Page 58 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

D ylan gave Lennon a tour of the house—on the living room floor, against one of the walls in a hallway, in the shower, and finally, in his actual bed.

By the time they got there, they were both exhausted and hungry.

While Dylan ran downstairs to retrieve the pizza delivery, Lennon helped herself to a soft, faded t-shirt she found in his closet and crawled back into his massive bed.

She buried her face into one of his pillows and pulled his shirt up to her nose, taking deep breaths of Dylan’s earthy musk mixed with fresh linens. Sunshine spread through her.

She already missed him, and he’d only run downstairs for a minute. What was she, fifteen?

When Dylan walked back into the room, two flat cardboard boxes balanced on one hand and sweatpants slung low on his hips below his bare torso, he stopped inside the doorway, staring at her.

“What?” Lennon asked, lying on her side. She had her top knee bent with the other stretched out long. His t-shirt gathered around her waist, exposing her bare hip.

“You’re just …” Dylan’s eyes softened, and a small, self-conscious laugh trickled from his throat as he dipped his head. Was he blushing? He lifted his head with a wistful smile. “I can’t stop looking at you.”

Butterflies exploded in her chest.

Lennon sat up, resting her weight on one hand. Her hair was air-drying, creating a halo of frizzy, messy waves around her face, and her makeup had mostly melted off between the pool and the shower, but the way he looked at her made her feel the most beautiful she’d ever felt.

Now, she was the one blushing.

“I can’t stop looking at that pizza,” Lennon joked with a bite of her lip, though she was really looking at him. If her stomach weren’t growling, she’d have opted to devour him again instead. She needed her strength so she could.

Dylan crawled in bed beside her, and they dug into the deliciously cheesy, greasy slices as they watched a Golden Girls rerun.

After a stressful day, the four women gathered around the kitchen table late at night to commiserate.

Both she and Dylan perked up, exchanging a glance, knowing one of them was about to be proven right from the argument they’d had during their phone call on the train.

When Sophia grabbed a cheesecake from the refrigerator, Lennon jabbed a finger at the screen in victory while the other hand gripped her third slice of pizza. “See! I told you it wasn’t wine.”

“What? No—that has to be this one time. I swear, it’s usually wine.”

“It’s never wine. It’s cheesecake.”

“OK, wait, wait, wait—but you said pie , not cheesecake.”

“What?” Lennon feigned ignorance.

“You said they ate pie together. Cheesecake is not pie.”

She rolled her eyes. “Close enough.”

“But not the same.”

“It’s closer than wine!”

“What about dessert wine? Or, or —” Dylan pointed his half-eaten breadstick at her. “Wine pie.”

Lennon gave him a look as if he were insane. “What the fuck is wine pie ? That’s not a thing.”

“Yes, it is. It’s French.”

“You’re making shit up now.”

“I swear! Google it.”

Lennon shot him a playful glare. She didn’t want to be proven wrong again, so she said, “I don’t know where my phone is, and I’m eating. I’ll do it later.”

“I look forward to your apology.” Dylan ripped off another bite of his breadstick as he rested his head against the padded headboard, returning his attention to the flat-screen television that had lowered from a hidden spot in the ceiling.

Lennon smiled into her pizza slice despite herself. His hand rested on her thigh as she sat cross-legged beside him. She watched him laugh at something snarky Sophia said to Rose, and her heart grew so wide in her chest that she wondered if there was enough space to hold it.

She prayed he wouldn’t break it again.

Lennon slept so soundly, she didn’t even dream. She didn’t need to. Last night had been enough of one.

A decadent, sugary scent coaxed her awake early the next morning.

She stretched her arms overhead, arching her bare back, and reached beside her.

Soft sunlight poured in through the open balcony doors, along with the relaxing sound of the waves and swaying palm trees.

She frowned at the empty space until she found a note on the pillow.

Come downstairs for your favorite. P.S. You’re really cute when you sleep.

Lennon scrunched up her nose in a smile as her cheeks flushed. Her heart stretched now, too, wide awake and thump, thump, thumping in her chest.

She slipped on his oversized shirt, which they’d tossed to the floor at some point after finishing off the pizza, then wandered into the large en suite.

It looked like it belonged in a luxury hotel.

Lennon approached the long vanity to the right, where his personal items were arranged a little haphazardly but not in the cluttered way they had been when they lived together.

She ran her fingers along the beautiful watch Rhett had gifted Dylan after he signed his contract with the Tidebreakers, his shaving kit, cologne.

She picked up the bottle and removed the top, waving it under her nose.

The spicy, earthy scent woke up every molecule in her body.

Suddenly, she couldn’t get to him fast enough.

Glancing up at the mirror, Lennon caught the other vanity in the reflection. She turned to look at the fresh toothbrush and toothpaste sitting on the counter. He’d also plugged her phone in to charge, placed her shoes at the base, and hung her clothes to dry.

Dylan’s thoughtfulness—and the fact that he’d already settled her into her own vanity—surprised her with a rush of emotion. Tears pricked her eyes. Lennon smiled, overwhelmed.

Lennon ignored her phone, uninterested in the outside world for now, and freshened up before following the sweet scent downstairs.

She found him standing in the kitchen, shirtless, grey sweatpants hanging below the dimples in his lower back and the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he scrambled eggs over a sizzling pan.

The island was filled with a spread of freshly cut fruit—strawberries, blueberries, and bananas—and a stack of pancakes.

“You did not cook a whole freakin’ breakfast,” Lennon said, her morning voice scratchy.

Dylan glanced over his shoulder, a smile stretching across his face under a mess of bedhead. “Oh, I did.”

Lennon felt like a giddy five-year-old, and a heartsick fifteen-year-old, and a deeply in love twenty-five-year-old all at once.

Dylan turned with the pan and spatula in his hands. “Hope you’re hungry,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, too. It was deeper. Even sexier somehow, which was quite a feat.

“Starving.” She slid onto one of the cushioned barstools at the island, where one of two place settings had already been arranged beside each other. As she dangled her feet, he carefully scooped the steaming eggs onto her plate, then a pancake.

“Help yourself,” Dylan said, gesturing to the butter on a serving dish and a glass syrup carafe. Beside them were pitchers of ice water and orange juice to fill her crystal glass.

Lennon stared at the spread, wide-eyed and gaping. It smelled as incredible as it looked. It wasn’t plated quite like a magazine, but she could tell he tried to make it look that way, and that made it all the more adorable. “When did you become Martha Stewart?”

“My therapist suggested I take up a low-pressure hobby while I was stuck at home. To help with the anxiety.” Dylan turned to the stove, his back to her again, as he cracked a few more eggs into the pan to make them over-easy for himself. Quietly, he added, “And I wanted you to feel at home.”

There it went again, Lennon’s insides melting like the butter she’d spread over the pancake.

She stopped for a moment, watching him as he cooked over the stove.

He’d barely been able to boil pasta when they were married.

Whatever he ate had to be pre-cooked or delivered.

Now, here he was, taking care of a house, cooking breakfast, and setting her clothes out to dry.

Being open about his struggles.

Acting like a man, not the boy she’d divorced.

In that split second, Lennon saw herself at home there.

Waking up next to him every morning, brushing their teeth at his and her vanities, cooking breakfast together, planning out their day.

She imagined shopping at the local farmer’s market and getting to know their neighbors, strolling along the beach, writing music by the pool while he hit balls in the batting cage.

Living in their little pocket of heaven.

Fear nipped at the heels of that beautiful vision.

That had been her dream when they were first married, as misguided as it was.

Back then, there was no evidence to support that he could be that to her, but her teenage mind had assumed that once someone got married, it just flipped a switch, and marital bliss was activated.

He would stop partying, grow up, and everything would work out.

They would have their happily ever after.

They hated people telling them they were too young, but their warnings had been valid.

They were the ones who had been wrong. Just like with the dessert on The Golden Girls .

What if Lennon was wrong again? What if the timing still wasn’t right for either of them? Her heart curled inside her chest, fearful of being shattered again. Her love for him was growing deeper, expanding beyond what it was before.

It would hurt even worse this time.

Dylan slipped onto the stool beside her, and they ate in comfortable silence, their shoulders and knees brushing to maintain steady contact.

As he reached for the pitcher of orange juice to fill his glass, the pinkish, jagged scar on his shoulder flexed.

Lennon’s heart panged at the reminder of what he’d been through. And how much worse it could have been.