Page 39 of Sin

“It’s basic.”

“It’s not.” She sets her mug down and turns the page slightly. “The shape is simple, but the mechanics aren’t. You’re building variable pressure into the sleeve?”

“Yes.”

“And heat?”

“Controlled warmth, not heat.”

She gives me a look. “That sounds like a legal department sentence.”

“It’s accurate.”

“It’s boring.”

“It’s safe.”

Her eyes lift to mine. “Safe isn’t always memorable.”

The lab goes very still. She realizes what she said a second after I do. Color rises faintly in her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away.

“It is when it keeps you out of trouble,” I say.

Her mouth curves. “Is that what you’re trying to do?”

“Always.” I look back at the prototype. “The pressure needs work.”

She lets me have the subject change.

“How much work?” she asks.

“It’s inconsistent at higher settings.”

She steps closer to the table. “Show me.”

I pull up the results on the screen. She leans in. When her shoulder brushes my arm neither of us moves away. That’s how it keeps happening with us. Not all at once or on purpose. A breath too close. A pause too long. A sentence that should mean one thing and somehow means five.

Laurel studies the graph.

“You’re losing intensity here because the grip is too tight.” She freezes. Then she closes her eyes. “I meant the internal sleeve.”

“I know what you meant.”

I turn my head. She’s close enough that I can count the faint freckles on the bridge of her nose. Close enough that if I lowered my voice, it would feel like a touch. So I lower it.

“The grip is supposed to be tight.”

Her breath catches. Just a little. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Plenty for me.

“Not if it compromises performance,” she says.

I look at her mouth. I shouldn’t.

I do.

“No,” I say. “Not if it does that.”

The silence stretches until the machine beside us clicks off and makes both of us blink. Laurel steps back first. Thank God. Unfortunately, she only steps back to pick up the prototype casing.