Page 53 of Sin

Tate clears his throat. “So… lunch?”

“Yes,” I say, too brightly. “Lunch sounds great.”

Mason finally turns to him. “Let’s go.”

Tate falls into step beside him. I follow a beat later, trying not to think about the toy sitting on my desk. Trying not to think about the note. Trying not to think about Mason’s wife. Trying really, really hard not to think about the fact that if that was the kind of thing Jenna enjoyed each night, then Mason Sinclair was either a liar, a sadist, or far more capable than any woman should be forced to contemplate before lunch.

Unfortunately, I contemplate it all the way to the elevator.

The hits just keep coming because Mason is driving us to lunch in his big black truck. And because Tate is a gentleman, or because the universe has a sick sense of humor, I somehow end up in the front seat. Again.

I buckle in and immediately pull out my phone. Emails. Beautiful, non-threatening emails that don’t have tinted windows, large hands, or a back seat.

It’s times like these I wish I were more social. I’ve spent so much time working on my career that I’ve let friendships fall to the side. Not on purpose. It just happened slowly. One late night at the office turned into ten. One missed dinner turned into months of rain checks. Eventually, people stopped asking.

Mason and Tate let me have my silence as they chat about something one of Dante’s kids did over Thanksgiving. Apparently glitter glue was involved. And a dog. And possibly a very expensive rug. Sounds like Mason ended up spending the holiday with them. Which is nice. He had somewhere to go. I don’t even have that.

I’m deep in thought when the truck comes to a stop. Tate gets out first, but Mason lingers. I can feel him looking at me before I lift my head.

“Are you okay?”

I meet his gaze. “Fine. Why?”

His eyes move over my face, softer than they have any right to be. “You seemed kind of sad.”

That lands too deep. Way too deep. So, naturally, I smile like my heart hasn’t just done something stupid and painful in my chest.

“Nope. I’m good.”

Then I get out of the truck before he can ask me any more questions I might accidentally answer.

The restaurant is Italian, tucked between a florist and a bookstore with fogged windows and a hand-painted sign out front. It smells like garlic, bread, and expensive red sauce before we even make it through the door. They know both Mason and Tate by name.

The hostess lights up when she sees them, and an older man behind the bar calls Mason “ragazzo” like he has known him since he was in diapers.

I glance around. “Should I be concerned that everyone here looks like they’d help you hide a body?”

Tate grins. “Only if you’re the body.”

“Comforting.”

Mason leans down and says into my ear, “Foster’s grandparents own this place.”

I turn my head, which puts us way too close. His mouth is inches from mine. Close enough that if I inhaled too deeply, I’d probably do something humiliating.

“Grandparents?” I ask. “I didn’t know they were alive.”

His gaze drops to my lips. Then back to my eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “I’m sure you’ll meet them.”

I step back and nearly collide with Tate.

“Careful,” Tate says, catching my elbow. “You look like you just saw the ghost of Thanksgiving future.”

“Just hungry,” I say.

Mason’s mouth twitches. Traitor.