Page 37 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

T he sharp hiss of a steam wand welcomed Dylan into Bembe’s Café, followed closely by the rich aroma of Cuban coffee and freshly baked bread.

Music with the café’s namesake, a Cuban drumbeat, blended with the chatter of patrons and the bustle of baristas within the cracked plaster walls.

He removed his sunglasses, his eyes adjusting from the high sun as he scanned the tables, bar, and seating area.

He found Lennon sipping a cafecito in one of the thick leather armchairs.

“Hey.” Dylan smiled. The sight of her was better than a shot of espresso.

Lennon looked up from a magazine in her lap, legs tucked under her to the side and the hem of her black mini skirt riding up her thigh.

He thought of the tattoo that marked her a bit higher, a line about the wings of butterflies from Queen’s song The Show Must Go On written in a small script.

He used to love tracing it, with his fingers and his—

“Hey.” She smiled back. “That one’s yours.”

It took a half-second longer for him to make sense of her words than it should have, his gaze darting to the steaming espresso cup on the mosaic-tiled coffee table.

“Oh—thanks.” He lowered himself into the armchair perpendicular to hers and reached for the cup.

Taking a sip, he relished the sweet, frothy la crema on top.

“So, how’ve you been?” Lennon asked, the question a loaded one.

“Why, did something happen?” Dylan hedged with a dry, heavy dose of sarcasm. He reclined back in the chair, his legs spreading and arms resting leisurely as if his insides hadn’t been in knots the past few days.

The media had been having a field day with what happened after the Playmakers Quarterly gala.

They were eating up Dylan’s “feud” with Nolan and his “outburst” against a fan.

Videos of the latter had gone viral, and the public was divided on it.

Half said he’d overreacted while others praised him for protecting Lennon.

He’d gotten a particularly contentious call from Eddie, who reminded him of his conversation with the board members and how he was supposed to be avoiding drama, not inviting it.

“I should be asking you that,” Dylan said. He’d never forget the sight of her being shoved into that valet desk. He licked the froth from his lips as steam threatened to rise inside him again.

“For the millionth time, I’m fine.” Though spoken with an edge of annoyance, a small smile tugged at Lennon’s lips.

It faded as her eyelashes lowered. “I appreciate you protecting me, but I’m sorry you had to.

That they rushed you like that. It’s not fair that you’re getting shit for how you reacted. ”

“They can say whatever they want. I’d do it again.”

Lennon’s gaze lifted to his with surprise—and something else. Something that seared straight through his chest. The sounds of the café shrank behind the weight of her stare.

Ceramic crashing against the polished concrete floor broke the connection.

Dylan glanced back toward the noise where a woman was profusely apologizing for her child knocking over an empty coffee cup. The young barista calmly waved it off as she fetched a broom.

“You never told me what was bothering you that night,” Dylan said, recalling the shaken look in Lennon’s eyes before the ceremony.

Lennon’s shoulders curled in slightly as she shook her head. “Oh. It wasn’t a big deal.” She folded the magazine and dropped it on the coffee table. “Just some reporter that’s been sniffing around. He cornered me when I came out of the bathroom, and it gave me the creeps.”

Dylan leaned forward. “Some guy did what ?”

“He’s legit. I looked him up. He’s trying to do a story on you.”

“I don’t give a shit if he’s legit. That doesn’t give him permission to stalk you. What’s his name?”

“Harold Cranston. He’s not the first one, but they usually stick to annoying phone calls.” Lennon took a sip of her cafecito as if she were sharing an offhanded anecdote, but Dylan’s stomach turned to lead.

“How many have there been?”

“I don’t know. At least a dozen? Most of them were right after your accident, but I guess I should’ve expected things to pick up again now that we’re doing the show together.”

It felt like someone had punched him in the gut. After the accident, Dylan worried reporters would bother her. They were contacting everyone from old colleagues to his elementary school teachers. Erin confirmed some had, but a man approaching Lennon in person while she was alone crossed the line.

Anger burned in his chest. At the asshole who cornered her, and at himself for putting her in this position.

“Did he scare you?” Dylan asked.

“No. It was just …” Lennon chewed on her bottom lip.

“Some things he said got under my skin. I shouldn’t have let it.

” Her forehead crinkled, as though something had suddenly occurred to her.

“Harold said he was at the gala because he contributes to Playmakers Quarterly . He and Nolan had some similar takes on your situation. Do you think Nolan hired him to do the story?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Dylan’s expression hardened, the desire to protect her overwhelming him. “Tell me if that Harold guy or anyone else tries to bother you again. I’ll take care of it.”

Lennon released a soft sigh. “So, are you ever going to tell me the purpose of this impromptu rendezvous?” she questioned with a cocked brow.

Dylan checked his wristwatch. He’d been told to stop by for the meeting any time after two. In a few minutes now.

He stood, extending his hand with a smirk. “Come with me and find out.”

The way Lennon’s eyes danced with delight made his heart accelerate.

She loved surprises, and he knew she’d especially love this one.

She put her hand in his, his thumb brushing across her knuckles as she rose from the chair.

As he quickly finished off his cafecito , she started toward the main door.

“This way,” Dylan said, motioning toward the back of the café. Her eyebrows arched again.

Lennon followed him through a door that said, “EMPLOYEES ONLY.” The barista and Dylan exchanged a nod as they passed through the hallway leading to the back door, which opened onto an alley.

He punched a code into the lock on a wrought iron gate with “PRIVATE” etched into the elaborate design, leading them into a private courtyard tucked between the Spanish colonial buildings.

Lennon shot him a look loaded with questions. All he gave her was a knavish smile.

They passed a large stone water fountain with bright blue mosaic tile burbling in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by lush tropical foliage, to a staircase concealed in the corner of the building.

At the top, they were met with a pair of tall wooden doors embellished with more elaborate wrought iron and stained glass.

Dylan pressed a button to the side with a small black camera above it, then casually shoved his hands in his denim pockets to wait.

“Where are we?” Lennon whispered. “Is this someone’s house?”

Dylan dramatically lifted his shoulders and eyebrows in an “I don’t know” gesture, earning an eye roll from her.

He was enjoying this too much.

After a few moments, a distorted shadow appeared through the glass, growing larger as someone approached.

A beautiful, grey-haired woman opened the door, adjusting a flowy, short-sleeved cardigan in a bright floral pattern over her shoulders.

Under it, a black leotard with leggings clung to her petite form.

She smiled, eyes twinkling at the sight of him.

“Hola, Dylan,” she crooned flirtatiously.

“Hola, Agueda,” Dylan said, smiling back. A slight blush rose to his cheeks under her stare. He canted his head. “This is Lennon.”

“Nice to meet you, Lennon.” Agueda stepped aside, opening the door wider for them.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

Dylan gestured for Lennon to walk in first, then followed her into the circular foyer encompassed by a two-story rotunda.

Arched windows surrounded the top, casting light on a breathtaking mural that depicted a heavenly, Michelangelo-like scene on the ceiling.

The polished marble floor sparkled against textured walls.

“Perfect timing. I just finished Pilates,” Agueda said. She fixed her short hair in a mirror hanging by the door. “Can I get you both something to drink?”

“I’m good, thank you,” Dylan said, gently placing a hand on her arm and eliciting another smile from her.

It took Lennon a beat before she tore her eyes away from the ceiling. “No, thank you.”

Agueda waved them to follow as she turned. “He’s waiting in his study.”

They followed her deeper into the home, which likely took up half the block. As they passed through the living room, a gilded gramophone trophy gleamed inconspicuously from one of the shelves among books and decor. He watched Lennon spot it, then mouth, “Who the fuck lives here?” to him.

“You’ll see,” Dylan mouthed back.

Down a wide hallway, multiple framed gold and platinum records adorned the wall.

He could just imagine how much Lennon was freaking out inside.

He smiled at the thought. They stopped at another pair of double doors, one of which was cracked open but angled away from them, obscuring the interior.

Agueda knocked, then poked her head in. “Dylan’s here. ”

“Send him in,” a deep male voice answered.

Agueda returned, gesturing them in with a wink.

“ Gracias ,” Dylan said, then glanced at Lennon, her expression a mix of anxiety and restrained excitement. He let her step in first, following closely behind.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along the entire back of the office for an uninterrupted view of the strikingly blue Atlantic Ocean.

It framed a large mahogany desk and two leather club chairs facing it, with an even more massive leather office chair on the opposite side.

To the left, a white grand piano filled the corner.

An imposing man stood at the window, staring out at the rolling sea.

He turned as they entered, regarding them with a slanted grin. “So, this is the girl you’ve been telling me about,” he remarked in a thick Cuban accent.

As soon as Lennon saw his face, Dylan watched recognition strike.

“Lennon, this is—”

“—Oscar Alonso,” she finished for him, reverent. “You’re a legend. Wow, it’s … such an honor to meet you.”

“According to Dylan here, it’s an honor for me to meet you ,” Oscar quipped as he came around the desk.

Though he was in his seventies with thick salt-and-pepper hair, he looked like he could take someone down with a single punch without breaking a sweat.

He shook Lennon’s hand. “You should hire him as your publicist.”

Dylan shrugged before accepting Oscar’s greeting next. “I’m just telling the truth.”

“He’s easy to please. His walk-up song used to be Good Vibrations ,” Lennon jibed, to which Dylan answered with a glare.

“Well, I’m not,” Oscar said squarely. He jabbed a thick thumb over his shoulder toward the grand piano in the corner of the room, positioned with a perfect view of the ocean and clear blue sky. “You play?”

“Yes, sir.”

Oscar inclined his head toward the instrument. “Then, show me what you’ve got.”