Page 46 of Lennox Lane

“So you help people,” she said.

“When I can.”

“Legally?”

“Do you want comfort or honesty?”

Lane sighed. “Unfortunately, honesty.”

“Not always.”

“Lennox.”

“Lavender.”

“Do not nickname your way out of criminal activity.”

“I’m not. I’m being transparent about it.”

“That’s not the virtue you think it is.”

His lips curved. “Still growing.”

“Painfully slow.”

“I’m worth the wait.”

“You’re worth a court date.”

He laughed then, real and low, and Lane felt the sound under her palm.

She wanted to stay in this moment longer than she should have. Wanted to ask more about Mielle. About the outside siblings. About the original Midnight Ledger and what it felt like to become a name he never wanted. Wanted to know whether Lennox’s fear of commitment came from watching his mother stay or watching his father leave when he felt like it and showing back up when he needed something.

But her phone rang from the nightstand.

Lane stiffened.

Lennox felt it. His hand tightened over hers before the second ring finished.

“It’s not her,” he said.

Lane turned her head. “How do you know?”

He gave her a look.

Her eyes narrowed. “You are still on thin ice.”

“Understood.”

She reached for the phone and saw the name flashing across the screen.

Marisol.

Her operations manager at The Full Plate Project.

Lane accepted the call and put it on speakerphone, partly because Lennox was already too close not to hear, and partly because she wanted him to prove he could sit there without acting like her phone was communal property.

“Morning, Marisol.”