CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lennon
The sun is golden and warm, streaming through the canopy of trees that edge the park. The theater looms in the distance, its marquee restored to its former glory, shining bright letters spelling out Today’s Matinee: Roman Holiday.
I’m sitting on a picnic blanket, the fabric soft beneath me. The air is alive with the scent of fresh-cut grass, mingling with the sweetness of ripe strawberries and the buttery aroma of warm croissants. It’s perfect here—too perfect—but I don’t question it.
“Lennon,” his voice calls, low and warm, curling around me like a caress.
I look up, and there he is. Ruben.
He’s wearing a white Henley with the sleeves rolled up, the fabric straining slightly against his forearms. He has on dark jeans that fit him like they were made just for him, and the same thick glasses he was wearing at the fundraiser. The sun catches in his hair, turning it into something richer, something magical. His smile is unguarded, and easy. It steals the breath from my lungs.
He’s carrying a basket, the kind you see in old movies, and when he sets it down beside me, I notice the details: a bottle of wine, crackers, a wedge of cheese wrapped in parchment, a tiny jar of ham and another filled with honey.
“Where did you find all of this?” I ask, teasing, my voice lighter than it’s felt in months.
“I have my ways,” he says with a smirk, settling down next to me. His presence feels magnetic, like gravity shifts when he’s near.
We fall into a rhythm, sharing bites of fruit, and sipping a fancy named wine that tastes better with each passing moment. His eyes are on me, dark and mysterious, and every time our hands brush, something electric passes between us. It’s intoxicating, the way he looks at me, like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t know I had.
“Tell me something,” he says, his voice soft, intimate.
“What?” I ask, meeting his gaze.
“What makes you happy?”
The question knocks something loose inside me, but before I can answer, his fingers trail over the back of my hand, light and deliberate. The touch sends a shiver up my spine, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
And before I can think of an answer, the scene shifts. As dreams often do.
We’re no longer on the blanket but walking along a cobblestone path. The evening light bathes the park in a warm glow, and the sound of our laughter fills the air. His hand finds mine. Our fingers weave together. His grip is steady, grounding me in a way that feels too real.
“Lennon,” he says, stopping abruptly.
I turn to him, my breath catching at the raw intensity in his gaze.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, his voice low and rough. “But I want to. With you.”
The confession knocks the air from my lungs. Before I can find words, his hand cups my face, tilting it gently toward him. His thumb brushes over my cheek, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the texture of my skin.
“Ruben…” I manage, but the rest of the sentence never comes.
His lips find mine, tentative at first, like he’s asking permission. But when I don’t pull away, the kiss deepens, then turns hungrier. His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me to him as my fingers curl into his shirt, desperate for something to hold onto.
The world around us fades until it’s just him—his taste, his touch, the way his body presses into mine like he wants to claim every part of me.
When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine, his breath hot against my skin.
“You’re worth the fight, Lennon,” he murmurs, his voice thick with conviction. “Whatever it takes, you’re worth it.”
The alarm blares. The sound is so sharp and jarring, it yanks me out of the dream.
I sit up, heart pounding, skin still tingling with the phantom weight of his touch. His words echo in my mind.
You’re worth the fight.
For a fleeting moment, I let myself believe him.
? ? ?
The cafeteria is quieter than usual, the typical clatter of trays and hum of conversation reduced to a low murmur. I sit at a corner table, nursing a mug of lukewarm chamomile tea. I’m hoping for a few stolen moments of peace after a grueling shift. My body feels heavy, my mind is foggy, and all I want is to fade into the background.
But then I see him.
Jason walks in, his strides as confident as ever, but there’s a flicker of hesitation when his eyes lock on mine. He adjusts his tie, a little tell I’ve picked up on in the months I’ve known him. It’s his prelude to saying something he thinks is important. My chest tightens, but not with excitement. It’s unease and tension gnaws at the edges of my calm.
“Hey, Lennon,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me without waiting for an invitation.
“Jason,” I reply, pasting on a polite smile I hope doesn’t betray how forced it is.
“You look tired,” he says, his tone full of concern as his eyes search my face.
“It’s been a long shift,” I say lightly, brushing off the comment. Work isn’t what’s keeping me up at night. My real problem? The dreams. Ruben Posada has taken up permanent residence in my mind, haunting me when I close my eyes. Sometimes, I can almost feel his warm body next to mine, the rough timbre of his voice murmuring something indecipherable. I wake up all bothered with my heart pounding, reaching for someone who’s never actually been there.
Jason nods and leans forward. “You work too hard.” Yep, that’s exactly what I needed, to be scolded. I clear my throat, annoyed, but the man keeps talking. “That’s why I was thinking… remember that trip to Napa I mentioned?”
Oh, fuck. Napa. The weekend that sounds like tepid champagne and overpriced crackers smeared with caviar. Caviar—every bite feels like chewing salt-soaked pop rocks. I hate it. And knowing Jason, the trip would be meticulously tailored to fit his taste. Mornings at exclusive vineyards, afternoons spent golfing under the blazing sun, and evenings eating three-course meals that leave you hungry for a burger on the drive home.
Golf. God, the thought of it alone makes my head ache. Or maybe it’s not the game but the idea of standing next to Jason for hours under the blazing sun, pretending to care about his stance, his swing, and his endless enthusiasm for it all.
“Yeah,” I say, managing to keep my voice deliberately neutral. “I remember.”
“Well,” he says, his smile widening like he’s already sealed the deal. “I was thinking we could make it happen this weekend. Just us. You need the break, Lennon. Relax, sip some wine, get away from work and… everything else.”
By “everything else,” I know he means the theater. The project that’s consumed me lately and the one thing he doesn’t understand. He humors me when I talk about it, but there’s a palpable distance in his responses, a lack of connection to the passion I feel for saving something that means so much.
“Jason, that’s really thoughtful,” I say carefully, trying to find the softest way to let him down.
“But?” he prompts, leaning back, his smile faltering.
Here it is, the part I hate. My grip tightens on the mug in my hands. The ceramic warms my palms as I search for the right words.
“But… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
His brows knit in confusion as he blinks a couple of times. His tone is measured but the uneasiness is there. “Why not? Is it the timing? We can push it back if this weekend doesn’t work.”
“No,” I say softly, shaking my head. “It’s not the timing.” I draw in a breath, letting it out slowly. “Jason, you’re a wonderful guy. You’re smart, dependable, kind. But… I don’t feel the way you do.”
His eyes widen slightly, as hurt flickers across his face. He doesn’t interrupt, so I press on.
“When I see you, I don’t get butterflies. I don’t feel my heart race. You deserve someone who does.”
His expression shifts, the hurt giving way to resignation. There’s a long pause before he speaks. “So… there’s someone else?”
The question lands with the weight of truth I’m not ready to voice. There is someone else. Not officially, not in any way that could be called a relationship, but someone whose presence—physical or imagined—sends my pulse skittering in a way Jason never could.
“I didn’t say that,” I murmur, but Ruben’s face flashes in my mind unbidden. The way he leans just a little too close when he talks to me. The way his laugh curls low and rough at the edges, sinking into my skin like an unshakable spell.
“You didn’t have to,” Jason says quietly. “Whoever he is, he’s lucky. I hope he knows that.”
Guilt pricks at me, but there’s relief that I don’t have to keep pretending to feel something that simply isn’t there.
“I’m sorry, Jason,” I say sincerely, meeting his gaze.
He nods, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips as he stands. “Don’t be. I appreciate your honesty, Lennon. Really.”
As he walks away, his parting words echo in my head. “I hope he’s worth it.”
I don’t respond aloud, but deep down, I know the answer.
Because when I see Ruben Posada, my heart doesn’t just flutter—it soars. And maybe, just maybe, I don’t want it to stop.