Page 69 of Lennox Lane

“Still a record.”

He reached the bottom of the stairs and waited near the foyer. A few seconds later, Lane appeared at the top of the staircase. Lennox forgot every clever thing he had ever said.

She came down slowly, one hand grazing the railing, looking casual in a way that should have been illegal in at least three jurisdictions. Baggy ripped jeans hung low on her hips, loose enough to look effortless and dangerous enough to make his thoughts stumble when the Calvin Klein logo peeked above the waistband. Her brown sweatshirt had been cut into something asymmetrical and sexy. Exposing a smooth stretch of midriff and the teasing curve beneath the hem without giving away too much. Gold door-knocker earrings swung against her neck. Gold chains layered over her chest—bracelets stacked at her wrists, catching the light with every step.

A jacquard fabric New York Yankees hat sat low over her lavender curls, somehow making the entire look even colder. Custom Dunks in the same jacquard fabric finished the outfit, and a Louis Vuitton fanny pack rode at her waist like the final punctuation mark on a sentence nobody else could afford to write.

She looked like street wear luxury, trouble, and poetry had gotten together and decided to ruin his blood pressure as he stared shamelessly.

Lane stopped midway down the stairs. “Do not make that face.”

“What face?”

“The face men make right before they say something that makes women regret getting dressed.”

He shook his head slowly. “I’m trying to find language.”

“Did your internal hard drive crash?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She continued down, and Lennox met her at the bottom. Seeing her up close had him more infatuated. The gold against her skin. The gloss on her lips. The sweet scent of Guava Granita and whatever oil she wore that made him want to abandon reason as a lifestyle. The little slice of stomach between the denim and sweatshirt. The confidence. The ease. The way she stood there knowing exactly what she was doing to him and pretending innocence had ever lived in her zip code.

“You look stunning,” he said.

Lane’s face changed.

Not much.

But enough.

Her eyes dropped for half a second, and a soft wash of color warmed her cheeks. Lane Sanders, menace to boardrooms and destroyer of fragile male egos, blushed.

Lennox almost put a hand to his chest.

There were miracles, and then there was this.

“Thank you,” she said, quieter than he expected.

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m grateful.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the blush stayed. “That was almost smooth.”

“I’m growing.”

“Like mold.”

“Still organic.”