Chapter Fifteen
THE WONDER OF WINSTON HILLS
By the time they crossed into Winston Hills, Lane understood why people spoke about the town like it had been handpicked by God and landscaped by rich Black aunties with standards.
It was beautiful.
Not cute. Not nice. Not one of those polished developments with decorative trees and sidewalks nobody used.
Beautiful in a way that felt rooted. Lush, green, and full of trees that arched over wide roads like they were protecting everybody beneath them.
Old oaks stretched their branches across stone-lined streets.
Crepe myrtles bloomed in soft bursts of pink, white, and lavender.
Ivy climbed brick walls around private estates, and every turn revealed something intentional: wrought-iron gates, walking trails, pocket parks, fountains, brownstone-style shops, and homes sitting back from the road like they knew they didn’t have to beg for attention.
Lane sat in the passenger seat, one hand resting near the window, taking it all in.
“This place is the definition of luxe,” she murmured.
Lennox glanced over. “Absolutely. I love to visit to unwind without being too far away.”
“I can definitely see why. You can smell the wealth in the air. The kind of affluence where even the trees look like they have trust funds.”
He laughed.
“Winston Hills takes landscaping seriously.”
“They take everything seriously. I can tell.”
She watched a woman in a cream pantsuit walk a giant poodle down a sidewalk lined with hydrangeas. “That dog has a better credit score than me and owns some property.”
“And what’s more breathtaking is the city is predominantly black. People that look like us are behind the wealth here,” Lennox added before reaching across the console, palm up.
Lane looked at his hand as she placed hers in it. That had started happening more often. Not automatically. Nothing with Lane happened automatically unless it involved sarcasm or vengeance. But lately, when Lennox offered his hand, she didn’t always make him wait long enough to regret reaching.
He didn’t comment on it either.
Smart Robot.
They checked into a luxury hotel tucked against a wooded ridge with sweeping views of the town below.
The lobby smelled like cedar, citrus, and expensive quiet.
A massive chandelier hung above them, all glass and gold, catching the afternoon light like jewelry.
The floors were polished stone, the furniture deep green velvet and warm leather, and behind the front desk, a wall of living plants climbed toward the ceiling.
Lane stepped inside and immediately looked at Lennox.
“This hotel is something out of a movie.”
He smiled. “You like it?”
“I love it.”
“I figured you would.”
She tried to keep her face neutral while a bellhop greeted them by name.
A woman at the front desk handed Lennox their key cards just as a second staff member appeared with infused water, as if hydration had a concierge.
But by the time they stepped into the elevator, Lane’s composure had started to slip.
Their suite did the rest.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. A sitting room with a fireplace—a bedroom dressed in cream and deep emerald.
A marble bathroom with a soaking tub Lane immediately decided had been built by someone who understood spiritual ambiance.
There were fresh flowers on the coffee table.
Champagne chilling near the window. A small welcome basket with fruit, chocolates, and a handwritten note from the hotel manager.
Lane walked through the suite slowly.
“Lennox.”
“Yeah, Baby.”
“This is too much.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” he told her, setting their bags near the bedroom entrance. “It’s not too much for me to want to give you the best I can afford to offer.”
Lane turned toward him.
That was the kind of thing he did now.
Slipped truth into a room like a hand at her lower back. Gentle, firm, impossible to ignore. She looked away first because softness still made her want to inspect the exits.
“What time is dinner, Robot?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“Where?” she probed further.
“Olive and Oak.”
Lane turned back. “THEE Olive and Oak?”
“Yes.”
“Head chef Knox Carter-Fairfax Olive and Oak?”
“Yes.”
“Maison Noire wine pairing Olive and Oak?”
His smile widened. “You’ve done research again.”
“Robot, you told me Michelin-star restaurant, and I’m a manager. I prepare.”
Lane crossed her arms. “You know there’s a difference between planning a weekend and trying to subdue me, romantically?”
“Baby, Daddy is spoiling you. You’ll never have to question if I can be who you need cause I’m showing you every chance you give me.”
She didn’t even bother arguing. The man had planned a stay at a luxury hotel.
A wine tasting. And what intrigued me most—whatever Provocateur had waiting for them later.
At this point, she had to respect the campaign.
She told him to play ball or get off the field, and he showed up to win.
Not only was his money talking, but so were his actions.
He was showing her every day what intentional looked like, even if it was deeply irritating to her defenses.
Because it was working.
A few hours later, after Lane had soaked in the tub long enough to consider becoming a better person—she stood in the bedroom wrapped in a hotel robe while staring at the outfit laid across the bed.
A leopard-print satin slip dress with black lace along the sides.
She decided on black strappy sandals and gold accessories.
It was sexy without begging to be. Soft and elegant but still very much Lane.
The kind of dress that didn’t enter a room so much as make the room adjust its behavior.
Her toenails were painted a dark green that looked almost black until the light caught it.
Her lavender pixie had been molded into finger waves, glossy and perfect, each curve lying against her head like art.
Gold door-knocker earrings waited on the dresser beside layered necklaces, bracelets, and rings.
Lennox walked in and stood behind her in the mirror, watching her watch the dress.
He wore black slacks and a dark green button-down that made his skin look unfairly rich.
His sleeves were rolled to his muscular forearms because, apparently, he enjoyed stressing her out before dinner.
His eyes moved from the dress to her face.
“Let me.”
Lane lifted a brow. “Let you what?”
“Dress you.”
Her stomach fluttered. “Lennox.”
“Not because you can’t,” he said, stepping closer. “But because it would be my honor to do so.”
Lane stared at him in the mirror. The expression on his face was serious and held no signs of joking.
Nothing slick. Nothing that made the request feel like a line.
He wanted to dress her, not like a parent dressing a child, but like a man infatuated with his woman.
Like touching the fabric before it touched her was part of the worship.
She wanted to say something, anything, but the words never came. His yearning for her was wrapped around her like a warm hug. Her pulse slipped.
He moved to the bed and picked up the dress, then lowered himself in front of her. The sight of Lennox Jackson on his knees with satin gathered in his hands made Lane’s lungs reconsider their responsibilities.
He looked up at her.
“Step in, Mama.”
It was not a command exactly. It was softer than that. Still, the room shifted around the words. His bottom lip was between his teeth as his diamond and gold fangs sparkled, making her knees weak.
Lane placed one hand on his shoulder and lifted her foot, stepping carefully into the dress as Lennox’s fingers brushed her ankle. A spark moved up her leg, and he bit his bottom lip at the feel of her against his hands.
“Don’t smirk,” she said.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Her heartbeat was in her yoni at the moment, especially when he uttered. “Your body loves when I touch her.”
“Robot.”
“Hmmm?”
He slid the satin up slowly, every inch deliberate.
Over her calves. Her knees. Her thighs. He watched the fabric climb her curves with the kind of focus usually reserved for art restoration or crime scenes.
Lane should’ve said something sarcastic.
Should’ve made a joke about him looking entranced.
His hands were warm through the satin and the room had gone too quiet for deflection to land properly.
He was enamored with the suppleness of her skin beneath his fingers. She saw it in his face. Felt it in the way his hands lingered without rushing. In the way his throat moved when the dress settled over her hips.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he mused.
Her next insult died before it could reach her mouth.
Lennox rose slowly—bringing the dress with him—sliding the straps up her arms and over her shoulders. The satin settled against her body like it had been cut from temptation. He adjusted one strap, then the other. His fingertips grazed the soft curve near her collarbone.
Lane looked at their reflection.
Him behind her. Her wrapped in leopard satin and black lace.
His hands at her waist and his gaze drinking her in like the sight had done something permanent to him.
That was worse. He wasn't running. He was standing in front of her, telling her just how she had him feeling.
Lane looked away from the mirror, but he caught her chin gently and brought her gaze back to him through the glass.
“Don’t hide from what you’re feeling, Lane.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You looked away.”
“I was giving your eyes privacy.”
His smile softened. “They don’t want it.”
She swallowed. He picked up the gold necklace from the dresser and clasped it behind her neck, fingertips brushing the nape where her waves ended.
Then the earrings. The bracelets. Each piece added slowly, carefully, as if he was preparing her for a throne rather than dinner.
When he finished, he rested both hands at her waist and bent his head to kiss her bare shoulder.
Lane’s eyes fluttered. “You keep that up, we’re not making dinner.”