Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
LILITH
I reach across the counter, my bangles jingling against my wrist. "Jack," I say. "Hand me those crystals." My fingers wiggle impatiently as I survey the cluttered shelves.
The afternoon sun streams through the window, painting rainbows across the floor.
I've spent the morning making space for my newest finds—red beryl, glowing like liquid fire, and alexandrite that shifts between green, purple and blue depending on the light.
I can't wait to display them with my usual collection: amethyst clusters, jasper, tiger's eye, lapis lazuli, quartz points, black tourmaline, citrine, labradorite, selenite wands, and obsidian—glossy black mirrors that remind me of Roman's eyes when he looks at me.
I’m excited to be offering these new stones.
The business has been picking up, I’ve been lining up readings at my shop at a brisk pace of at least 5 a day, and I’m still working my side-hustle at the resort, which has padded my bank account, too.
That means that I can afford the beautiful Red Beryl and Alexandrite stones, which sell for $1,000 a carat.
Such good things have happened for me since Roman came into my life.
Such abundance! But I know that I willed it all into existence - my positive thoughts makes energy that attracts like energy from the universe. The law of attraction at work.
I'm humming Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon” under my breath as Jack practically dances between the bookshelves, breathlessly detailing his conquest of Angus Phillips, some cater waiter from one of the Hilton Hotels.
Seth—the "Abercrombie & Fitch model" he swore was his soulmate last month—has apparently been kicked to the curb.
But the way Jack is graphically oversharing every intimate detail makes it crystal clear Angus isn't The One either.
Jack only broadcasts bedroom skills when he's treating someone like a trophy, not a partner.
"God, Lilith, his tongue—that piercing!—holy shit," Jack's eyes roll back dramatically.
"The things that metal stud can do should be illegal in at least thirty states.
You haven't truly lived until someone with a pierced tongue has made you see actual stars.
You should convince Roman to get one immediately. "
I force a tight smile. "I'll add it to his suggestion box."
What I don't say: Roman's mouth is already devastating perfection. The way his tongue moves against my skin makes me forget my own name—no hardware required.
Jack throws his hands up. "Right, I forgot. Roman Kensington, billionaire sex god extraordinaire. Perfection incarnate."
I've never shared a single explicit detail about Roman with Jack. And I never will. What happens between us in the dark feels too sacred, too raw—like telling would break some unspoken spell.
"And what are you humming there?" Jack asks, leaning against the counter, his turquoise rings catching the morning light.
"Rhiannon," I say, the melody still dancing on my lips. "You remember that song."
"Right. The song about the witch, right?" Jack's blue eyes sparkle with amusement beneath his perfectly arched eyebrows.
"Yes. But Rhiannon wasn't actually a witch. She's a Welsh goddess of fertility and the moon, with flowing black hair and the power to grant wishes." I twist a strand of my own hair absently. "But I think she's a witch in the song."
"Any reason why you're humming that particular tune today?"
I shrug, my gauzy sleeve slipping off one shoulder.
"No. It's weird - I wake up with a song in my head every single morning and it's often a song I haven't heard in awhile.
No rhyme or reason." I'm now arranging the purple hydrangeas in the bay window, their sweet scent mixing with the shop's sandalwood incense. "This morning it was Rhiannon."
Just then, I look up and see Serafina coming through my door, her stiletto heels clicking aggressively against the hardwood floor, designer sunglasses perched on her perfect button nose.
I roll my eyes. Well, maybe that's why I have the song “Rhiannon” in my head - because I wish I were an actual witch and could concoct a spell with my mortar and pestle that would keep Serafina out of my shop.
But here she is, so I have to be nice to her even though I'd love to bounce her right out my door and onto the sun-drenched Venice Beach sidewalk.
“Hello,” I say brightly. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” she says, looking right at Jack, as if she’s willing him to leave. Jack actually does get the hint and comes up to me. “Going for a coffee break. Want anything?”
I shake my head and keep arranging my flowers, tucking each hydrangea stem precisely two inches from the last, their powder-blue blooms like little clouds against the crystal vase.
I glance at Sera, whose glacial blue eyes flick over my work with the barest hint of a sneer tugging at her coral-glossed lips.
She's probably thinking these flowers are as common as dandelions, as prosaic as daisies, as boring as baby's breath.
As ever, the woman looks like she stepped out of the glossy centerfold of Vogue Italia.
Her blood-red Birkin bag—crocodile, of course—dangles from the crook of her elbow, worth more than my Prius and six months' rent combined.
Those Louis Vuitton sunglasses perch atop her head like a crown, while her thigh-high boots of butter-soft calfskin hug legs that stretch for miles.
The leather skirt clings to her narrow hips, and her black cashmere sweater drapes just so across collarbones sharp enough to cut glass.
Her body is all natural curves, her face a symphony of high cheekbones and full lips, her blonde hair cascading in a waterfall of honey-gold, wheat, and copper—the kind of dimensional color that costs other women $500 at Drybar but somehow, infuriatingly, grows that way from her perfect scalp.
Every time I see this woman, I think about how much she won the lottery—the genetic lottery and the old-money lottery—for she's a walking billboard for both, right down to the tiny diamond stud winking from her perfect, shell-like ear.
She enters my shop like she owns it. "Lilith. We need to discuss Roman."
I keep my eyes on the lavender sprigs I'm arranging, avoiding her ice-blue stare. "I bet. What about him?"
"It's just infatuation for him.” Her heels click as she circles my display table. "Did you bewitch him? That's your specialty, isn't it?"
"Absolutely." I can't help but smirk. "Eye of newt, toe of frog—you know the drill. Though in Macbeth, those were actually code names for herbs, not literal animal parts."
"I'm well aware," she snaps, tossing her perfect hair.
"I didn't earn my Cornell PhD in hospitality management by being ignorant.
Roman has the same degree—finished his doctorate by twenty-two, actually.
Genius runs in that family." She pauses, examining me like I'm a curious specimen. "Where did you attend university?"
My shoulders tense as I shrug, hating how easily she's making me shrink. The question dangles between us—exactly as she intended—making me feel smaller with each passing second. “I went to LACC,” I say.
“Los Angeles City College,” she says, wrinkling her nose. Then she shakes her head. “You’re after him for his money, aren’t you?”
I shake my head, trying to hold my temper.
“No. I couldn’t care less about his money.
” Truth bomb, there. Roman is just somebody who I feel is meant for me, money or not.
If he would’ve come into my shop after surfing the day and informed me that he was driving Uber for a living or waiting tables or whatever I’d still be in love with him because I’m in love with the person.
Not the money. But I’m not going to explain all that to Serafina because she wouldn’t believe me anyhow, so why waste the breath?
Serafina’s eyes narrow. "Let me get this straight.
You're just some nobody with a community college degree selling crystals on the boardwalk, and somehow you've convinced Roman Kensington—a man worth billions, who’s graced the cover of Forbes 5 times, who warranted a five-page Vanity Fair spread just two years ago—that he's in love with you?
What kind of voodoo did you work on him? "
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, my voice steady despite the heat rising in my cheeks. "I'm sorry, was there an actual question hidden in that insult, or were you just looking for an audience while you judge my life choices?"
Her scarlet lips curl into a sneer. "I want to know what witch spell you put him under."
I roll my eyes until I can almost see my own brain.
"Sera, you might not understand this with your platinum-encrusted worldview, but Roman loves me and I love him and there wasn't a spell involved.
I'm not a witch. I don't know how to draw pentagrams or brew potions in cauldrons or whatever you're imagining.
And anyway, I do know some women who wear pentacle necklaces and celebrate the solstice, and they tell me their core principle is respecting free will.
Their magic can't force someone to do anything against their nature. So even if I dance naked under the full moon—which I don’t—I wouldn't use that power to manipulate Roman's feelings. "
"Oh, witches have a code of honor, do they?" Her diamond tennis bracelet catches the light as she flicks her wrist dismissively. "Fascinating."
I roll my eyes again, feeling the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind my temples. "What do you want, Sera? You're here cluttering my aura with negative energy for some reason, and I'd really like to know what it is."
"Brass tacks," she says, leaning her Pilates-perfected body toward me, wafting a cloud of something French and expensive. "I want you to break up with Roman."