Page 73 of Lennox Lane

“There’ll be after tonight if you embarrass me.”

He held out his hand.

Lane looked at it for a second too long.

Then she took it.

The warmth of his palm closed around her as he helped her out of the car like she wasn’t perfectly capable of doing it herself. She should’ve complained. She didn’t. Maybe because he released her hand after, but she pulled it back. Maybe because he looked nervous for half a second when he thought she wasn’t watching, and it made her want to be his support.

Oh.

That softened her more than the hand-holding.

The Ink Well smelled just as she’d remembered—like coffee and books. The room stretched long and narrow, with exposed brick walls, small round tables, mismatched velvet chairs, and a tiny stage at the front beneath amber lights. A chalkboard near the bar listed the night’s specials: jerk chicken sliders, smoked gouda mac bites, sweet potato fries, honey-lime wings, rum punch, and something called The Writer’s Block.

The crowd was already thick.

Not packed enough to feel suffocating, but alive. People leaned into conversation. A woman in a copper head wrap laughed with her whole body near the bar. Two men argued gently over whether Nikki Giovanni or Sonia Sanchez had the sharper pen. A young poet in ripped black jeans paced near the stage, whispering lines to himself while his friend recorded him for moral support and probable Instagram content.

Lane breathed in.

Places that held space for art, release, and healing always gave her a sense of peace. Lennox watched her, and she hated that he caught the moment.

“You okay?”

“I’m at peace,” she stated honestly instead of covering what she was feeling with jokes. “Poetry saved my life. Being able to share my art and be in places where art is shared puts me at peace.” She exhaled and smiled at him.

“You deserve peace, Baby. At all times in all ways.”

“So make sure I have it with you.”

He smiled and led her to a table near the middle, close enough to see the stage but not close enough to be trapped by audience participation. Smart man. Annoyingly smart. He pulled out her chair, waited for her to sit before going to the bar for drinks and food without needing her order because, of course, he’d been paying too much attention to her life.

He returned with The Writer’s Block for her and dark rum for him. He also grabbed some catfish bites, sweet potato fries, and honey-lime wings.

Lane looked at the spread. “You know, Robot, one day your observational skills are gonna get you kissed or arrested.

His eyes warmed. “I’m hoping for the first.”

“Hope privately.”

“Trying.”

He sat across from her, then pulled the folded paper from his pocket and smoothed it once against the table.

Lane’s gaze locked on it.

Her heart tilted.

Lennox stood. “I’m putting my name on the list.”

“You still have time to sit down and be normal.”

He leaned down, close enough for his cologne to curl around her thoughts. “You like me abnormal.”

“I tolerate you glitching.”

“Progress.”