Page 87 of Lennox Lane

Lennox’s laugh boomed out of him, startling Keisha at the counter.

Lane pointed at him, delighted. “Yes! And boiled eggs? Devil marbles.”

“Devil marbles is crazy,” he laughed.

“Accurate though and omelets are just folded lies,” she giggled.

Lennox grinned at her like she’d just given him a ring. And Lane, against all survival instinct, felt a new level of smitten unlock inside her. Not because of the poem or money. Not because of the dinner or the way he held her like he was learning a new language through touch. Because the man hated breakfast eggs.

Lane had spent years armoring herself against grand gestures and pretty words. But this? This small, ridiculous overlap? This made him feel less like a force of nature and more like a person she could know. A person she could learn in pieces. A person who might sit across from her on a regular morning and complain about omelets like they were a civic issue.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

Lennox looked at her. “What?”

She shook her head. “Absolutely nothing.”

His smile turned knowing. “You like me more now.”

“I found one tolerable trait.”

“Lane, it’s okay if you’re smitten”

She gave him a look, but she was smiling too wide to sell it.

After they paid, Lennox walked her to the car with his fingers threaded through hers. Not tight. Not possessive in the old way. Just there, palm warm, thumb brushing over hers every few steps. When he opened the passenger door, she looked at him for a long moment.

Back at his place, the house was quiet, the lavender from dinner still faint in the air. Lane stood in the foyer for a moment, suddenly aware of the turn the night had taken. Open mic, diner, and Jeanette. His hand in hers and the strange intimacy of learning someone’s favorite foods while their family wounds sat between plates of catfish and pie.

Lennox locked the door behind them, not touching her immediately. That was what made her turn. He stood near the entryway, watching her with the kind of restraint that looked like effort.

Lane swallowed. “Robot.”

His eyes warmed. “Lavender.”

“If you say anything stupid, I’m going upstairs.”

“Then I won’t.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

She smiled, and that was all it took. He crossed the space slowly, giving her time to change her mind, and when she didn't, he cupped her face with both hands like he'd been waiting all night to hold her that way.

The kiss was soft, too soft for what burned between them. Lane expected heat first. Lennox had always known how to turn want into a wildfire. Their chemistry had never needed help finding a match. Lane answered by rising on her toes and wrapping her arms around his neck.

His breath left him.

Then his mouth moved over hers again, deeper this time but still careful, still patient, still reverent in a way that made her chest ache harder than desire alone ever could.

They made it upstairs slowly. Not because they lacked urgency but because Lennox kept stopping. At the bottom of the stairs, to kiss her forehead. Halfway up, to ask if she was okay.

In the hallway, to press her back gently against the wall and kiss her like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of her mouth when she wasn't hiding behind sarcasm.

By the time they reached his bedroom, Lane's hands were shaking, not from fear, but from too many feelings trying to live in one body. Lennox noticed as he took her hands and kissed her knuckles. "We don't have to."

"I know."