Page 33 of Sin

“Slightly.”

I glance up. “Slightly enough to affect sensation.”

His eyes hold mine. “That was the point.”

Heat climbs the back of my neck. I look away first, which is becoming an annoying habit.

“It still needs testing,” I say.

“That’s why we’re here.”

“Mechanical testing,” I snap back.

“Obviously.” The word is dry.

I set the prototype on the table and reach for my laptop. “Did you run initial pressure?”

“Yes.”

“Noise levels?”

“Yes.”

“Battery drain?”

“Yes.”

“Did you leave anything for me to do, or should I just go home?”

His gaze moves over my face, and something in it softens. Only for a second, but long enough to make my stomach flip.

“I left the final call to you.”

I look down at the prototype. “Why?”

“Because you know the product better than I do.”

I don’t like compliments from Mason Sinclair. They get under my skin and set up camp.

“That almost sounded respectful,” I say.

“It was.”

“Well.” I clear my throat and open my laptop. “Don’t strain yourself.”

He pulls out the chair across from me and sits. “I’ll try to survive.”

For the next twenty minutes, we work. Mason is good at this. Not just boss good. Not just billionaire CEO who thinks owning the company makes him an expert good. Actually good. He knows the mechanics. Knows the materials. Knows exactly how much pressure the motor can handle before performance starts to drop. He catches things quickly, asks irritatingly precise questions, and doesn’t once talk over me. It would be easier if he did. I know how to handle condescension.

I’m reviewing the suction readout when the prototype pulses once against the testing pad, then settles into a low, steady rhythm. Mason leans in to look at the screen and his forearm brushes the edge of my sleeve.

“The pressure curve is smoother,” he says.

I nod. “It’s holding.”

“The noise?”

“Down twelve percent from the last model.”