Chapter 14 Lila
Lila
I haven’t slept.
Not really.
I spent half the night tossing and turning, my brain a relentless loop of irritation, frustration, and the lingering memory of his mouth on mine.
My pillow smells like roses and espresso, a cruel combination that reminds me too much of the way Ben Ashcroft upended my entire life with one stupid, reckless kiss.
The other half of the night?
Trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to bake with him.
Rock cakes was a tempting choice, I could adjust the recipe to make it enough to make him choke, but not quite enough to land me in legal trouble.
A wreath crossed my mind at some ungodly hour.
Fitting, considering I’m essentially walking into my own funeral later tonight.
Maybe I should make him arrange one himself, something classy, with “May you rot in hell” spelled out in carnations.
A dark chuckle escapes me as I sip my now-cold coffee. Sleep deprivation is making me unhinged.
I drag a hand through my hair and glance at the clock. 5:47 a.m.
Fantastic.
Another restless night, another day of trying not to lose my mind before my “Evening of Baking and Floral Arrangements” with the man who kissed me senseless and then had the audacity to bid ten thousand pounds for another chance to torture me.
I need fresh air.
Slipping into leggings, a hoodie, and my most battered trainers, I step out of my flat and head toward the park.
The crisp morning air smacks me in the face. I stuff my hands into my pockets, shoulders hunched against the early chill, and start walking.
The park is almost deserted, save for the sadists pounding the pavement like they actually enjoy running at this ungodly hour.
I watch them pass, their faces twisted in varying degrees of pain, and shake my head. Why? Just… why?
Voluntarily waking up before dawn to be miserable? That’s not fitness. That’s masochism.
I step off the path, heading toward the quieter part of the park, where the old oak trees line the pond and the world feels a little less suffocating.
That’s when I see him.
He’s jogging toward me, dressed in loose black joggers and a sweat-damp shirt clinging to his chest, hair tousled by the wind. It’s annoyingly unfair. Even mid-run, flushed and breathless, he still looks like trouble wrapped in temptation. Those joggers? Definitely doing things they shouldn’t.
God. I hate him.
I consider turning around, pretending I didn’t see him. I could blend into the trees. Become one with the ducks. Reclaim my anonymity.
But he spots me first. Slows to a walk and smirks. Because of course he does.
“Well, well,” he drawls, wiping his brow with the hem of his shirt, just enough to flash a hint of toned stomach. “Didn’t take you for an early riser, Lila.”
I scowl. “Didn’t take you for a runner. You strike me more as the kind of guy who pays someone to do cardio for him.”
His grin is wicked. “Tempting. But some things are better when you do them yourself.”
He pauses, eyes flicking over me. “Though, I’ve heard cardio’s a lot more fun with a partner.”
He winks. “Keeps the stamina up.”
My face lights up like a furnace.
Nope. Absolutely not entertaining that thought.
I clear my throat, folding my arms and throwing him a glare. “What are you even doing here?”
“Running,” he says innocently, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I shoot him a deadpan look. “Yes, I gathered. But here? In my park?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Your park?”
“You know what I mean.”
He steps closer, gaze flicking over me. “What about you? Couldn’t sleep?”
I hate that he knows me well enough to guess.
“Not your business,” I mutter, shifting my weight. “I just needed fresh air before—”
I stop myself before the words slip.
Before I remind him that later tonight, I have to endure an evening of forced domesticity with him.
His smirk deepens. “Before our date?”
I choke. “It’s not a date.”
Ben tilts his head, feigning innocence. “I don’t know, Lila. There’s baking. Flowers. Maybe a candle or two.”
“Oh, go to hell.”
He grins, slow and lazy. “Already there, sweetheart.”
I groan, pressing my fingers to my temples. Why, out of all the people in this damn city, did I have to bump into him?
Ben steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t have to look so miserable about it. You might actually have fun.”
I scoff. “I’d rather arrange my own funeral flowers.”
Ben laughs, a deep, genuine sound that rumbles through the quiet morning air. Not the sharp-edged amusement he usually throws my way but real, unguarded.
Something in my chest tightens.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him like this.
Not since before.
Not since everything fell apart fifteen years ago.
I shove the thought away before it can take root, but the damage is done. The past seeps in like smoke, curling around my ribs, thick and suffocating.
I shouldn’t be noticing this.
Shouldn’t be noticing the way his face softens when he laughs, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way, for just a moment, he doesn’t look like Ben Ashcroft, a ruthless businessman and my personal tormentor.
He just looks like the boy I used to know.
The boy I lost.
I grit my teeth, shaking off the thought. That boy is gone.
Ben exhales, still grinning, and tilts his head at me. “You always did have a morbid sense of humour.”
I force a smirk, masking the sudden ache behind my ribs. “Yet, you paid ten grand to spend an evening with me. Who’s the real masochist here?”
His smirk returns, slower this time. “Oh, sweetheart, I never claimed to be anything else.”
Damn him.
Damn him and that voice and that look and the way he always knows how to pull me back into this maddening game.
I open my mouth, probably to insult him again, but a gust of wind cuts through the morning air, making me shiver.
Before I can step back, he reaches out and tugs the edge of my hoodie up, flipping the hood over my head. The movement is so smooth, so unthinking, it knocks the breath out of me for a second.
His hands drop away, but his eyes linger, something unreadable flickering beneath the usual arrogance.
It’s an old habit.
A remnant of a time when he knew me. I hate how that makes my chest tighten.
The moment stretches, heavier than it should be, and suddenly I feel too seen. Too exposed.
I need to go.
“Enjoy your run, Ashcroft,” I say, voice brisk, already stepping back.
“Walk with me?”
It’s not a command. Not a challenge.
Just that, a request.
Soft. Almost careful.
I should say no. I should turn on my heel, go home, bury myself in work, and pretend this moment never happened.
But instead, I hesitate. Ben sees it. He exhales, just barely. “Please.”
It’s quiet. Almost like he doesn’t want to say it, but he does.
Like for the first time since he came back, he’s asking instead of taking.
That throws me and against my better judgment?
I do.
We walk in silence at first.
The morning air is crisp, the city still rubbing the sleep from its eyes. A few early risers pass us, dog walkers, runners, people who have their lives together enough to function before sunrise.
I am not one of them.
Ben moves with that effortless confidence, like he owns the damn pavement. His hands are tucked into his pockets, his long strides forcing me to keep pace.
It’s infuriating how easily he settles into this, like we’ve done it a hundred times before.
Which, of course, we have.
I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie, scanning the park ahead. The path curves toward the high street, toward places we used to haunt as teenagers, cheap diners, late-night corner shops where we’d scrounge together loose change for snacks and then…
The spot.
I slow before I can stop myself.
Ben does too. His gaze flickers toward the alley beside the old bookshop, one that’s been shut down for years, the windows plastered with To Let signs.
I don’t need to look. I know what’s there. The door to the back courtyard.
I know because it’s where he first kissed me.
Not a chaste, sweet peck. Not an uncertain, shy brush of lips.
No. Ben Ashcroft kissed like he wanted to ruin me.
Oh he did.
We were seventeen. It was summer, and I’d just made some sarcastic remark, something about him being insufferable. He looked at me, really looked at me, and then his hands were on my waist, my back pressed against the old wooden door, his mouth on mine, hot and hungry and reckless.
I remember gasping against his lips, the way his fingers dug into my hips, like he couldn’t get close enough.
The way I fisted his shirt, holding him there because I didn’t want him to stop.
Now the door is weathered and worn, chipped blue paint curling at the edges. It looks smaller. Less significant.
Funny how places change.
Funny how they don’t.
“You remember,” Ben murmurs, his voice low.
I keep my gaze straight ahead. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t push.
Instead, he keeps walking, and I follow.
The sun is higher now, streaking gold through the treetops as we reach the far side of the park.
I hesitate again.
The fountain should be here. The old wishing well, cracked and moss-covered, where we used to throw in pennies and make ridiculous bets.
But it’s gone.
Replaced by an empty stretch of concrete.
Ben frowns, scanning the space. “What happened?”
I exhale. “Funding cuts.”
His brow furrows. “Seriously?”
I nod. “The council shut it down a few years ago. They said the maintenance costs weren’t worth it.”
Ben stares at the empty space for a long beat.
I don’t know what I expect. Some offhanded remark, some arrogant, ‘not my problem’ attitude.
Instead, he surprises me.
“That’s bullshit,” he mutters.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
His jaw tightens. “It was part of this park for decades. They can’t just rip it out.”
I fold my arms. “They can, and they did.”
Ben’s still staring, like he’s cataloguing the loss, trying to piece together something that isn’t there anymore.
For the first time in fifteen years, I see it. The boy I used to know.
The one who threw in coins just to make me laugh. The one who bet me a milkshake that I couldn’t hit the centre with my eyes closed.
The one who promised me always.
I clear my throat, shoving the memory aside. “Not everything lasts forever, Ashcroft.”
His gaze flicks to mine, something unreadable in his expression.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
For some stupid, stupid reason, that hurts.
We keep walking. I let the quiet stretch between us, let the streets we used to haunt guide us without thinking. It’s only when I glance up, when I see the faded awning, the potted plants lined up by the window, the Bloom & Bean sign hanging slightly crooked, that I realise where we are.
I stop short.
Ben slows a second later. “Huh.” His gaze flickers over the front of my cafe, taking in the details like he’s seeing it for the first time.
Like he’s actually seeing it.
“I didn’t mean to…” I trail off, folding my arms, exhaling sharply. “We weren’t supposed to end up here.”
Ben doesn’t look at me. He’s still taking it in. The way the morning light catches on the glass. The way my mother’s orchids are thriving in the window. The way the cafe, our cafe, has survived despite everything.
“This place…” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
He exhales, fingers trailing down the edge of the glass before curling into his palm. “It still smells the same.”
My throat tightens.
I know what he means. Not just the scent of coffee and fresh flowers. But something deeper. The same feeling that wrapped around me every time I stepped inside as a child. The comfort, the warmth, the history.
The pieces of a life we once thought we’d share.
I should say something. Crack a joke. Deflect.
But the words stick, and for a split second, I let him have this.
Let myself have it, too.
Then he shifts, straightening, his hand falling away from the door. When he finally looks at me, there’s something in his eyes, something raw.
Ben exhales slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides. Before I can name it, before I can let myself get pulled into it.
He steps back.
Not far. Just enough. Just enough to break whatever this is before it can become something else.
His jaw tightens, his gaze flicking over me once, unreadable, before he looks away.
“See you tonight,” he says, voice smooth but distant. Then he turns on his heel and walks off, leaving me standing there, breathless, with nothing but the sound of his retreating footsteps.
The strangest, most infuriating feeling twists in my chest.
Because for the second time in fifteen years, Ben Ashcroft has walked away.