Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
ROMAN
It's been three days since my fight with Lilith.
I snap my fingers at a bellhop whose tie is crooked by two millimeters.
"Fix it." My voice comes out like gravel.
When the hostess at Oceana sets water glasses with fingerprints on the tables, I dump them all in the kitchen sink myself.
My assistant flinches when I enter the office.
The resort gleams under my inspection, but I still can't sleep at night.
I can’t help it. After the ambush from my brothers and the fight with Liilith, the red haze has taken over my psyche like California wildfire.
My jaw clenches so tight I can hear my molars grinding.
I bark orders at the resort staff—demanding the lobby flowers be replaced because they're "two shades too pink," insisting the beach towels be refolded with precisely seven-inch corners, snapping at a bellhop for breathing too loudly.
I see the fear in their eyes, the way they scatter like seagulls when I approach, but the burning in my chest won't subside.
Except Miranda, ever my North Star, asked to see me for lunch today.
So, we meet at the Bone and Brass, our flagship resort restaurant with its soaring thirty-foot ceilings, polished copper fixtures that catch the California sunlight, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the cerulean Pacific.
The place has been written up in everything from Food and Wine to Bon Appétit and just earned its third Michelin star.
I actually poached Philippe Benoit—the Food Network's golden boy with his trademark handlebar mustache and tattoo-covered forearms—to head this place.
Architectural Digest featured the restaurant's cantilevered glass dining terrace and hand-carved mahogany bar in their spread on architectural masterpieces.
That's my thing, really, architecture. If I hadn't become a hotelier, I would've designed buildings, translating the clean lines and perfect proportions I see in my mind into physical reality.
I slide into the white leather chair across from Miranda in the resort's private dining room, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Pacific behind her.
The waiter brings our lunch—my swordfish seared to golden perfection with Philippe's signature lemon-caper sauce glistening on top, and Miranda's plump scallops arranged like pearls on a bed of saffron risotto.
I check my Patek Philippe watch, a gift to myself after the Tokyo acquisition.
"Twenty minutes, Miranda. That's all I have. "
"Roman," she says, her crimson lips pursing as she sets down her fork with a delicate clink against fine china. Her British accent always becomes more pronounced when she’s annoyed, which she is right now.
"I've been your right hand since you were a cocky 22-year-old with more ambition than experience.
I watched you transform that $40 million loan from your grandfather into a multi-billion empire with properties on four continents.
So I've bloody well earned the right to tell you when you're being a proper ass. "
I clench my jaw, feeling a muscle twitch beneath my three-day stubble. "Miranda, this resort has been absolute hell today. The air conditioning in the east wing, the double-booked wedding pavilion—"
"Oh?" Her eyebrow arches perfectly, like a drawn bow. "So you have a knock-down, drag-out fight with Lilith and suddenly everything in your immaculate resort is falling apart? That timing doesn't strike you as suspicious, Roman?"
I exhale slowly, knowing Miranda has a point. If I keep breathing fire at my staff, even the veterans who've weathered my tempests before will eventually reach their breaking point. Then I'll be left with nothing but rookies who flinch at my shadow.
"Take off," Miranda says, her voice gentler now. "Go see Lilith at Mystic Tides. That woman has a way of clearing the storm clouds from your head."
I nod, drinking my water. “After lunch, I’ll go over there.”
“Please do,” Miranda says. “I’ve been talking staff down off the ledge all morning. Please stop making so much work for me.”
After lunch, I head to Mystic Tides. Jack's at the register when I walk in, but the moment he spots me, his eyes slide away.
Gone is the flirtatious "Hey handsome!" I've grown used to.
Gone is the rapid-fire commentary on everything from celebrity gossip to astrological forecasts.
Instead, he finishes ringing up his customers, fixes me with an arctic stare, then pivots and busies himself reorganizing a display of tarot decks.
"Jack," I venture. "How's it going?"
Jack flutters his fingers in the air like he was shooing away gnats and gives a theatrical shrug.
"Was going fine until about thirty seconds ago when you arrived, darling.
Lilith called it—you're toxic with a capital T-O-X-I-C.
Like Britney, but without the bops. Funny how I never saw it before, but honey, the scales have fallen from these fabulous eyes. "
I scan the room, but Lilith is nowhere to be found. "Jack, I'm sorry—"
Jack whips around, one hand slicing through the air.
"Save it, honey." His eyes won't meet mine.
"Christ on a cracker. I've been all 'cosmic soulmates' this and 'written in the stars' that to Lilith.
Drove the poor girl absolutely batshit with my—" he adopts a singsong voice, fingers wiggling dramatically, "—visions of your genetically blessed babies and Lake Como nuptials.
God, Como! Like I'll ever see it on my pathetic retail wages.
" His laugh sounds like glass breaking. "Such.
Ridiculous. Fantasies." He deflates, examining his cuticles.
"Meanwhile, Lil's all practical Patti: 'Jack, please,'" he mimics in a softer voice, "'I barely know the man.
'" His shoulders cave inward. "Should've listened. Girl's got the sight, you know?"
Each word hits me like a physical blow. Lilith didn't feel what I felt. Didn't sense what seemed so obvious to me—that connection. While I've been walking around feeling like I've known her my entire life, she's been... what? Just humoring me?
I scan the empty shop. "Lilith's not around today?"
"Nope." Jack arranges crystals in the display case. "She's at some retreat in Big Sur. Something about purifying her energy field from toxic billionaires.” He shoots me a pointed look.
My mind drifts to those rugged cliffs where I caught the best wave of my life last summer. The urge to jump in my Aston Martin and race up the coast hits me like a rogue swell. But I can already imagine her face—those topaz eyes narrowing with irritation at the billionaire who can't take a hint.
I just nod and Jack's face softens. "Look," he says, the edge gone from his voice.
"Between us? Lilith is crazy about you. Won't say it outright, but she's hurting bad.
And it's not about you roughing up Blake—that's whatever.
There's zero happening between them anyway.
Blake's already seeing someone new—some Pisces writer Lilith calls his 'Queen of Cups.
' Winifred something. Lilith's already playing matchmaker, had them over for dinner, the whole thing.
" He lets out a sigh, running a hand through his hair.
"So no, we're not pissed you went caveman on Blake.
We're pissed because after everything, you still don't trust her. "
His words slam into me, knocking the air from my lungs.
I remember what I told Lilith—that perfect bullshit about waiting for "the right woman.
" How I'd recognize her instantly. How I'd never let her go.
Yet here I am, having met her, having held her, and what did I do?
Pushed her away like all the others. Maybe it was never about finding the right woman.
Maybe it's about me—about the ten-year-old boy who woke up one morning to find his father gone, about the three-year-old who couldn't understand why his mother would never come home.
Maybe those ghosts have been chasing me all along.
I clear my throat. "Appreciate it, Jack."
"What exactly?"
"Not punching me in the face. Not dialing 911 when I appeared at your door."
"Please. My fist would shatter against that jawline of yours.
Besides, emergency rooms? Hard pass. Everyone coughing and sneezing in those waiting areas—I'd walk in with fractured knuckles and leave with the plague.
" He waves dismissively. "Anyway, what would I tell dispatch?
'Help, there's an annoyingly attractive man standing in my store behaving himself'? "
I force a smile and make my exit. The resort will have to wait.
If I go back now, I'll have the entire staff updating their resumes by morning.
On impulse, I find myself steering toward Max's beach house, just thirty minutes away.
Six o'clock—he might actually be home for once.
Fatherhood has a way of reshaping priorities.
Through the window, I spot him on the floor with Violet, making her giggle as he dangles a stuffed animal just out of reach.
My chest tightens. Their pit bull Piper is running around the room while Celeste throws a plastic chicken for her.
This is such a domestic scene that my heart aches just a little.
When did my baby brother—the one I've silently held responsible for our family falling apart—become this man with a child of his own?
I stand frozen on the path, hands jammed in my pockets.
Inside, Celeste will soon be feeding the dog and setting the table, or maybe their housekeeper Rosa is preparing dinner.
Either way, I'm the intruder here. I turn and walk back to my car without knocking.