Page 111 of Lennox Lane

“I should’ve let you explain,” she said.

His brows lifted. “Was that an apology?”

“Maybe.”

By the time they stepped outside, the warm and humid night air hit Lane, carrying the scent of rain and cut grass. Lennox’s SUV waited in the driveway because, obviously, his other car had been reduced to an art installation about consequences. He opened the passenger door for her.

Lane paused before getting in. “I’m not done being mad.”

“I know.”

“And you’re not done being punished, and I expect you to find every single part,” she ordered.

“I will.”

“There are themes and poems for each part,” she added.

He looked at her. “You wrote poems for my car parts? I’m disturbed and aroused.”

“That’s your resting state.”

He stepped closer, one hand braced on the open door above her head. “You called me your man.”

Lane’s throat went dry. “I was establishing boundaries with Shein Delilah.”

“You called me your man,” he repeated, softer.

Lane looked away. “Don’t make it deep.”

“Too late,” he smacked her round ass in the leggings that made it hard to focus.

“Robot.”

“Lavender.”

Lane studied him. The man was infuriating. Possessive. Brilliant. Overbearing. Tender. Ridiculous. Loyal in a way that kept sneaking up on her and rearranging the furniture in her heart. She climbed into the SUV.

Lennox smiled like he knew exactly what she was admitting by staying. Lane settled into the seat as he rounded the SUV. She should’ve been embarrassed. She had made a scene in a restaurant. Blocked the man she was falling for. Orchestrated a luxury-car scavenger hunt. Cursed out a woman on speakerphone and publicly declared Lennox hers before God, Cadence’s unborn twins, and a bag of Tariq’s chips. Instead, she felt strangely lighter and arguably unhinged.

Lennox had stayed; even furious, he had come for her. Even wronged, he had apologized for the piece that belonged to him. Even with his car scattered around Stonebridge like a petty treasure hunt, he had looked at her like she was still worth the whole basket.

Lane watched him climb into the driver’s seat, jaw tight, eyes hot, shirt pulling across his shoulders, and sighed.

The ride to Lennox’s place was quiet for exactly four minutes. Lane counted. Not because she was nervous. She was a grown woman who’d survived public embarrassment, family trauma, corporate sharks, food bank politics, and several emotional ambushes from a man with cheekbones and a cybersecurity clearance. Silence in a car did not scare her.

But Lennox’s silence had weight.

Not coldness. That would’ve been easier to fight. Coldness gave her something to sharpen herself against. This was different. He kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the gear shift, his jaw set, his gaze steady on the road ahead. His face wasn’t angry exactly, but it wasn’t soft either; it was controlled.

Robot had entered serious firmware mode. Lane shifted in the passenger seat and looked out the window as Stonebridge blurred past in streaks of streetlight and late-night traffic. “You’re doing that thing.”

Lennox glanced at her then, and the look stole the joke right out of her mouth. Not because it was harsh. Because it wasn’t. That was the problem with Lennox lately. His restraint did more damage than his chaos ever had. He could’ve yelled. Could’ve thrown her own recklessness back at her. Could’ve made the whole thing about the car, the money, the inconvenience, the embarrassment. A lesser man would’ve. A more foolish man definitely would’ve.

Lennox just looked at her like he saw past the petty and straight into the bruise. Then he returned his eyes to the road. “You hurt me.”

Lane sat quietly as his words sobered her. She’d been on his ass about not hurting her and handling her with care. Yet here she was hurting him while he was committing to growing and changing.

She swallowed. “Lennox⁠—”