Page 50 of Lennox Lane

Not because he was right about everything. He was not. Not even close.

But because The Full Plate Project needed that money. Desperately. The kitchen repairs alone had been making her chest tight for weeks. The pantry expansion meant more families served, more seniors fed, more emergency bags packed, more teenagers able to walk out with food without feeling like hunger had made them beg.

One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars every quarter would not just help.

It would change things.

And he had set it up without needing applause.

She hated how much that touched her.

She hated even more that he knew.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she said.

“Helping?”

“Deciding.”

He had decided to monitor her and decided to ruin her date. Decided to bring her to his house. Decided Jeanette would be handled. Decided The Full Plate Project needed recurring support.

“You’re right,” Lennox held her gaze. “I should have asked.”

Her anger stumbled, hating when he did that. “You are making it very hard to keep my rhythm,” she said.

“What rhythm?”

“The rhythm of cussing you out.”

His smile returned faintly. “I can act worse if that helps.”

“You naturally act worse, no need to apply yourself.”

He reached for her hand but stopped before touching her. Another choice. Another small correction she wished she didn’t notice.

“The money stays,” he said.

Lane lifted a brow.

“If you want it to,” he added.

She looked at him for a long second; it was better but not perfect. “I’m accepting the donation because my community needs it,” she said. “Not because you’re charming.”

Lane leaned back against the pillows, still glaring, though the force of it had weakened. “You are exhausting.”

Lennox’s eyes moved over her face, softer now. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You were approaching it.”

Lane stared at him. Then, against her better judgment, she laughed. Lennox smiled like he had won something. As morning filled the room and her phone sat quiet for once, Lane could not deny the truth pressing against her ribs. Lennox Jackson was dangerous. Not because he could hack anything. Not because he had money, power, or the kind of arrogance that could make a woman consider misdemeanors before breakfast.

He was dangerous because sometimes, beneath all the wrong methods and maddening certainty, he cared in ways that found the places she was tired of holding alone.

Lane had no idea what to do with that.

So she did what she knew.