Page 38 of Lennox Lane

His smile came slowly. “Trying to grow.”

“Painful?”

“Excruciating,” he told her.

That had pulled a laugh from her, and the tension eased enough for her to crawl into his bed in nothing but her panties and too much attitude. She had expected him to follow with seduction. Expected him to kiss her until she forgot all the reasons she should keep her guard up and remind her with his hands and mouth why she had described their sex to Cadence and Nova like it had almost required medical intervention.

Instead, Lennox changed into gray sweats and a white T-shirt before he dimmed the lights and stretched out beside her with space between them. The audacity of growth, she said to herself.

Lane had turned onto her side and looked at him. “Are you about to behave?”

He had laughed softly, then settled against the pillows. “Tell me more about yourself.”

Lane blinked. “What?”

“Tell me about you.”

She stared at him. “You hacked my email and iCloud, Batman. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

His smile faded. “Lane, I recognize I overstepped and let pride and jealousy do some dumb shit, but I want a chance to show you I can leave your boundaries in place and get my information directly from the source,” he pleaded.

Lane had not expected him to say those things. She planned for him to justify his behavior. Lennox was a man built for defense. Firewalls, counter surveillance, verbal sparring, the kind of confidence that made apologies feel like optional software updates.

But he only looked at her. “I want there to be no secrets between us when you become mine,” he said.

Lane stared. “When?”

“Yes.”

“You’re still saying that like I filled out an application,” her face frowned up.

“You did. St. Barts was the interview. Surprise! You’re hired!” he yelled like an overly excited HR manager.

“You’re a disease,” she laughed loudly.

“Chronic.”

She had rolled her eyes, but her heart had done something foolish beneath her ribs. “When I become yours,” she repeated. “That is quite the assumption from a man who spent months acting like commitment was a contagious skin condition.”

Lane studied him for a long moment, then rested her head against the pillow. “So what do you know?”

His eyes held hers. “I know you write poetry, Lavender Haze.”

Lane forgot how to breathe for a second. She didn’t use that name publicly. She’d done so many open mics that her name was household on the poetry circuit. She posted a few poems years apart on social media pages no one connected to her professional life. Lavender Haze belonged to the part of her that needed to speak without letting Lane Sanders, manager, founder, strategist, fixer, become public property.

“You dug that up?”

“No.” He paused. “I saw you perform once.”

Lane’s brows pulled together. “When?”

“Last year. Poetry night at The Blue Room. Nova was supposed to perform a short acoustic set after the open mic. I got there early for security because Riq had asked me to and you went up before her.”

The Blue Room had been crowded that night. Low lights and snapped fingers. Incense, wine, and the sacred hush that came when people were brave enough to bleed into a microphone. Lane had worn black. No lavender then except the name. She had told herself she was only reading because Nova dared her. After all, the room was small, because nobody important was listening.

Apparently, Lennox had been standing in the shadows. He was always in some shadow, lurking. You could count on him gathering information like a menace with excellent posture.

“What did you hear?”