Chapter Thirteen #2
“Noted,” he chuckled.
She studied him, and the love she had for him was visible in his eyes.
He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “How are you feeling?”
Lane looked away for a moment. There was no performance in it. No sharp answer rushed out to protect the bruise. She took time with the truth, and Lennox recognized the gift.
“I could be worse,” she said, “But with you, everything feels better. Tolerable.”
Lennox kissed her forehead because if he kissed her mouth, he might do too much too soon. “I’ll take tolerable.”
“You should. It’s a generous rating.”
He smiled against her skin. “What do you want for breakfast?”
She told him anything but eggs, and they both laughed. Her smile appeared before she could stop it. The mood shifted slightly when she asked him what to pack for their Winston Hills getaway. His body reacted with pleasure at the way Lane was trying to see what he was planning.
Lane caught it immediately. “Why did you just light up like a scammer with my Social Security number?”
“I love when you ask logistical questions.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” he admitted with ease.
He rolled onto his side, propping his head in one hand as he looked down at her. “Lavender, you’re sexy without instruction, so just do what you do best and bring something sexy for dinner and Provocateur.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Provocateur.”
“Yes.”
“As in Winston Hills Provocateur.”
“Yes.”
“As in private club, performers, rooms with rules, people using words like scene and consent contract.”
His brows lifted. “You’ve done research.”
“I have friends and the internet.”
“Dangerous combination.”
“Very.” She paused, watching him. “And Calla Black performs there?”
“The Black Dahlia,” he said. “Yes.”
Lane’s mouth curved. “That is still a dangerously sexy name.”
“She earned it.”
“I bet she did.”
He let that sit for a second, enjoying the spark of curiosity in her eyes.
“And,” he continued, “bring something perfect for dinner and wine tasting at a Michelin-star restaurant.”
“This wasn’t last minute,” she said.
“No.”
“You planned this weekend,” Lane’s face filled with intrigue. “You booked Provocateur, arranged a Michelin-star wine tasting, and probably selected hotel sheets with a thread count that requires a tax bracket, all before asking me?”
“I wasn’t arrogant; in fact, my whole thought process was planning something you’d remember for years to come. My plan is that you enjoy this trip so much it becomes a romantic tradition, Lav.”
Lane stared at him like she was trying to figure out where to file that. Under audacity. Under tenderness. Under dangerous. Maybe all three. Lennox could see her working through it, turning the gesture over, checking for hooks, debts, expectations.
He gave her the truth before fear could invent something uglier.
“I hoped you’d say yes,” he said. “But if you didn’t, I would’ve canceled it.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“No pouting?”
He looked away.
Lane sat up slightly. “Lennox.”
“Some pouting.”
“There he is.”
She looked at him for a long moment, and then her smile changed. Turning wicked at the edges. “Well,” she said, voice dropping into something sensual enough to make his morning forget every sensible priority. “Look at Lennox Jackson courting me like a proper gentleman.”
His blood heated instantly. “Proper?” he asked.
She dragged one fingertip down the center of his chest, over his shirt. “Dinner. Poetry. Diner food. Emotional accountability. Weekend getaway. Asking permission before cyber-sinning. A girl could get spoiled if she wasn’t careful.”
“A girl should get spoiled.”
Her eyes lifted to his. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“And what happens when the girl starts expecting things?”
“Then the man keeps delivering.”
“You’re being very charming this morning,” she whispered.
“I’m in love with you,” he almost said.
The words rose so fast he had to catch them behind his teeth. Not because he didn’t mean them. Because Lane had given him yes to a weekend, not permission to drop his whole heart in her lap before coffee and expect her not to panic, so instead, he did what felt safest for both of them.
He kissed her quietly. Gentle at first, then deeper when she sighed against his mouth and curled her fingers into his shirt.
He kissed her until the teasing eased out of her and something warmer took its place, until the room felt too small for everything he wasn’t saying.
When he pulled back, her eyes were half-lidded with pleasure.
“Rude,” she whispered.
“Effective.”
“I was making a point,” she tittered.
She laughed and shoved lightly at his chest, but when he caught her hand and kissed her palm, the laughter softened into something that felt too close to forever for him to examine before coffee.
Lane climbed out of bed, stretching in the morning light. Lennox watched her move through her room like a woman who had survived everything meant to ruin her and still looked like poetry deciding to breathe.
He was in love with her, and there was no point denying it now. The truth sat in his heart, comfortable and certain. Lane Sanders was the whole basket and Lennox Jackson, who’d spent years refusing to put too much of himself anywhere one person could reach, was already gathering every egg he had.