Page 68 of Sin

I press my forehead to the shower tile.

“Get it together,” I whisper.

By the time I get out, I feel marginally more human and significantly more doomed.

Then I look at the pajamas I grabbed. Black satin shorts and a matching black camisole. Because apparently, when my body is panicking, my hands become traitors. I stare at them hanging from my fingers.

I need to get something else, but my suitcase is outside. With Mason. And the bed. And the dildo.

So I put them on. The shorts are short. The camisole is soft and thin, with little lace straps that do little to keep my large breasts contained. Wonderful. I brush my teeth, comb my hair, and wrap myself in the hotel robe like it’s body armor. Then I open the bathroom door.

Mason is still by the windows. Except now his sweater is gone. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders and makes me want to walk directly back into the bathroom and drown myself in the sink. He turns when he hears me.

His gaze drops to the robe. Then to my bare legs. Then back to my face.

“Dinner’s here,” he says.

I glance toward the small table near the sitting area. There are covered plates, a bottle of water, and two glasses.

“You ordered food?”

“You didn’t eat enough on the plane.”

I blink. “Are you keeping a spreadsheet?”

“No.”

“That sounded suspiciously like a no from a man who has absolutely considered keeping a spreadsheet.”

His mouth twitches. “Eat.”

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“The bossy hotel room voice.”

His eyes darken. I know I should stop talking. At some point, I would love to meet the version of myself who does that.

I walk to the table and sit, keeping the robe tightly closed. He takes the chair across from me, but not before I notice the pillow and blanket neatly folded on the couch. The tiny couch built for a small person who does not have Mason Sinclair’s shoulders.

“You’re really sleeping there?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I stare at the couch again. “You’re going to wake up shaped like a question mark.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

“Worse than a luxury hotel suite in Amsterdam?”

His eyes meet mine. “Yes.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me want to ask. I don’t. Instead, I lift one of the silver lids and find pasta.

“Good,” I say. “Carbs. Finally, someone in this room is making reasonable choices.”

He sits. “You consider pasta reasonable?”