Page 27 of Sin

“Working.”

“With wine.”

I lift a brow. “Do you want to discuss company alcohol policy, or do you want to discuss Lust?”

His silence answers me.

Heat crawls under my skin. Not because he’s right. He isn’t. Not really. Because he sounds jealous and I can’t afford for him to sound jealous. Not when I’ve spent the entire weekend replaying the way he looked at me in that conference room and how I can still hear his voice in his office, low and rough, admitting he was having a hard time remembering why he shouldn’t touch me.

“So,” I say, reaching for the nearest folder on my desk, “if you came here to tell me you’re taking over prototype design, fine. Consider me informed.”

“I’m not taking over.”

That stops me.

I look up. “Excuse me?”

“I said I’m not taking over.”

“But Jack said⁠—”

“I said Jack is off the project.” Mason steps closer to my desk. “I didn’t say you were. It means I’m joining the project. We’re going to be working side by side, buddy.” Then his gaze drops to the folder in my hand. “Are those the latest test results?”

The shift is so abrupt it almost gives me whiplash.

My throat feels tight, but I nod. “Yes.”

“Show me.”

I toss the folder onto the desk between us. He picks it up, and for a few minutes, neither of us speaks. He scans the pages with the same focus he brings to everything. Ruthless. Precise. Annoyingly attractive. I hate watching him work because he understands the numbers immediately. His eyes move over my notes, and I can tell the exact second he catches the issue I’ve been circling for days.

He taps one line with his finger. “The seal isn’t holding at higher intensity.”

I cross my arms. “No.”

“The motor is fighting the suction.”

“Yes.”

“You compensated by narrowing the mouth opening.”

“Yes.”

His mouth curves slightly. “That was smart.”

I look down at the desk. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not.”

I glance up.

His eyes are on me. Not the test results. Not the folder. Me.

The air changes again, and I’m instantly aware of every inch of my body. The space between us. The fact that my office suddenly feels too small for both of us and every unsaid thing we dragged in here. Mason sets the folder down.

“Your design is good,” he says. “But it could be better.”

My spine stiffens. “Sure. Like you can tell that just by looking at one test result.”