Page 71 of Lennox Lane

Finally, she turned to him. “Where are we going?”

He kept his eyes on the road. “For a ride.”

Her brows lifted. “That is not an answer.”

“It is.”

“It’s a phrase men use when they don’t want women to have enough information for a police report.”

Lennox laughed. “No crimes tonight.”

“That’s what criminals say.”

“That’s fair.”

“Lennox.”

He glanced at her then, letting the softness in his chest show because he wanted her to see it. Not all of it. Not yet. But enough.

“Just go for a ride, Lavender,” he said. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

Lane held his gaze for a moment.

Her mouth opened like she had a rebuttal ready.

Then she closed it and looked out the windshield, the gold of her earrings catching the passing streetlights.

“I better not,” she said, smiling.

She was feeling like his.

Not fully.

Not yet.

But close enough for Lennox to keep driving toward the poem waiting in his jacket pocket. Toward the stage where he would either win a little more of her trust or embarrass himself into a legendary fail. Either way, he was ready.

CHAPTER TEN

A HACKER’S PROSE

Lane knew where they were before Lennox put the car in park.

The Ink Well sat tucked above a narrow independent bookstore on the east side of Stonebridge, its black awning stamped with gold lettering and a tiny ink bottle logo that spilled into the shape of a microphone. Warm light glowed from the second-floor windows. People clustered near the entrance, laughing with paper cups in hand, dressed in denim, leather, linen, locs, curls, sneakers, heels, and the kind of confidence only artists and people avoiding direct deposit could pull off after sunset.

Lane turned slowly toward Lennox.

“No.”

He smiled like he’d been waiting for that exact response. “You don’t even know what we’re doing.”

“I know where we are.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Robot.”

“Lavender.”