Page 67 of Sin

“Oh my god. Alone,” I snap. “I meant alone.”

“Did you?”

I drag my suitcase and bag toward the wardrobe. “Yes. And I’ve changed my mind. You can take the couch tonight, and tomorrow we’ll figure something else out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out.”

“We’ll see.”

I move the bag too fast and the contents shift. A scarf slips out. Then something heavy thuds against the floor. For one horrible second, I just stare at it.

So does Mason.

The massive dildo lies between us on the hardwood floor like a crime scene marker.

I close my eyes. Amsterdam has not even been kind enough to let me sleep before ruining my life.

Mason’s voice comes from behind me.

“Shoes?”

I turn slowly.

He is watching me with the closest thing to a real smile I have ever seen on his face. I hate him. I hate that he’s beautiful. I hate that I’m probably never going to recover from the sight of Mason Sinclair, in jeans and a dark sweater, standing in our one shared hotel room while a dildo sits on the floor between us.

I snatch it up and shove it back into my suitcase. “Shut up.”

His gaze drops briefly to the bag. “You brought it across an ocean.”

“I didn’t want customs to think I lacked ambition.”

“You shouldn’t have brought that,” he says quietly.

My throat goes dry. “Why?”

“Because now I’m wondering what you planned to do with it.”

My pulse slams. I should make a joke.

Instead, I lift my chin. “Maybe I was curious.”

His jaw flexes. The silence that follows isn’t empty. It is packed full of every warning.

Then Mason turns away first. He drags a hand through his hair and looks toward the windows like the canal might offer divine intervention.

“Take the bathroom,” he says. His voice is rough.

I swallow. “Mason⁠—”

“Please.”

That shuts me up. Not because it’s cold. Because it isn’t. Because it sounds like he is one word away from forgetting the couch, the presentation, the ring on his finger, and every single reason this room is a disaster.

I grab my toiletry bag and the first set of pajamas I can reach. Then I walk to the bathroom with my spine straight and my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest. At the door, I make the mistake of looking back. Mason is still by the window. Hands braced on his hips. Head bowed. The perfect picture of a man losing a fight with himself.

I step into the bathroom and shut the door. Then I lean against it and close my eyes. Honestly, I deserve hazard pay.

I turn on the shower hotter than necessary and stand under the spray until my skin turns pink and my brain stops shouting. It never stops shouting, though, it simply changes topics. Now it’s shouting about Mason in the other room. Mason in jeans. Mason laughing. Mason looking at the dildo on the floor and asking what I planned to do with it like he had any right to sound that interested.