Page 43 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

S ome women from Avery’s sorority descended upon the fire pit and interrupted the conversation. Lennon jumped at the opportunity to excuse herself.

She needed a breather. And to find Dylan. And to avoid wringing Kelsey’s neck before the end of the weekend.

This was going to be a long night.

After downing a cup of ice water from one of the bars, Lennon followed the music pumping through the hidden speakers to the dance floor.

Sweaty, writhing bodies packed the dark space from wall to wall.

A DJ manned the raised booth, headphones over his ears and a toga draped across a bare, tattooed torso.

She hadn’t planned to stay, but the addictive beat crept into her.

Her shoulders moved with the rhythm, the rest of her body following.

The little bit of alcohol she’d had buzzed in her bloodstream as the music lured her deeper.

It’d been so long since she’d gone to a club and just danced.

The bodies packed tightly around her, shrouded by darkness except for a spinning disco ball, offered her a reprieve, if only for a minute.

Lennon hid herself in the crowd and let the music take her. The vibrations melted the anxieties percolating under her skin. Her muscles unfurled in a wave carried by the rhythm. The other bodies faded into obscurity, becoming no more than a collective energy undulating around her.

If she had a drug of choice, this was it.

The song smoothly transitioned to a slower, more sensual rhythm, and she matched the pace.

Her eyes drifted shut as her head rolled back, her chest and back arching forward as her long hair swept the exposed flesh above her corset.

She lost any sense of time and place as one song seamlessly flowed into the next.

Lennon dragged open her heavy lids. Through the swell of music and bodies and scattered lights, their eyes met.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Dylan leaned against the door frame. One hand in his pocket, a plastic cup clutched in the other. The lights danced across his face, throwing him in and out of neon color as he watched her. Transfixed.

A thrill coursed through her, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

Those first few open buttons of his shirt taunted her with a wide slit of smooth, sculpted skin. Heat pooled low in her torso as she held his gaze. Her free hand roamed her body, dragging along her curves, down the swell of her breast, dip of her waist, curve of her hip. He followed reverentially.

Lennon inclined her head, her fingertips slipping through the sweat on her collarbone to her neck.

She imagined his hands on her. His breath tickling her skin, teasing it with a brush of his lips.

She felt his warmth as though he were right in front of her.

His lean, muscular form pressed against hers, moving as one.

She drove her fingers through her hair, wishing they were tangled in his.

She wanted to know what he felt like now.

She needed to know.

Lennon drifted toward him through the swaying bodies.

He slowly pushed off the door frame. The music crested, the erotic beat pulsing with each step.

His lips parted. She wet hers. What did he taste like?

How would kissing him again feel after waiting so long?

Her heartbeat outpaced the music, desperate to find out—to get to him—as she wove through the other dancers.

Light glinted off a lens in her peripheral. A cameraman loomed nearby, concealed by the darkness in the back corner of the room.

Reality hit her with a cold, hard snap.

Lennon went rigid. Dylan’s brow lowered and he followed her stare. His jaw tensed under the flash of lights.

Lennon had been careful not to reveal her complicated feelings on camera, and she’d just fucking blown it. Vulnerability and regret clawed at her.

The sweat on her skin turned sticky. The lights became too bright. Like she was naked under them.

She held her stomach, swallowing back a wave of nausea. Dylan’s eyes found her again. Concern flashed in them.

Lennon turned. She squeezed through sharp shoulders and elbows until she reached the main hall. The noise pulsed in her head. She tracked down a bathroom in one of the less crowded corridors. As she pulled the door shut behind her, a hand slotted through and stopped it. A gasp slipped from her.

“It’s me,” Dylan said. He braced his other hand on the door frame.

Lennon looked past him to see if any cameramen had followed. Two couples peppered the hall, too busy making out to notice them. She grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulling him inside and locking the door.

The noise of the party dampened to near silence.

The tightness of the bathroom became immediately apparent.

Though the ceiling was high, the space only held a pedestal sink at one end and a fancy toilet at the other.

Two long sconces flanked the mirror over the sink, casting a dim glow over the black crocodile walls that nearly receded into a void.

Lennon’s heartbeat drummed in her ears. It punctuated Dylan’s shallow breaths as he gazed down at her, his face cast in shadow.

“What hap—”

Lennon pressed a finger to his lips. His pupils dilated slightly. Twisting, she pointed to the small mic pack hidden beneath her corset’s silk lacing. “Turn it off,” she mouthed over her shoulder.

Dylan mouthed back, “How?”

Lennon gestured instructions, all those conversations with Darius paying off, and then gathered her long hair to the front.

The party was an obscure vibration in the background.

Dylan carefully untied the silk ribbons at the bottom to loosen her corset.

Calloused fingers brushed her skin, sending a tingle up her spine.

The device clicked off. The lacing gently tugged at her waist as he retied the bow.

As Lennon faced him, he directed her to the device under the back of his shirt. She lifted the fabric away from the smooth skin of his lower back where the mic pack was taped. The lighting was too low to be sure, but his muscles seemed to tense slightly. She turned it off.

Above Dylan’s head, the air vent lingered. They’d been told the bathrooms were off-limits to cameras, but what if the producers had lied? Lennon glanced back at the mirror, unable to shake the sensation of being watched.

“Hey—what’s wrong?” Dylan’s warm baritone filled the small, quiet space.

Lennon focused on her reflection. She looked like a skittish dog. “Sorry. I’m such an idiot,” she said, shame thick in her blood. She braced a hand on the sink. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I lost myself.”

“What are you talking about?”

She briefly shut her eyes. “The dance. I forgot about our agreement. The cameras. I should’ve been more careful.”

“I’m glad you weren’t.”

Lennon met his gaze in the mirror. The same heady look he’d worn on the dance floor stared back at her. Heat momentarily melted her frustration.

But they weren’t alone. Not really.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said, keeping her voice low in case anyone had followed them. She didn’t even trust the thickness of the door. “Being entertainment. People treating our life like—like nothing more than a storyline. One they can twist to their liking.”

“You can’t let them get inside your head.”

“Yeah, well. It may be too late for that,” Lennon said wryly.

The long bow he’d tied, a little more haphazardly than Freema had, concealed the bump of the mic pack on her lower back, but the device still pressed into her flesh.

There would be a red indent there later. “I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

Dylan’s gaze drifted lower. Down her body. His eyes darkened. “Why does it matter if they saw us?”

Lennon turned away from the mirror. “I don’t want them to take it and ruin it.”

“They can’t,” he said in a low rasp.

She watched the rise and fall of his chest. “They think I’m a gold digger, Dylan. That I came back for your money. Looking like I’m trying to rekindle things with you here would play right into Kelsey’s hands.”

His brow stitched together. “Why do you care what they think? I know the truth.”

“You better than anyone know it’s not that simple. That’s not how the game works.”

“Well, maybe I’m tired of playing it.” Dylan’s voice struck like a gavel. “You can’t stop people from making shit up, Lennon. Maybe the real mistake here is trying to control something uncontrollable and letting it determine how we live our lives.”

Lennon shook her head. “There’s too much at stake right now,” she said, straining to keep her voice low. “My whole career’s on the line. I can’t afford to take that risk. Neither can you, especially after what happened at the gala.”

Dylan’s brow dipped low. He studied her. “Are you saying it’s too risky to be with me?”

Rhett’s and Harold’s warnings echoed painfully. He can’t get distracted again. You need to be careful he doesn’t take you down with him.

Lennon’s heart squeezed. “I’m saying it may be too risky for both of us.”

Dylan’s chest rose with a deep, strained inhale. She could run her hands along the exposed skin there, tangle them in his hair. Act on her fantasies in this dark, locked room. Against the sink. Against the wall.

Say fuck it to the game and let the chips fall where they may.

She was tired of it, too.

Someone banging against the door made her jump. “Hey, your mics aren’t working,” came Carol Anne’s muffled voice. “We need to check them.”

Lennon clamped her eyes shut, biting back expletives. They really couldn’t escape—not even in the bathroom. There were probably cameras mounted in the hallway.

That sickening, grimy feeling slithered under her skin again.

“Let’s stick to the plan,” Lennon whispered.

Dylan’s throat flexed through a swallow. “I can’t hide how I really feel about you.”

Carol Anne banged on the door again.

“Try,” Lennon said.