Page 37 of Lennox Lane

Not physically, though her feet had started cussing in those Louboutins somewhere around the third Beenie Man track. She was tired in a deeper place. Tired of unknown numbers and old ghosts. Tired of pretending Lennox’s hand on her thigh had not steadied something in her and tired of being furious at him when he kept finding ways to make her laugh and feel protected in the same breath.

His house had been exactly what she expected and nothing like what she had imagined, sleek and private.

Floor-to-ceiling windows, dark wood, warm lighting, art that looked understated until a person noticed the signature, security so seamless it barely looked like security at all. It smelled like cedar, leather, and Lennox. Clean and dark and irritatingly good.

Lane had stepped inside, looked around, and said, “This is exactly the kind of house a hacker with unresolved father issues would have.”

Lennox had closed the door behind them. “You like it.”

“I like shelter. Don’t get arrogant.”

“Too late.”

She had rolled her eyes and kicked off her orange mules near the entryway, sighing in relief before she could stop herself.

Lennox had looked down at her feet. “Want me to rub them?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

She ignored him as he showed her the guest bathroom. He handed her a soft black towel and told her there was a new toothbrush in the drawer. He made sure to let her know whatever else she needed was in the cabinet. Lane had given him a suspicious look because men who had fresh toothbrushes available for women either had excellent hospitality or a revolving door of poor decisions. He must have read her face.

“They’re for guests,” he said.

“Guests with overnight needs?”

“KC, Tariq, my cousins, Cadence once when she got sick at a cookout I hosted and wanted to brush her teeth and lay down.”

Lane had believed that only because it sounded exactly like Cadence. She had washed her face carefully, preserving what dignity she could after a night that had included blackmail, bad chemistry, Depends, dancing, and Lennox Jackson saying she would be Mrs. Jackson, as if he had put it in a spreadsheet and color-coded the timeline.

When she came out, Lennox stood in the hallway with a folded T-shirt and a pair of joggers. Lane looked at the clothes, then at him.

“I’m not wearing your little man pajamas,” she snickered.

“They’re not little.”

“Still not wearing them.”

He shrugged and put the clothes on the chair, irritating Lane. She had changed with the door half-open because modesty had never been what protected her, and Lennox had already seen enough of her body to write a dissertation with footnotes. The orange sequined pants pooled on the chair. The matching top followed. She removed her earrings and set them on the nightstand. She stood there in nothing but her panties. Her skin was warm from the club, and her lavender pixie still curled perfectly because she had not spent good money on skilled wrist work to let humidity or men defeat her.

When she turned, Lennox was in the doorway—not inside, but standing there with both hands braced on the frame, as if he needed the architecture for support. His gaze moved over her before stopping on her face, and for once, he didn’t say something slick. Somehow, that did more to her than the flirting ever had.

Lane crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Why are you staring, Lennox?

His throat moved before he answered, “I’m in awe of you.” He answered, the sensuality of his tone catching Lane off guard.

Lane’s first instinct had been to make a joke and tell him awe had a processing fee. Maybe throw a pillow at his head, while reminding him that his awe had terrible boundaries and worse judgment. But something about the way he looked at her made the joke stay where it was, never leaving her lips.

It was not just desire. Desire, Lane understood. Desire had followed her into rooms since she was too young to know what to do with it. Desire had made people stare and made women blame. Made men assume. Made the world call her body an invitation before she had ever offered one.

Lennox wanted her. That was obvious. His eyes were dark with it, and the air between them knew it too.

But he looked at her like he saw more than skin.

Like he saw the woman who had danced to reggae until her anger loosened. The woman whose phone held threats. The woman who cursed him out and still let him keep his hand on her thigh. The woman who had built a life out of pieces no one had protected. Lane wanted to believe that look.

“You planning to stand there being poetic,” she asked, “or are you going to say something stupid and ruin the moment?”