Page 106 of Lennox Lane

At a corner table.

With her.

The same woman from the baby shower.

The one who’d shown up months ago draped in smugness and perfume, touching Lennox’s arm like she had memories in places Lane had since put a flag. Tall. Pretty. Light-brown skin. Honey-blonde hair. Body done by God, money, or both and dressed in designer casual that looked effortless only because a stylist had probably prayed over it.

Lane stopped breathing.

Lennox’s back was partly to her, but she knew his shoulders. Knew the set of his head. Knew the hand that rested on the table near his glass.

The woman leaned forward and touched his wrist. Lane didn’t hear what was said. She didn’t wait to. Her body moved before good sense could file an appeal.

“Well, look at this,” Lane said, voice carrying clean across the restaurant.

Lennox turned, and his face changed so fast Lane almost paused. “Lane.”

The woman looked over, and recognition slid into her smile. “Oh.”

That little “oh” pissed her off real bad. If him being there with her period was the ice cream, and her touching him was the whipped cream, then the “oh” was the cherry on top that sent Lane spiraling.

Lennox stood. “This is not⁠—”

Lane held up one hand. “Don’t.”

“Lavender.”

“Don’t Lavender me in public while sitting across from clearance-rack temptation.”

The woman’s brows lifted. “Excuse me?”

Lane looked her up and down. “You heard me, polyester Pauline.”

Several people at nearby tables turned. The hostess froze, and the bartender slowly lowered the shaker he’d been using.

Lennox stepped toward Lane. “Let me explain.”

“No.” Lane’s smile was sharp enough to split bone. “You played with the wrong bitch.”

His jaw tightened. “I didn’t play with you.”

“You sure? Because from where I’m standing, this looks like a rerun and you know I don’t watch those.”

The woman laughed lightly. “He was just⁠—”

Lane pointed at her without looking. “Speak again, and I’ll turn this farm-to-table establishment into a crime scene with seasonal garnish.”

The room went silent. “Lane.”

She picked up her to-go bag from the bar, turned, and walked out before anger became something wet and humiliating behind her eyes. He followed her outside, of course, and she was already unlocking her car.

“Lane, stop.”

“No.”

“You’re not listening,” he huffed, frustrated.

“That is correct.”