleam under soft lighting, with plush robes hanging from wooden pegs.
The showers have rainfall heads and fancy toiletries. Even the air smells expensive.
I think about the beach restrooms I knew before. The metal toilet seats that burned your thighs in summer. The cement floors always flooded with dirty water. The graffiti-covered benches. This place is definitely for the one percent.
I always hated public restrooms. The fungus in every corner, the bleach that never quite worked. Toilets without seats, or worse—with seats but covered in stains. You'd hover, trying not to breathe. But here? Clean marble, soft lighting, and actual flowers. Like everything else in this place.
Roman provided me with a wetsuit, of course—a sleek black Neoprene second skin that hugs my curves while promising to shield me from the Pacific's bone-chilling embrace.
Even in summer, these waters never warm beyond a teeth-chattering sixty degrees, nothing like the bathwater waves I'd once floated in off Myrtle Beach, where the Atlantic caressed rather than shocked.
But those warm southern seas come with their own price tag—monster hurricanes that could flatten a coastline in hours. Fair trade, perhaps.
I meet Roman on the private stretch of beach hidden from prying eyes, just around the rocky bend from his resort's manicured shoreline—a pristine half-mile crescent of platinum sand nestled between jagged cliffs that rise like sentinels against the horizon.
He has a beginner's surfboard just for me – a nine-foot foam monstrosity in a garish shade of aqua blue that makes me think of kiddie pools.
It's nothing like his sleek six-foot fiberglass shortboard with its custom black and gold design that gleams like obsidian under the California sun.
I know enough about surfing to understand why mine needs to be longer – for stability – while his shorter board lets him carve through waves with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel.
I've watched enough surf competitions to not be a total novice, but my wobbly knees and uncertain balance will never match the fluid grace that seems to run in the Kensington DNA.
I see Ansel and Silas striding toward us like twin luxury yachts parting ocean waves.
Both of them so gorgeous my mouth actually waters—the Kensington DNA should be studied by scientists.
Ansel, the musical genius behind Kensington Recordings' global empire, tosses his sun-kissed dirty-blonde hair back from his face, revealing those hypnotic aquamarine eyes dancing with secrets and promises.
His full lips curl into that trademark smirk that's launched a thousand Instagram fan accounts.
Beside him, Silas exudes the quiet intensity of old money—fitting for the CEO of Kensington Jewels who personally negotiates with royalty for their precious stones.
His raven-black hair, identical to Roman's, contrasts dramatically with those electric sapphire eyes framed by lashes so thick and dark they look almost artificial against his golden California tan.
Roman pulls each brother into a bear hug, then turns toward me with a hand at the small of my back.
"Lilith from the Gala," he says, by way of introduction.
Before I can extend my hand, they're both wrapping their arms around me like I'm a long-lost cousin.
Something inside me melts a little. Growing up in a house where we greeted the mailman with hugs, this feels like the Kensington version of being handed a key to their fortress.
Ansel's eyes dance with mischief. "So you're hanging out with our very own Sonny Corleone?"
Roman's jaw tightens. "Sonny got a bad rap.
Sure, he had a temper, but the man was loyal to his core.
Died for it, even." He leans forward, voice dropping.
"Sonny would've given you the clothes off his back.
Michael would've ordered your execution without blinking. Hell, he had his own brother whacked."
"I hope Lilith's brushed up on her mob movie references," Silas says with a smirk.
Roman turns to me. "Have you?"
I offer a noncommittal shrug. Pop culture osmosis has taught me enough—the hotheaded Sonny with his fists-first philosophy, calculating Michael who'd sacrifice anyone for the family business, and poor Fredo, forever seeking approval until that final fishing trip.
I study the brothers' faces, wondering which one might be their Michael.
Probably none. I bite back a smile. Roman's nothing like Sonny anyway. The comparison doesn't fit him at all.
I scrunch my nose. "Mob movies aren't really my thing.
" The mere thought of violence flickering across a screen while I'm nestled under my hand-crocheted blanket with a bowl of lavender-salted popcorn makes my stomach twist into sailor's knots.
War films with their earth-shattering explosions that make my teeth vibrate, survival stories where some poor soul always ends up as another creature's dinner, dusty westerns with their inevitable shootouts leaving crimson blooms on cotton shirts, zombie movies with intestines glistening like wet ribbons—they all leave me white-knuckled, my fingernails creating half-moon indentations in the armrest, my heart hammering against my ribcage as I dread the inevitable moment when a character I've grown attached to collapses into a lifeless heap before the credits mercifully appear.
Needless to say, slasher movies with their butcher-knife gleam are the absolute last thing I'd ever voluntarily subject my sensitive soul to.
“Uh oh,” Ansel says. “Roman knows every single movie Scorsese has ever directed. You might be in trouble, Lilith. I just hope he doesn’t force you to watch a trilogy of Goodfellas, Casino and The Irishman, with The Departed thrown in for good measure.”
Oh. Watching a lineup like that sounds like absolute hell to me.
Then again, if Roman’s by my side while I watch them, I might…
be okay. Then I shake my head. No. I won’t be that girl.
I won’t pretend to like things I abhor just because my totally hot boyfriend?
Can I call Roman that yet? No. Too soon.
Totally hot crush. That’s it. A totally hot crush likes something and if I just say “me too,” I’ll lose myself. Not doing that.
“Stop,” Roman says, watching my face. “If she doesn’t like mob movies, she doesn’t like mob movies. But you might like other Scorsese movies, like The Wolf of Wall Street or…”
“No, not Wolf of Wall Street. That one has some violence. Hugo,” Ansel says helpfully. “That’s a pretty tame movie, set in 1931.”
“The Age of Innocence,” Silas says. “That’s based on an Edith Wharton book set in the Gilded Age. I’ll bet you’d love that one.”
The Age of Innocence. That reminds me of that Gala night when I thought I’d have to make do with a Victorian-era dress, before Roman came to my rescue with that glorious green halter dress that absolutely took my breath away.
Yes, I do love that movie, actually. Period dramas like that usually sweep me away, as do historical fiction and any kind of biopic or biographical fiction.
Give me the lush orchestral swells of Amadeus, the haunting piano melodies of Immortal Beloved, the sweeping landscapes of Gandhi, the frenetic mathematical scribbles of A Beautiful Mind, the glittering sequins and soaring vocals of Bohemian Rhapsody, the grainy black-and-white footage of A Complete Unknown, or the kaleidoscopic Elton John spectacle of Rocket Man over any smoke-filled, bullet-riddled mob movie, any day of the week.
Roman's smile softens his usually sharp features, the dimple in his left cheek appearing like it does in those rare magazine photos where he's caught off-guard.
"Something tells me I'll have to keep enjoying watching mob movies with my brothers or Caspian," he says, his deep voice carrying that hint of gravel that makes my skin tingle.
He leans forward, the expensive fabric of his wet suit stretching across his broad shoulders.
"But that's okay. I like other kinds of movies, too.
All different kinds of movies, actually," he adds with a playful glint in those obsidian dark eyes, "so I'm sure we'll agree on something. "
“Okay,” Ansel says. “Let’s get out there.”
My hands tremble slightly on the board as we paddle out. I catch Roman's eye, and he gives me a reassuring nod before Ansel splashes water directly into his face.
"First one to wipe out buys dinner," Ansel announces, ducking Roman's retaliatory splash.
Silas snorts. "If we went by that rule, Roman would be bankrupt by now."
Roman's scowl breaks into a reluctant grin as we position ourselves beyond the break, waiting for the perfect wave. My shoulders loosen as I watch them, these powerful men transformed into boys by the ocean.
Silas, his sun-bronzed face creasing with mischief, calls over the crash of waves.
"Hey, Roman! Remember when you insisted on surfing in Puerto Rico during Hurricane Marie?
" He shakes his head, salt water droplets flying from his dark hair.
"Only Roman would be crazy enough to think he could conquer fifty-foot monsters in winds that could tear the roof off a house. "
Roman's jaw tightens as he runs a hand through his own wet, tousled hair.
"I wasn't actually going to surf that day, you moron.
Max was being a complete ass, getting everyone worked up about nothing.
" His voice carries over the roar of the ocean.
"I just needed to shut you all up. One mention of surfing during a hurricane, and suddenly everyone forgot their petty arguments. "
"Yeah, but Roman," Ansel chimes in, his lean body balanced perfectly on his board, "the fact we believed you'd actually do it says everything about your reputation."