Page 20 of Lennox Lane

The message showed as delivered when three dots appeared as if he was sending a response; Lane waited. Minutes later, still no response. This was typical Lennox—starting shit and never finishing. Lane locked the phone and tossed it onto the bed with more force than necessary. Lane was sure he’d gone silent because she dared to be unavailable. Lennox Jackson had graduated from MIT but apparently missed life’s class on common sense and emotional maturity. Lane grabbed her phone and keys before snatching up her handbag, making sure she had everything she needed. Heading out, Lane took one last look in the mirror and smiled at the beautifully single woman looking back at her.

“Let’s go meet Attractive Dental Insurance,” she muttered.

Valentina’s Steakhouse sat on the top floor of a restored historic building downtown. It was classic elegance, from the smoked glass to the low lighting, with servers who described the Michelin-starred menu as if they had created it themselves. It was the kind of place where men brought women to prove they had taste, money, or at least a generous expense account. Lane arrived seven minutes late on purpose, because she looked too good to be punctual.

The hostess greeted her warmly, eyes flicking over Lane’s outfit with open admiration. “Ms. Sanders?”

“That’s me.”

“Mr. Halstead is already seated, right this way,” she said, leading the way.

Lane followed her through the restaurant, aware of the subtle turn of heads as she passed. She didn’t rush—she didn’t have to—women in sequins don’t scurry; they arrive. Devin stood when she approached the table, and to his credit, he looked amazing. He was tall, with beautiful brown skin perfectly complemented by the tailored navy suit on his muscular frame. The crisp white shirt was open at his throat, appreciating that he skipped a tie because it made the look a bit more casual. His Rolex completed the look, understated but expensive. He had the polished ease of a man who spent time in boardrooms and knew how to order wine without making it a performance.

“Lane,” he said, smiling. “You look incredible.”

“Thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

He laughed, stepping forward to hug her, and Lane allowed it. His cologne was nice. His suit felt as expensive as it looked. His body was warm, his manners intact, and she felt absolutely nothing. There wasn’t a single spark, not even a polite internal hum. Damn, it was like hugging a well-dressed LinkedIn connection. Devin pulled back, still smiling as she wondered if he could sense that he’d just failed a chemistry test he didn’t know he was taking.

“I’m glad you came,” he said as his eyes roamed her body salaciously.

“Me too,” Lane lied smoothly because she hadn’t seen a reason to be rude yet.

As they sat, Devin immediately ordered sparkling water for the table, then asked if she preferred red or white wine with steak. He listened when she answered. They made small talk, and he didn’t talk over her. He listened intently and even complimented The Full Plate Project without sounding like he wanted a plaque for knowing poor people existed. On paper, Devin Halstead was a perfectly good date. Lane was being wined and dined by a successful, attractive, and respectful man. This man was practically a walking green flag with beautiful teeth. Unfortunately, Lane’s nervous system had apparently been ruined by a hacker with commitment issues and the social instincts of a raccoon.

“So,” Devin said after their drinks arrived. “I have to ask. How is someone like you single?”

Lane almost groaned at the question every attractive, successful woman over thirty heard from men who thought they were being original.

She took a sip of wine. “By choice. I require consistency, and I have a rigorous screening process,” she said, meaning every word.

Devin laughed. “Fair. But seriously, what does your dating life look like?” He asked.

Lane leaned back in her chair. “It doesn’t exist. This is the first date I’ve been on in quite some time.”

The words had barely left her mouth before a shadow fell over the table and a familiar scent reached her first. Clean but expensive and attached to her worst decisions. Lane froze as Devin looked up. Lennox Jackson stood beside their table in a black button-down, black slacks, and a face so calm Lane knew immediately he’d come on a mission to cause chaos. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass.

“Lennox,” Lane said with tight lips, “you being here better be a Cadence-related emergency.”

He smirked, letting his gaze slide over her outfit once, quick but not quick enough. His jaw flexed before he smoothed his expression back into polite concern.

Devin looked between them, asking, “Do you two know each other?”

“Unfortunately,” Lane said.

Lennox smiled. Then he placed an open pack of Depends on the table. Lane stared at it. Devin stared at it. The approaching waiter paused mid-step at the scene unfolding in front of him. Somewhere in the distance, a fork clinked against a plate as Lane’s soul briefly left her body, checked the weather, and returned with murder in its hands.

Lennox looked at her with devastating insincerity. “You left these at my house.”

Lane’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Something that had never happened before. Lennox continued, his voice louder but filled with enough faux sympathy to make Lane gag.

“I didn’t want to embarrass you, but I know how you get when you’re out too long. Urinary incontinence is nothing to be ashamed of. A lot of people suffer from it,” he spoke audaciously.

If it was possible, smoke could have shot out her ears as she watched Devin’s brows shoot upward in shock. “Lennox,” she said, her voice deadly calm. He turned to Devin and extended a hand as if it were a normal social interaction rather than a felony of the spirit. “Lennox Jackson.”

Devin accepted the handshake slowly. “Devin Halstead.”

“Nice to meet you, Devin,” Lennox nodded toward Lane, “She’s an amazing woman. Beautiful and brilliant as hell with a heart of gold, but you still don’t want your couch pissy.”