Page 58 of Sin

No one can see what’s happening inside here.

I close the email. Then open it again. My nerves feel like live wires under my skin, sparking every time I see his name listed beside mine.

This is a terrible idea.

I should tell him I changed my mind. That would be the smart thing to do. The responsible thing. The thing a woman with even a tiny survival instinct would do after spending the weekend fantasizing about her married boss’s hands, mouth, truck, and frankly alarming product design skills.

But I don’t.

Instead, I manage to shove all feelings aside with the same grace and emotional maturity I use to kick shoes under my bed when I don’t want to clean. I finish Lust. I perfect my presentation. I test the prototype until the numbers are so beautiful even Mason has to approve them without making one of his little almost-smiling faces. Which he does by email. Because apparently we’re both pretending distance is a personality trait now.

The week passes in a blur of late nights and design notes. Before I know it, it’s the night before we leave. The office is mostly empty by the time I leave the lab. Lust is packed in its custom case, gleaming like the expensive little troublemaker it is. The presentation is done. My notes are printed. My laptop is charged. My backup charger is in my bag because I am a professional woman who can manage international travel.

I go to my office to make sure I have everything. Laptop. Charger. Notes. Prototype. Backup prototype.

I’m doing one final sweep when I open my top desk drawer. And stop. The massive dildo Mason left me is still there. I stare at it. The pink sticky note is still tucked beside it.

I should leave it. There is absolutely no reason to take a giant dildo to Amsterdam. I reach for the drawer to shut it. Then pause, because maybe I should bring it…

I pick it up, and it lands heavy in my hand.

“Ridiculous,” I mutter.

Then I wrap it in a scarf, because apparently modesty matters when smuggling spite across international borders, and tuck it into my bag. It takes up an obscene amount of space.

I zip the bag closed before I can change my mind.

Then I stand there, staring at it. Then, I grab my coat. Because this trip is already a disaster. Might as well pack accordingly.

I sleep for approximately forty-seven minutes. Not consecutively, either. By the time my alarm goes off, I’ve already been awake for an hour, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Amsterdam, Mason Sinclair, and the massive dildo currently tucked inside my suitcase like the world’s least appropriate emotional support item.

I shower, do my hair, and spend way too long staring into my closet like the perfect travel outfit might reveal itself through divine intervention. Eventually, I choose a black wrap dress because it’s comfortable, doesn’t wrinkle easily, and makes me feel like I have some control over my life. The fabric skims over my curves, tying at my waist and dipping just low enough at the neckline to make me feel feminine without looking like I’m trying to seduce airport security. Or my boss. I pair it with boots, a long coat, and the kind of lipstick that says I am a professional woman on an international business trip and absolutely not someone who packed her married boss’s sex toy out of spite.

At exactly seven, my phone buzzes.

Mason Sinclair

I’m downstairs.

My stomach flips. Rude. I grab my purse, my laptop bag, and my suitcase, then lock my apartment before I can decide to fake an illness and hide in my bathtub until the plane leaves without me.

Mason is waiting by the curb. Not in a suit. That’s the first problem. He’s standing beside his truck in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that fits across his shoulders like someone designed it specifically to destroy my ability to form rational thought. His hair is slightly damp, like he showered not long ago, and there’s a pair of sunglasses tucked into the collar of his sweater. I wonder what his hair looks like down.

He looks up when I step outside. His gaze moves over me slow enough that I feel it everywhere the black dress touches my skin.

I lift my chin. “Good morning.”

His eyes return to mine. “Morning.”

That’s it. One low, rough, not-enough-sleep word. Already, this trip is a mistake.

He reaches for my suitcase.

“I can get it,” I say.

“I know.”

He takes it anyway and loads the suitcase into the back of the truck. I climb into the passenger seat before he can open the door for me. Petty? Yes. He shuts my door with a look that says he is choosing not to comment, which is honestly growth for both of us.