Chapter 21 #2
Max nods. "The drinking controlled him, not the other way around.
Dad said he needed alcohol to blur out reality—everything hurt too much when he was sober.
There were stretches when we were kids, when he'd stay clean for a while, months at a time.
We thought those were the good times." Max's voice drops.
"For him, they were hell. He'd white-knuckle it for our sake, but after tucking us in, he'd sit alone with that revolver in his lap, just...
contemplating." Max rubs his face. "That's why he left instead of getting help.
He was convinced the booze was keeping him alive.
When he wasn't drinking, death felt like his only other option—every single day, every waking moment. "
I nod. "And now?"
"He's thriving. Got a job at Whole Foods while developing this passion project he's been dreaming about since getting back on his feet." He shakes his head with a grin. "And get this—he's about to propose to my mother-in-law. Celeste and I are going to be step-siblings."
I can't help but laugh. "That's wild."
"Right? We joke about it, but honestly? I'm rooting for them.
It's not just that he's functioning again—he's genuinely happy.
Taking his medication consistently for the first time since we lost Mom.
" His expression turns earnest. "Look, I'm sure Roman's painted his own picture of our father.
I just wanted to offer another perspective.
" He hesitates. "Maybe you could help soften Roman's stance?
Dad adores him—adores all of us—and this estrangement is crushing him. "
"I'll try my best."
"Thank you. Silas and Ansel tell me Roman's completely smitten with you, which is uncharted territory for my brother.
" His smile returns. "The women who've pursued Roman—you wouldn't believe it. These accomplished, gorgeous socialites completely unraveling when he ended things. Showing up uninvited, blowing up our phones - not just Roman’s phone, but all of us brothers’ phones too - tearful confrontations—the works.
And Roman? Completely unmoved. But with you?
Different story entirely. That's why I think you might be the key to healing this rift between him and Dad. "
Oh, just hearing that fills my heart with so much joy…Roman’s never been serious about a woman, but these guys think that I might be different? Me? Talk about feeling like Cinderella.
“Well, Max, I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks.” He looks at his watch. “Well, gotta get back to the studio. Take care, Lilith.”
I go home after a long day at work and freeze in the doorway of my apartment. Roman Kensington is in my kitchen, dishing out Chinese food onto my mismatched plates while my cat Gracie winds between his legs, purring for scraps.
"There you are," he says, looking up with a rare, genuine smile.
He gestures to the spread on my tiny table where two candles are already lit.
"Jack said orange chicken and moo shoo pork would win you over.
And this..." He holds up a bottle of Fetzer Sundial Pinot Grigio like it's a prized vintage. “Jack says it’s your favorite wine.”
The sight of a billionaire who probably has sommeliers on speed dial and no-doubt has an entire wine cellar at home pouring twelve-dollar wine makes my chest tighten with something unexpected.
"Speaking of Jack," I say, dropping my bag, "where is my roommate hiding?"
Roman's smile turns sheepish. "I might've financially encouraged him to visit Steve and Benji tonight."
I bite my lip. Those three together means chaos somewhere in Venice Beach tonight, but for once, I'm grateful for Jack's absence.
We devour orange chicken, moo shoo pork and lo mein from white paper cartons, chopsticks clicking against cardboard as we pass the bottle of cabernet back and forth, not bothering with glasses.
We eat the food on the coffee table in front of my couch while binge-watching Friends.
When the last noodle is gone and the wine bottle stands empty on my coffee table, I find myself leaning toward him, my fingers brushing against the silk of his hair as our lips meet, tasting of soy sauce and something sweeter.
Before I know it, we're in my bed, my skin tingling where his calloused fingertips trace invisible figure-eights across my collarbone, down the ladder of my ribs.
Roman's dark eyes, flecked with subtle green in the dim lamplight, lock with mine as he moves inside me—not with last night's wild beach frenzy that left sand in the sheets, but with a deliberate, measured rhythm that makes my breath catch in my throat.
Each slow, deep thrust makes me see stars, my body a live wire reaching ground.
His solid weight above me is both anchor keeping me from floating away and wings lifting me higher, and when his warm lips brush the sensitive hollow below my ear, tasting faintly of salt and whiskey, I arch into him, feeling the vast universe contract to just this singular moment—his thundering heartbeat against my flushed chest, the cool midnight-blue silk of his sheets against my damp back, and the exquisite coiling tension building between us like a powerful tide rushing inevitably toward shore.
Again and again, we make love like this, his calloused hands tracing fire across my skin, my fingernails leaving crescent moons on his broad shoulders.
The sheets tangle around our ankles as we move together, the moonlight casting silver shadows across the planes of his face.
Until finally, around 2 in the morning, after making love for six hours, we collapse in a tangle of limbs, skin glistening with sweat, breath coming in ragged gasps.
He lays next to me, his muscular arm a warm weight across my waist, while I trace lazy patterns through the dark curls on his chest, feeling his heartbeat gradually slow beneath my fingertips.
I take a deep breath as I hear his heartbeat, strong and steady beneath my ear like waves against the Palos Verdes cliffs.
"Lilith," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through his chest into mine. "I've never felt like this before. This sense of peace. Somehow, being with you tames the chaos in my head."
I sigh against his warm skin, breathing in his scent of sandalwood and salt. Max's words echo in my mind—their father, battling the dark clouds of depression since he was barely a teenager. The weight of this secret presses against my ribs, begging for release.
But the confession crystallizes in my throat, sharp and immovable.
We collapse into sleep, limbs entwined, my cheek pressed against the thundering drum of his heart, his arm locked around my waist like I might vanish if he loosens his grip.
Dawn explodes across the room, setting fire to the sheets as his hardness burns against me again.
He claims me in one desperate thrust, swallowing my gasp with a savage kiss that bruises my lips.
Our bodies collide—slick skin, ragged breath—as he drives deeper, harder, until I'm clawing the sheets, crying his name.
Then he dresses with furious reluctance, his goodbye kiss tasting of promises and possession.
As he leaves, pressing a lingering kiss to my temple, the truth about Max remains trapped behind my lips. A premonition shivers down my spine—this unspoken secret will return like a boomerang, cutting through whatever fragile peace we've found.
As much as I pray, fingers clutching my moonstone pendant, that it won't.