Page 41 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

T he next couple of weeks passed in a blur.

Lennon threw herself into anything that would keep her busy.

Writing music, looking at job listings, rehearsing the song for Avery’s reception, going to every pre-wedding event she was invited to and smiling through it.

She even began attending the free cycling classes her building offered after she discovered, while walking by to grab her mail, that one of the trainers had excellent taste in music.

Erin went back on the road with the Tidebreakers, and Dylan remained busy training.

They hung out a few times when their schedules allowed it and had slipped into texting daily in one long, continuous conversation.

The couple of days neither of them had time to touch base felt weird.

And the fact that it felt weird, felt weird.

It was almost like the six years apart had never happened.

Late Saturday morning, they video chatted while Lennon sipped coffee on her balcony and Dylan worked out in his home gym.

She spent the majority of the conversation lamenting her weekend plans.

The invitation to Avery and Chad’s joint bachelorette/bachelor party had been hanging menacingly on her fridge.

Kelsey and Trey were hosting it at a mansion on the beach.

Everyone had been invited to stay overnight after the party on Saturday and relax on the beach the next day.

All filmed for the show, of course.

“The idea of basically being stuck in a fishbowl—with Kelsey, no less—for twenty-four hours is going to seriously test my ability to keep my mouth shut,” Lennon said.

She propped her feet on the railing as a warm breeze swept through, gently rustling the palm trees against the building.

At least the show would wrap soon. The wedding marked the end of the first season in another two weeks, so the party was one of the last times Lennon would have to play nice with Kelsey.

“It’s going to be fun watching you try.” Dylan smirked at the camera as he curled heavy weights, the veins in his biceps bulging. Even though he wasn’t a groomsman, he’d been invited to join them.

It would be the first party he’d been to since the accident.

“How are you feeling about tonight?” Lennon asked.

“What do you mean? Bachelor parties are the pinnacle of moral conduct. What could possibly go wrong?”

Lennon pressed her lips into a flat, unimpressed line at his sarcasm. “I know the show’s pressuring you to go, but you don’t have to, y’know. Chad would understand.” She ran her thumb along the rim of her Freddie Mercury mug.

“I know. But then you’d have to go alone,” Dylan said, his face straining against the final rep. He dropped the weights with an exhale. “I’m also leaving tomorrow evening for that ten-day boot camp up in the Panhandle, so … it’s my last chance to see you for a while.” His eyes met hers.

Emotion swelled behind her ribs. She’d been dreading him leaving for almost two weeks and wished they could have spent his last night in town differently. Since she had no choice in the matter of her attendance, she was glad he’d be there with her. It soothed some of her anxiety around it.

A knock at the door dragged a sigh from her. “That’s my glam team.”

“Already? That seems … early.”

“Tell me about it,” she said as she dropped her feet from the railing.

“Apparently, it takes several hours to make me look presentable enough for television.” Inside, she caught her reflection in the glass door as she slid it shut.

Her hair balanced like a bird’s nest atop her head in the same bun she’d worn to bed, and her chin donned a purple star-shaped pimple patch. “Actually, that’s fair.”

“Nah. You’re perfect.”

Lennon stuck her tongue out, but she knew he meant it. Her heart liquefied. “See you later. Hope you recognize me when they’re done.”

They signed off as she answered the door. Freema, Greg, and Deb marched in with their trunks in tow, along with a spray tan artist and her portable spray tan booth.

“Oh, God,” Lennon said as she eyed the rack of small, lingerie-like outfits Freema parked in the living room.

“You mean, oh gods ,” Freema corrected with a flourish. “ The party’s theme is sexy Mount Olympus, honey, so sexy Mount Olympus they’re going to get.”

Once Lennon’s body had been sufficiently airbrushed, Deb lathered her in shimmery oil that made her look like a delicious, glazed doughnut. Freema completed her transformation into a “modern-day Greek goddess” with a white corset, matching asymmetrical miniskirt, and nude gladiator sandals.

Bruno whistled as she strode out to his black Escalade by the curb. “Goddess Athena, your chariot awaits,” he said, sweeping an arm toward the backseat as he opened the door.

“I guess that makes you Charon,” Lennon remarked dryly.

He chuckled at her reference to the ferryman to the Underworld with a “you’re not wrong” look.

She passed him the handle to her small rolling luggage but kept hold of a small pink cardboard box.

“I went to that bakery on Sixth Street that Darius told me about.” She lifted the lid, revealing three large cupcakes.

“Got one for each of you. As a thank you. You and Darius have helped me stay sane through all this.”

Bruno’s eyes turned glassy. “Damnit, mija . Don’t make me cry. I’ve got to be on camera soon.” He smiled, his cheeks dimpling. “It’s been my pleasure. Truly.”

With his help, Lennon carefully climbed into the vehicle.

“ Ay Dios .” Bruno sighed. “That body makeup’s going to be hell to get out of the leather.”

The sun was setting when they pulled through a pair of massive, imposing gates surrounded by tall hedges.

Bruno first dropped her off at the mansion’s tennis court and accompanying villa toward the front of the property, where the production crew had set up their base for the weekend.

As Darius connected her mic pack, Carol Anne briefed her on the shots they planned for her arrival.

Lennon half-listened as she watched one of Darius’s assistants tinker with the sound board.

Once Carol Anne left, Lennon bothered Darius with a few questions.

He’d gotten used to her curiosity and was always generous with his time, which she was normally mindful not to encroach on too much.

But tonight, she used it to wilfully procrastinate until an assistant sent by Carol Anne poked her head in and passed on the message to “hurry the fuck up.”

“Oh, hey. Before you go, I have something for you.” Darius reached into a pocket of his black jeans, which he wore with a fitted V-neck pullover. He always looked like he belonged on the cover of a Ralph Lauren ad.

“What a coincidence,” Lennon said. “I left something for you with your husband.”

Darius lifted an intrigued eyebrow before handing her a small envelope.

“It’s a year’s subscription to my favorite media library,” he said in that deep, rich voice she could listen to wax poetic about sound production all day.

It was perfect for the podcast on the topic he’d mentioned wanting to produce—the one she’d been doggedly urging him to pursue if only for her own selfish reasons.

“They have all the best samples and stuff on the market. It was in a swag bag at an event I went to, but the studio already comps a subscription for me, so I thought you could use it.”

“Wow—absolutely. Thanks, Darius.”

Between that and the dinner with Raquel and the Alonsos, the universe seemed to be nudging her back into music. It gave her a little boost to get through the weekend.

A reminder of what she was fighting for.

Lennon carried that motivation with her as Bruno slowly rolled up to the motor court and parked in front of the manor steps.

A drone hovered while a cameraman waited outside the door to catch her stepping out.

For now, the vehicle’s tinted windows concealed her from watchful eyes. Dread sat like a stone in her stomach.

Why did she feel like an animal wandering into a trap?

“Looks like we’re both in for a long night. I work as a rideshare driver when I’m not chauffeuring, and I’ll be on call tonight.” Bruno gave her a meaningful look through the rearview mirror.

Aware of the device pressing into her spine, Lennon silently pulled her phone from her gold clutch. She swiped open the New Contact screen before handing it to him. “Thanks, Bruno,” she mouthed with a smile, heart warm with gratitude. He winked at her as he passed it back.

While Bruno unloaded her small suitcase from the trunk, Lennon released a long exhale, steeling herself. Time to flip into “show” mode.

He opened the door to the drone buzzing overhead.

They filmed Lennon rolling her suitcase up the paved circular driveway to what looked like an actual palace.

Boy, had they committed to the Mount Olympus theme.

Two statuesque male models, their skin painted gold and clad in matching togas, flanked the palatial front doors.

They opened them in tandem as she climbed the marble steps.

Her heart stopped when she approached the threshold.

It was like Lennon had walked into one of the luxury nightclubs on the strip—servers with bronzed bodies wearing nothing but gold tassels and G-strings served guests hors d’oeuvres, dancers with white wings writhed in elevated gold cages, and champagne trickled down a literal fountain in front of a double staircase.

All surrounded by a fuckload of people. Way beyond the main bridal party and groomsmen.

At least a hundred people were packed in the foyer with cameramen lurking among them.

“Lennon!” Avery’s voice pierced through the loud music and hum of the crowd. “You look amazing.” Delicate wings spread from Avery’s back, matching her white mini dress that looked more like lingerie than cocktail attire.