Page 30 of Sin

He opens the door. Then, without looking back, he says, “But for the record, Ms. Cross, Jack wasn’t the reason I came to your office.”

My heart stops. He leaves before I can ask what he means. The coward.

I drop my forehead to the desk. Mason Sinclair is back on Lust. And apparently, so is every terrible decision I thought I’d buried two months ago.

6

Laurel

Tuesday morning is a fresh new hell that starts as soon as I get out of the shower. Normally, I grab something from my closet that makes me feel unstoppable. Today, I stand there in a towel, staring at every outfit and wondering how Mason Sinclair is going to look at it. Which is ridiculous and annoying and deeply inconvenient. It’s also why I end up pulling on a black dress that falls past my knees and has a high collar.

Nothing to see here, folks.

I pair it with black boots, because apparently my goal is to look less like a woman attending a prototype meeting and more like I’m on my way to identify a body. I make it through hair and makeup before I catch myself in the mirror and pause. I look like a witch. Not even a sexy witch. A judgmental one with a quarterly budget meeting after lunch.

“Absolutely not,” I mutter.

So I go back to the closet. By the time I leave my apartment, I’ve changed twice and landed on a different black dress. This one has a sweetheart neckline, fitted waist, and enough structure that I don’t feel like I’m overcorrecting for a man who shouldn’t be factoring into my wardrobe decisions. I pair it with black flats.

It’s raining when I step outside. And, because I apparently woke up determined to be tested by God, Mason Sinclair, and public transportation, I forgot my umbrella. Luckily, the entrance to the L is across the street, so I only get a little wet. At first. By the time I get into the city, it’s pouring hard enough that the sidewalks look silver and the wind keeps shoving rain sideways beneath every awning. My hair is damp at the ends, my flats are soaked, and I’m shivering by the time I stop by my office to grab the final testing notes.

I make it to Conference Room B at exactly eight. Mason is already there standing near the table in a charcoal pants and matching shirt with sleeves buttoned, tie perfect, hair dry, looking like the weather wouldn’t dare inconvenience him without written permission. He glances up when I walk in. For half a second, his expression changes. His gaze moves over me quickly, taking in the damp hair, the wet hem of my dress, the way I’m trying very hard not to shiver.

“Rough morning?” he asks.

I close the door behind me. “You could say that.”

I set the prototype and notes on the table with more force than necessary.

He has the same in front of him. His own sketches. His own printed reports. His own annoyingly precise handwriting marked across the margins of my design like he had every right to touch it. I stare at the papers. Then at him.

I say, “You’ve been busy.”

“So have you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I know.” I hate that his mouth almost curves when he says it.

I pull out a chair and sit, mostly because my shoes are still wet and I don’t trust my dignity to survive much longer standing up.

Mason doesn’t sit right away. He studies me again.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“No.”

A shiver immediately betrays me.

He turns toward the credenza behind him and picks up a folded suit jacket I hadn’t noticed. Then he sets it on the chair beside me.

“No, thank you.”

He says, “You’re shaking.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“You can be both.”