Page 19 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)
T he show’s high-strung supervising producer, Carol Anne, who became Lennon’s primary point of contact for the show after her meeting with Huey and Maeve, found Lennon a beautiful, fully furnished one-bedroom apartment two blocks from the beach.
Her new contract as a “main player” on the show included fully paid-for accommodation throughout filming, so long as Lennon allowed them to film inside the apartment if needed.
While she enjoyed her pampered life at the hotel for a week, she looked forward to no longer living out of a suitcase.
The white Art Deco-style apartment building built sometime in the eighties instantly charmed her.
While the architecture was vintage, the interiors had been recently renovated with upscale, contemporary finishes—a far cry from the sterile, outdated studio apartment she’d called home for the last few years.
She nearly cried when she saw the spacious open floor plan, bright natural light, balcony, and not one but two bathrooms inside the unit.
For the next three months, it was all hers.
The thought of having to leave once filming ended nearly smothered her joy, but a fire burst the lid back off.
A fire to finally make something of herself.
Lennon saw enough during her brief apartment search to know there was no way she could keep a place like this from waiting tables alone unless she landed a unicorn job, so she needed this reality show gig to pay off.
She had to get her music career off the ground.
The dozen or so boxes shipped from New York were delivered that afternoon.
After a few hours, Lennon was almost entirely unpacked and settled in, marveling at the extra space she’d have even after unloading everything she owned.
The apartment wasn’t that big compared to the average home’s square footage in Arden Beach, but to her, it might as well have been a mansion.
She especially enjoyed arranging her record player and vinyl collection on the living room shelves.
They’d been relegated to a box under her bed for the past six years.
While unboxing her sweaters into a dresser drawer in her bedroom, she came upon a shoebox from an old pair of combat boots she’d worn into the ground.
Sitting back on her heels as she knelt on the carpet, Lennon lifted the lid.
Right on top, above her NYU and ABU acceptance letters and various ticket stubs and sheet music—including an autographed program from her favorite Broadway show Grease —was Dylan’s letter, staring up at her expectantly.
As her fingers brushed the smooth paper, she froze, unable to break the seal. She tried to work up the nerve, jolting when a knock came at the front door.
Knowing who waited on the other side, her entire body thrummed like a plucked guitar string.
Lennon had invited Dylan over to discuss what they would and wouldn’t talk about on camera regarding their relationship.
They both agreed it was a good idea to make sure they were on the same page to avoid any awkward moments or slip-ups, especially when the producers had a vested interest in their divorce and reunion.
She also didn’t want their first actual in-person reunion to be on the show.
“Be right there,” Lennon called out. She dropped the letter back into the shoebox and shoved it into the drawer.
Lennon stopped to check her reflection in the full-length mirror hanging by the front door.
She had gone back and forth on what to wear before settling on a pair of distressed denim shorts and a crocheted black crop top tickling her navel.
Barefoot, her black pedicure popped against the glow of a fresh tan from afternoons lying by the hotel pool.
Lennon spotted traces of the girl she once was in the fresh freckles across her nose and the natural flush on her cheeks.
The one who loved to spend long, lazy days at the beach with her guitar, writing music with the sun and the sea as her accompaniment.
Or at the ball field, watching her ex-lover practice.
The ex-lover waiting on the other side of the door.
Lennon pushed her onyx hair behind her ears—her hands oddly shaky, like her blood was rushing too fast—and took a deep breath before opening it.
Dylan looked up from his crisp, white sneakers.
His pupils dilated as they quickly swept her from head to toe.
“Hey,” he said, one side of his mouth lifting in his signature crooked smile.
His thick, dark hair was tousled but in an intentional fashion, like he’d put some effort into styling it.
A blue Henley hugged his lean torso over dark blue jeans.
If she hadn’t known better, she would’ve guessed he was going on a date. Warmth curled low in her abdomen. “Hey.” She stepped aside, holding the door open. “Welcome to my new, humble abode.”
As Dylan stepped past her, she inhaled a breath of his cologne, and the warmth curled tighter. She watched the way his jeans hung perfectly around his hips, a place she used to stare at often, especially in his baseball uniform. He hadn’t missed many workouts in his time off.
“Wow. This is nice,” Dylan said, glancing at her over his shoulder. She quickly looked up and shut the door, a surge of panic shooting through her at almost getting caught checking out his ass.
“Yeah, thanks. Carol Anne really came through. Since they’re covering the cost while filming, I expected a cardboard box an hour outside the city. At this rate, I’m ready to sell them my soul if they ask for it.”
“Don’t let them know that. They’ll probably take it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the apartment.
“I’m not sure I haven’t already.”
Dylan released a small, dark laugh. “You and me both.” His gaze returned to her, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other. Every Breath You Take by the Police drifted from her wireless speaker sitting on the kitchen counter.
Her blood rushed a little faster.
Lennon tore her attention away, maybe a little too quickly to be natural. “You, uh, want something to drink before we start working on how we’ll protect what’s left of our souls?”
“Definitely need hydration for that sort of thing.”
Lennon padded over to the refrigerator, which she’d stocked with as much as her arms could carry on a walk from the grocery store around the corner. She pulled out two dark-brown glass bottles and offered him one. He eyed it, then gave her an uncertain look. “It’s root beer,” she quickly clarified.
Dylan’s face split into an “of course” smile, flushing a little red as he accepted the non-alcoholic beverage from her. “Thanks.” They popped the caps and took swigs. On a refreshed sigh, he said, “Man, I haven’t had one of these in years.”
“Remember when we used to drink them as kids at the ballpark because we thought it made us look cool, like all the grown-ups with their real beer?”
Dylan laughed—a boyish, throaty rumble—turning the bottle over to look at the label. “I do.” A shadow dampened the joy in his eyes. “You think such stupid things are cool when you’re a kid.” His energy shifted downward, as if shame were tugging him below the surface.
“You know what—I forgot to eat dinner,” Lennon said, drawing him back. “I’ve been running around all day trying to get settled in. You hungry?”
He brightened a little. “I’m always hungry.”
They agreed on takeout from the Chinese restaurant down the block.
While they waited for the delivery, she hoisted herself up on the kitchen counter, letting her legs dangle while he leaned back against the island a few feet from her.
Lines of muscle pressed through the fitted sleeves of his shirt as he braced a hand on the edge of the marble countertop, the other lifting the bottle to his lips.
His tall, broad frame dwarfed the kitchen.
Even with the high ceilings, he could have reached up and brushed the smooth surface with his fingertips.
Lennon clenched her thighs together to stop the pressure mounting there as she imagined him slotting between them perfectly at this height. Inwardly, she slapped herself out of the fantasy.
That was the last distraction she needed.
The fact that Lennon hadn’t been with someone intimately in months didn’t help.
The last was a guest from the restaurant she used to sleep with whenever he was in town for business.
Nice and easy, no strings attached. Out of her hair most of the time.
Usually, she was too busy and exhausted to give a shit.
But her hormones were awake now.
As if things between them weren’t already complicated enough.
“We should talk about the show,” Lennon said, shifting on the counter. She saw his dark eyes flick to her legs with the motion, then away, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “I think the less we say, the better. It’s no one’s business what happened.”
Dylan swirled the root beer around the bottle absently, watching it. “You know it’s OK if you do ever want to talk about it, though, right?”
“I’m sure your manager would love that.” If he thought his reputation was bad now, imagine every jaded woman rising against him after she shared her story.
“The truth is the truth.” Dylan looked up at her. “You don’t need to hold back for me. I can deal with the consequences.”
Surprise struck her. Lennon searched him and found raw sincerity. He seemed to mean it. Even if it meant his reputation would take another hit.
Coming from the man who had acted more married to baseball than her, she had a hard time swallowing it.
Maybe he had changed. But it hadn’t been that long since the accident. What was keeping him from eventually slipping back into his old habits, especially when the pressure on him was higher than ever?