Page 117 of Sin

Nothing changed.

Everything changed.

And somehow, we’re expected to survive both.

18

Laurel

We manage to stay away from each other until Thursday, when he stops by my office after everyone’s left for the day. He stands in the doorway like he’s afraid to enter. Which would be smart.

He looks as bad as I feel. Tired. Tense. Beautiful in that unfair, expensive-suit kind of way that makes me want to throw a stapler at him and then climb him like office furniture.

“I looked over the launch notes,” he says. “Looks good.”

I smile. “Thanks.”

There’s a beat. Then we both speak at the same time.

“I—”

“We—”

I smile. “You first.”

He drags a hand over his jaw. His left hand. Bare. Still bare. My stomach flips at the sight of it, because apparently I am now the kind of woman who gets emotionally compromised by missing jewelry.

“I was just going to say we should go get a drink to celebrate.”

“A drink?”

“Yes. To celebrate.”

“Like coworkers?”

His mouth tightens. “Laurel.”

“Sorry. I’m just clarifying the fantasy.”

His eyes darken. “It wasn’t a fantasy.”

“No?”

“No.” He steps inside. “It was an excuse.”

That single sentence changes the air in the room. My pulse kicks.

“An excuse for what?”

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t lock it and walks toward me now, slow and controlled, and I’m already useless.

“For this,” he says.

Then his hands are on my face, and his mouth is on mine. There is no soft start. No professional distance slowly melting into something else. It’ s immediate and desperate like the last three days have been starvation and we are both done pretending hunger is noble.

I grab his tie and pull him closer. He groans into my mouth, one hand sliding into my hair, the other closing around my waist as he backs me toward my desk.

“This is a terrible idea,” I breathe.