Chapter Fifteen #3
The third course made her sit up straighter—seared scallops over black-eyed pea hummus, topped with crispy shallots and chili oil.
The wine was a Maison Noire Viognier with enough body to hold the spice and enough softness to make Lane reconsider every white wine she’d ever loved as unserious and worthy of dismissal.
Lennox watched her take the first bite.
“You’re doing it again,” she said.
“What?”
“Watching me like my taste buds are giving a keynote address.”
“They’re expressive.”
“You love me, huh?”
“Real bad, as the kids say. ”
She was quiet before adding, “I love you too, Robot.”
She tried not to smile and failed after her declaration.
The fourth course was the showstopper: lamb ribs glazed with pomegranate molasses and sorghum.
The protein was served with smoked collard greens, lemony potatoes, and a silky eggplant purée.
Dana paired it with a deep, smoky Maison Noire Syrah that made Lane understand why people wrote love letters to wine instead of just drinking it and moving on with their lives.
Knox checked on them after the plates landed, eyes bright with pride. “How we doing?”
Lane set her fork down. “Chef, respectfully, I need a minute.”
“That good?”
“This lamb is sinfully delicious. The way your mind works when curating menus should be studied.”
Lennox laughed. “That’s serious.”
“It’s buttery and smoky. Sweet and tart. The tenderness is awe-inspiring and rude. I feel attacked. I don't need to gain another pound yet here I am ready to volunteer as your taste tester,” she giggled.
Knox’s grin spread. “That’s what I love to hear.”
Dana lifted the bottle slightly. “And the pairing?”
Lane looked at her. “The wine is flirting with the lamb.”
“As intended.”
“They’re doing a beautiful Tango. Seduction at its best, and I support it.”
Dana laughed. “You’re officially my favorite kind of guest.”
By dessert, Lane was warm from wine. Full from food and dangerously close to becoming the kind of woman who believed in being spoiled without suspicion.
The fifth course was sweet potato cheesecake with a pecan-praline crust. It was topped with whipped mascarpone and a drizzle of bourbon caramel.
Dana paired it with a late-harvest dessert wine that tasted like peaches and honey.
It was as if someone’s rich auntie decided to bless the table.
Lane took one bite and leaned back in her chair.
“I need to speak to management.”
Knox folded his arms, amused. “Complaint?”
“Yes. This is too good, and now I have to live with the memory.”
“That’s our burden to place on you.”
“I feel changed.”
Lennox leaned close. “Better or tolerable?”
Lane looked at him.
The question called back to a morning in her bed, to the way she’d told him that with him, everything felt better and tolerable. She’d meant it then. She meant it even more now.
“Better,” she said softly.
His smile faded into something tender.
Lane turned back to her wine before the moment could swallow her whole.
Dinner lingered in the best way. Knox sat with them for a few minutes between courses, telling stories about building Olive and Oak, about merging Greek flavors with soul food because both cuisines understood family, fire, and feeding people past hunger.
Dana talked about Maison Noire, about choosing wines that didn’t just impress but conversed with food. Lane listened and asked questions. She laughed and felt herself unfold in a room where everything had been designed for pleasure without pressure.
That was Lennox’s gift when he was at his best.
He didn’t just plan dates.
He built experiences that told her he saw her.
The woman who loved food because she knew hunger. The woman who loved wine because complexity didn’t scare her. The woman who needed beauty but distrusted spectacle. The woman who enjoyed being desired but needed to know desire could still wait for consent, timing, and softness.
By the time the final glasses were cleared and Knox sent them home with a small box of cornbread crisps “for later,” Lane felt loose and luminous.
Outside, night had settled over the vineyard. Lanterns lined the walkway. Crickets sang in the dark grass. The air smelled like herbs.
Lennox walked beside her, his hand brushing hers once, then twice. Lane sighed and slipped her fingers through his.
“Needy,” she said.
“Accurate,” he acknowledged.
She slid into the car, letting the satin whisper against her thighs with dark green toes peeking from black straps. Her gold jewelry warm against her skin. Lennox stood there for one more second, looking at her like the night had only just begun.
Lane lifted a brow. “You coming, or are you going to keep salivating in the parking lot?”
His mouth curved.
“For you?” he said. “Both.”
She laughed despite herself as he shut the door and they pulled away from Olive and Oak, watching the vineyard disappear behind them. Lane realized Winston Hills was already doing something dangerous.
It was making her feel as if love, in all its wholeness, could be a destination. Not just a thing she visited by accident. Not just a thing she stumbled into when exhaustion lowered her defenses.
Love was a place she could choose.