Chapter Six
FEAST OVER FAMINE
Lane’s eyes fluttered open as warmth engulfed her. Not sunlight, though a thin ribbon of morning slipped through the gap in Lennox’s curtains and stretched across the floor like it had business there. Not the heavy comforter pulled over her hips. Not even the slow heat trapped beneath the sheets.
Lennox.
He was wrapped around her like he had gone to sleep making a point.
That she belonged in his arms. One arm banded around her waist, heavy and possessive even in sleep.
His chest pressed against her back, steady and warm.
One of his legs had worked between hers sometime during the night, and his face was tucked close enough to the nape of her neck that every slow exhale brushed her skin.
Lane should have moved. She should have peeled his arm off her, slid out of bed, found her clothes, and reminded herself that Lennox Jackson was still the same man who had hacked her personal life, ruined her date with adult diapers, and dragged her to reggae night like emotional chaos had valet parking.
She should have left, but she opted to lie perfectly still in his warm embrace.
His breathing was even, lulling her into serenity.
She was safe in his arms, though she hated to admit it.
No one had held her like this without asking for anything in return in so long she didn’t know what to do with the ache it opened inside her.
Lane stared at the wall across from his bed, at the framed black-and-white photograph of a city skyline she couldn’t recognize, and let herself remember the night before.
After dancing the night away to Reggae and enjoying more rum punch, her body had betrayed her by fitting too well against his.
Lennox had driven them to his place. Lane had spent the entire ride pretending she was only going because her car was being dropped off there.
She also wanted answers about Jeanette, because she did not feel like fighting him in public while dressed like a tangerine goddess with a felony in her spirit.
None of that was a lie, but it also wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth was that she had been tired.
Not physically, though her feet had started cussing in those Louboutins somewhere around the third Beenie Man track.
She was tired in a deeper place. Tired of unknown numbers and old ghosts.
Tired of pretending Lennox’s hand on her thigh had not steadied something in her and tired of being furious at him when he kept finding ways to make her laugh and feel protected in the same breath.
His house had been exactly what she expected and nothing like what she had imagined, sleek and private.
Floor-to-ceiling windows, dark wood, warm lighting, art that looked understated until a person noticed the signature, security so seamless it barely looked like security at all. It smelled like cedar, leather, and Lennox. Clean and dark and irritatingly good.
Lane had stepped inside, looked around, and said, “This is exactly the kind of house a hacker with unresolved father issues would have.”
Lennox had closed the door behind them. “You like it.”
“I like shelter. Don’t get arrogant.”
“Too late.”
She had rolled her eyes and kicked off her orange mules near the entryway, sighing in relief before she could stop herself.
Lennox had looked down at her feet. “Want me to rub them?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
She ignored him as he showed her the guest bathroom.
He handed her a soft black towel and told her there was a new toothbrush in the drawer.
He made sure to let her know whatever else she needed was in the cabinet.
Lane had given him a suspicious look because men who had fresh toothbrushes available for women either had excellent hospitality or a revolving door of poor decisions. He must have read her face.
“They’re for guests,” he said.
“Guests with overnight needs?”
“KC, Tariq, my cousins, Cadence once when she got sick at a cookout I hosted and wanted to brush her teeth and lay down.”
Lane had believed that only because it sounded exactly like Cadence.
She had washed her face carefully, preserving what dignity she could after a night that had included blackmail, bad chemistry, Depends, dancing, and Lennox Jackson saying she would be Mrs. Jackson, as if he had put it in a spreadsheet and color-coded the timeline.
When she came out, Lennox stood in the hallway with a folded T-shirt and a pair of joggers. Lane looked at the clothes, then at him.
“I’m not wearing your little man pajamas,” she snickered.
“They’re not little.”
“Still not wearing them.”
He shrugged and put the clothes on the chair, irritating Lane.
She had changed with the door half-open because modesty had never been what protected her, and Lennox had already seen enough of her body to write a dissertation with footnotes.
The orange sequined pants pooled on the chair.
The matching top followed. She removed her earrings and set them on the nightstand.
She stood there in nothing but her panties.
Her skin was warm from the club, and her lavender pixie still curled perfectly because she had not spent good money on skilled wrist work to let humidity or men defeat her.
When she turned, Lennox was in the doorway—not inside, but standing there with both hands braced on the frame, as if he needed the architecture for support.
His gaze moved over her before stopping on her face, and for once, he didn’t say something slick.
Somehow, that did more to her than the flirting ever had.
Lane crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Why are you staring, Lennox?
His throat moved before he answered, “I’m in awe of you.” He answered, the sensuality of his tone catching Lane off guard.
Lane’s first instinct had been to make a joke and tell him awe had a processing fee. Maybe throw a pillow at his head, while reminding him that his awe had terrible boundaries and worse judgment. But something about the way he looked at her made the joke stay where it was, never leaving her lips.
It was not just desire. Desire, Lane understood. Desire had followed her into rooms since she was too young to know what to do with it. Desire had made people stare and made women blame. Made men assume. Made the world call her body an invitation before she had ever offered one.
Lennox wanted her. That was obvious. His eyes were dark with it, and the air between them knew it too.
But he looked at her like he saw more than skin.
Like he saw the woman who had danced to reggae until her anger loosened. The woman whose phone held threats. The woman who cursed him out and still let him keep his hand on her thigh. The woman who had built a life out of pieces no one had protected. Lane wanted to believe that look.
“You planning to stand there being poetic,” she asked, “or are you going to say something stupid and ruin the moment?”
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.”