Page 59 of Sin

I buckle my seat belt and stare straight ahead as he gets in beside me.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

“Thrilled.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“It was the answer you deserved.”

He starts the truck, and the engine rumbles beneath us and my thighs press together before I can stop them. Excellent start.

Mason pulls away from the curb. “Did you sleep?”

“Absolutely.”

“Liar.”

I look over. “Do you ever get tired of saying that?”

“Do you ever get tired of proving me right?”

“I slept enough.”

“That means no.”

“That means I’m not discussing my REM cycle with you before coffee.”

His gaze drops briefly to the cup holder, where a lidded coffee waits. I look at the cup. Then at him.

“You got me coffee?”

“It’s a long drive to the airport.”

I pick up the cup and take a sip. It’s exactly how I like it. My chest does something inconvenient.

I swallow. “How did you know my order?”

“Opal.”

“Oh.”

For some reason, that make me sad, but then I shake my head. What? Did I really think Mason Sinclair would take the time to know my drink order? Come on.

I take another sip of coffee and pray for strength. The city slides by in gray morning light. People hurry down sidewalks with coats pulled tight. Traffic builds as we head toward the private terminal, and every red light feels personal.

We pull up to a red light, and he turns his head to really look at me. His gaze drops to the neckline of my dress, to the knot tied at my waist, then back to my face. It isn’t crude. It isn’t even lingering. It’s restrained like he knows exactly what he wants to look at and is refusing himself the pleasure.

My pulse goes stupid.

“What?” I ask.

His hand tightens around the steering wheel.

“You look nice.”

“Thank you,” I say. Then, because I cannot leave well enough alone, I add, “You look less terrifying in jeans.”

His brow lifts. “Less?”