CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lennon
I’m still thinking about how Ruben managed to get me to agree to dinner as I sit across from him at this incredible restaurant. The balcony is stunning, the city lights glittering in the distance, but none of it holds a candle to the man sitting opposite of me. He’s too confident for his own good, leaning back in his chair like he owns the place, which he might as well.
“You clean up well,” he says, his eyes sweeping over the top of the silk blouse I’m wearing with blatant approval. He doesn’t even try to hide it, and for some reason, that makes it harder to breathe.
“And you’re still insufferable,” I reply, picking up my glass of wine to distract myself from the heat creeping up my cheeks.
He chuckles, his smile both infuriating and … distracting.
Setting the glass down and folding my arms, I venture to poke a little bit. “So, what’s this really about, Ruben? Why bring me here?”
“Why not?” he counters, his tone maddeningly casual. “It’s a beautiful night, and I’d rather spend it with someone interesting.”
“Interesting?” I arch an eyebrow. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“You’d prefer fascinating? Captivating? Enigmatic?” He leans forward slightly, his voice lowering just enough to make my pulse quicken. “Because all of those apply, Lennon.”
I’m not sure whether to laugh or roll my eyes, so I do a bit of both. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, here you are,” he says, a satisfied grin spreading across his gorgeous face. The line of his jaw… and that stubble. This man is dangerous not only to me, but the entire San Francisco feminine population.
The waiter appears then, breaking the tension, and Ruben waves him over. He’s not in a rush to leave. Honestly, neither am I.
As the waiter leaves, I lean back in my chair, studying him. “You’re awfully confident, aren’t you?”
“I’d rather call it prepared,” he says, his tone light but his gaze unwavering. “This is the best time I’ve had in a long time, Lennon.” The shine in his eyes tells me he’s not lying.
“Why?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended. “You’re the one trying to evict the theater. Why do you care?”
“Because I’m starting to think I was wrong,” he says simply.
That throws me. I narrow my eyes, trying to gauge his sincerity. “And what brought on this sudden change of heart?”
“You,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I want to understand why you’re fighting so hard for it. What does it mean to you?”
For a moment, I consider brushing him off. But there’s something in the way he’s looking at me, a genuine curiosity that disarms me.
“The theater isn’t just a building,” I say finally. “It’s history. My history . My godmother used to take me there every Sunday. It’s where I fell in love with old movies, with storytelling. It’s where I felt safe. Losing it would be like losing her all over again. I’d be letting go of my childhood memories.”
Ruben doesn’t say anything right away, but his eyes soften, and I feel… seen. Heard. It’s unsettling how much that matters.
“I get it,” he says finally. “More than you might think.”
My friend’s words come to my mind in a rush. What if he’s worth the fight? Nothing has been determined yet; I find myself talking and revealing more and more with each sentence.
“Oh? And what’s your safe place?” I ask, trying to deflect.
“Wherever my family is,” he says without hesitation and with a touch of nostalgia. “They’re… a lot. Loud, nosy, impossible to escape. But they’re home.”
I smile despite myself. “Sounds nice.”
“It is,” he says, his gaze holding mine. “But enough about me. Tell me about your work. Why pediatric ICU?”
I’m not surprised he knows where I work. A man like Ruben Posada has resources. But the fact that he’s asking, that he seems to genuinely care, throws me off balance. It’s a good thing I’m sitting; my poor knees are starting to weaken.
“It’s… hard,” I admit. “But it’s worth it. Kids are resilient. Even when things are at their worst, they… fight. They give you hope.”
He nods, his expression thoughtful. “And you’re there to fight with them.”
“Something like that,” I say softly.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Soft music hums in the background, and the space between us feels charged with something I can’t quite name. Then he reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine. It’s a small gesture, but it’s enough to make my breath hitch.
Ruben is sharp and funny, challenging me with every word, but there’s a warmth beneath the banter that keeps pulling me in.
When we step outside to wait for the valet, the cool night air brushes against my skin and I’m suddenly hyper aware of how close he’s standing. Of how good he smells. Of the way that suit fits him. The muted hum of traffic, the occasional conversation of the boys working at the car service, all of it fades into a dull buzz. It’s just him and me.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say, my voice quieter than I intended. “It was… unexpected.”
“Unexpected good or unexpected bad?” he asks, his voice carrying the kind of warmth that feels like a soft blanket wrapping around me. He steps closer. His movements are deliberate yet unthreatening.
“Good,” I admit, my voice just a tad above a whisper.
The words hang in the air between us, breakable and charged. He’s so close now, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the night. His eyes search mine as though he’s trying to read the parts of me I’ve worked so hard to keep hidden. I’m suddenly very aware of how fast my heart is beating—its rhythm thrumming wildly, betraying me.
“Lennon,” he murmurs, my name a low, rough caress. It’s as if he’s saying it not just to call me but to ground himself, to remind us both that this moment is real.
And then his lips are on mine.
Soft and insistent, his kiss steals the breath from my lungs, and for a split second, the Earth stops spinning. The city disappears, swallowed whole by the intensity of him. I don’t think, don’t hesitate. I kiss him back, my hands finding their way to his chest, where I feel the steady, strong beat of his heart. It’s a kiss that feels like a question—tentative but certain, as if asking for a truth neither of us is ready to admit. It’s a promise too, one that whispers of possibilities I’m afraid to explore.
His hands cup my face, his thumbs brushing against my skin, grounding me and sending shivers down my spine all at once. Every nerve ending feels electrified, attuned only to him. Time stretches, compresses, and when we finally pull apart, it’s with a reluctant slowness that makes me ache.
His forehead rests against mine, his breath warm and uneven against my skin. “That wasn’t an act,” he says quietly, his voice rich with sincerity.
I don’t trust myself to speak. My lips are still tingling, and my heart is racing so fast I’m afraid it might just burst. So I just nod, swallowing hard, my fingers still clutching the wool of his coat like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
The sound of the valet pulling up with his car breaks the spell, but the magic of the moment lingers. As he steps back, just enough to guide me toward the passenger side, his hand brushes against mine. It’s a small touch, fleeting, but it sends a spark through me all the same.
And as I slide into the car, I realize something I’ve been trying to ignore since the very beginning.
I’m in trouble.
Big, fat trouble.