Page 55 of Lennox Lane

“And you ain’t trying to get your name on the building?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You trying to marry Lane?”

Lane made a strangled sound. “Ms. Cora.”

Lennox smiled. “Also yes, ma’am.”

The room erupted.

Lane turned slowly toward him with murder in her eyes. “Lennox.”

“What? She asked.

“You were told to keep it internal.”

“I failed quickly.”

Ms. Cora cackled. “I like him.”

“You can’t,” Lane said. “It encourages him.”

Lennox stepped forward before Lane could threaten him in front of her entire staff, which was likely only seconds away. He cleared his throat, and the room settled again.

“I’ll keep this short,” he said. “I know Lane is the reason this place exists the way it does. I know she built it because she understands hunger and dignity in ways most people only pretend to understand when cameras are around.”

He felt Lane go still beside him.

He did not look at her because if he did, he might say too much.

“What y’all do here matters,” he continued. “Every box packed. Every meal served. Every person greeted by name. Every child who leaves here with food and without shame. That matters. I’m grateful I’m in a position to support it, but I didn’t do anything special. I did what the Lord put on my heart to do.”

Miss Dottie lifted both hands. “Amen.”

“Amen,” someone echoed.

Lennox looked around the room. “And since my money isn’t doing the physical work, show me the ropes and put me somewhere my help can actually be useful.”

Andre’s face lit up with wicked delight. “You know how to unload trucks?”

Lennox glanced at Lane.

Lane smiled sweetly. “You said useful.”

He pointed at Andre. “Lead the way.”

For the next two hours, Lennox learned that money was easy and labor was humbling.

Andre put him at the loading bay with three volunteers, two dollies, and a delivery truck full of produce, frozen poultry, dry goods, and industrial-size bags of rice that someone with a personal vendetta against lower backs had clearly packed. Lennox was in shape. He worked out. He trained. He could hold his own in most situations that required stamina.

The Full Plate Project loading dock did not care.

By the fifth stack of canned goods, his T-shirt clung to his back. By the second pallet of potatoes, Andre had corrected his lifting form twice. By the third round of Miss Dottie yelling from the kitchen that nobody better crush her tomatoes, Lennox had developed deep respect for every person who made food appear on shelves before the doors opened.

Lane passed through once with a clipboard and a smirk.

“You sweating, Jackson?”