Page 103 of Lennox Lane

“Yes.”

“As in Winston Hills Provocateur.”

“Yes.”

“As in private club, performers, rooms with rules, people using words like scene and consent contract.”

His brows lifted. “You’ve done research.”

“I have friends and the internet.”

“Dangerous combination.”

“Very.” She paused, watching him. “And Calla Black performs there?”

“The Black Dahlia,” he said. “Yes.”

Lane’s mouth curved. “That is still a dangerously sexy name.”

“She earned it.”

“I bet she did.”

He let that sit for a second, enjoying the spark of curiosity in her eyes.

“And,” he continued, “bring something perfect for dinner and wine tasting at a Michelin-star restaurant.”

“This wasn’t last minute,” she said.

“No.”

“You planned this weekend,” Lane’s face filled with intrigue. “You booked Provocateur, arranged a Michelin-star wine tasting, and probably selected hotel sheets with a thread count that requires a tax bracket, all before asking me?”

“I wasn’t arrogant; in fact, my whole thought process was planning something you’d remember for years to come. My plan is that you enjoy this trip so much it becomes a romantic tradition, Lav.”

Lane stared at him like she was trying to figure out where to file that. Under audacity. Under tenderness. Under dangerous. Maybe all three. Lennox could see her working through it, turning the gesture over, checking for hooks, debts, expectations.

He gave her the truth before fear could invent something uglier.

“I hoped you’d say yes,” he said. “But if you didn’t, I would’ve canceled it.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“No pouting?”

He looked away.

Lane sat up slightly. “Lennox.”

“Some pouting.”

“There he is.”

She looked at him for a long moment, and then her smile changed. Turning wicked at the edges. “Well,” she said, voice dropping into something sensual enough to make his morning forget every sensible priority. “Look at Lennox Jackson courting me like a proper gentleman.”

His blood heated instantly. “Proper?” he asked.