Page 104 of Lennox Lane

She dragged one fingertip down the center of his chest, over his shirt. “Dinner. Poetry. Diner food. Emotional accountability. Weekend getaway. Asking permission before cyber-sinning. A girl could get spoiled if she wasn’t careful.”

“A girl should get spoiled.”

Her eyes lifted to his. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“And what happens when the girl starts expecting things?”

“Then the man keeps delivering.”

“You’re being very charming this morning,” she whispered.

“I’m in love with you,” he almost said.

The words rose so fast he had to catch them behind his teeth. Not because he didn’t mean them. Because Lane had given him yes to a weekend, not permission to drop his whole heart in her lap before coffee and expect her not to panic, so instead, he did what felt safest for both of them.

He kissed her quietly. Gentle at first, then deeper when she sighed against his mouth and curled her fingers into his shirt. He kissed her until the teasing eased out of her and something warmer took its place, until the room felt too small for everything he wasn’t saying. When he pulled back, her eyes were half-lidded with pleasure.

“Rude,” she whispered.

“Effective.”

“I was making a point,” she tittered.

She laughed and shoved lightly at his chest, but when he caught her hand and kissed her palm, the laughter softened into something that felt too close to forever for him to examine before coffee.

Lane climbed out of bed, stretching in the morning light. Lennox watched her move through her room like a woman who had survived everything meant to ruin her and still looked like poetry deciding to breathe.

He was in love with her, and there was no point denying it now. The truth sat in his heart, comfortable and certain. Lane Sanders was the whole basket and Lennox Jackson, who’d spent years refusing to put too much of himself anywhere one person could reach, was already gathering every egg he had.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A GENTLE TOUCH

Several months passed before Winston Hills became more than a promise waiting on a calendar. Life dared to keep happening even when Lane Sanders had agreed to let Lennox Jackson court her like a proper gentleman and take her away for a weekend involving wine, pleasure, and a dominatrix named The Black Dahlia.

Khalil had been buried in business, tying up every loose end he could before the twins arrived and turned the Reed household into a beautiful, sleep-deprived empire of diapers, matching bassinets, and Cadence’s increasingly creative threats against gravity. Because Lennox handled security for Khalil, that meant he had been on the road more often than Lane liked but less often than her pride would admit.

Lane had been busy too.

Nova was preparing to release her debut album under Khalil’s new label, and every day seemed to bring a new crisis dressed as opportunity. Rollout meetings. Styling calls. Interview prep—marketing approvals. One executive who thought “urban polish” was a usable phrase until Lane’s face made him rethink English entirely. Nova was brilliant, electric, and ready, but brilliance still needed managing when an industry full of vultures started circling with compliments and contracts.

Lane and Nova had spent weeks helping her tie up loose ends before the twins came, because Cadence insisted she was fine while waddling like a woman whose center of gravity had filed for separation. She still tried to approve nursery details, review Vogue follow-up questions, argue with KC about baby names, and pretend she didn’t need help getting off the couch.

“Girl, I don’t need help,” Cadence had said one afternoon, stuck halfway between seated and standing.

Lane had stared at her. “Your body is currently negotiating with

Cadence had threatened her with a throw pillow and then accepted assistance with dignity, attitude, and heavy breathing.

Through all of it, Lennox remained. That was the part Lane didn’t know what to do with. He didn’t run. Not when she got quiet. Not when her mother texted and left her unsettled for hours. Not when Jeanette’s first call from treatment left Lane sitting in her car outside The Full Plate Project with both hands gripping the steering wheel like she was trying to keep the past from climbing into the passenger seat.

He’d made a habit of being present in person. Sometimes through calls from hotel rooms, cars, airport lounges, and once, irritatingly, from a helicopter because KC’s life had gotten ridiculous and apparently altitude now counted as office space. He checked in without demanding. Asked before digging. Sent food when she forgot to eat, but only after texting, Can I send dinner or will that get me cursed out?

After the incident with her mother, something shifted inside Lane. She wasn’t healed. Healing was a race with a finish line, and wounds didn’t come with ribbon-cutting ceremonies and a complimentary sense of closure. Lane wasn’t healed; she wasn’t even close. Some days Jeanette’s name still landed in her chest like a hand against a bruise.

But with Lennox, the pain felt less alone.