Page 7 of Sin

“You okay, Ms. Cross?” Opal asks, her expression softening slightly behind her bifocals.

“Define okay.”

“Who do I need to punch?”

I smile and lean against her desk. “Tate informed me I’m apparently going to Napa with Mr. Sinclair.”

She pats my hand sympathetically. “Well. At least you’ll get free wine.”

“I don’t think wine is going to help.”

“It helps me.”

“That explains a lot, honestly.”

Opal grins while I continue toward my office. The second I step inside, I shut the door behind me and lean against it with a long exhale. My office overlooks downtown Chicago, all floor-to-ceiling windows and expensive furniture I fought Tate to get approved. Normally the space calms me. Today it feels too small for the spiraling mess in my head.

What in the hell am I supposed to do?

Mason Sinclair is impossible to work with. Everyone in this company knows it. The man is brilliant, demanding, ruthless, and allergic to unnecessary human emotion. Employees either fear him or worship him, sometimes both. Meetings with him are legendary for making grown executives cry in bathrooms afterward. And now he wants personal involvement in my project? Why?

I push away from the door and drop into my chair.

“This is ridiculous,” I tell myself aloud.

Because attraction means nothing. People are attracted to each other all the time. It doesn’t matter that Mason looks like he was handcrafted by a committee of emotionally unstable women. It doesn’t matter that he stared at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle. And it definitely doesn’t matter that my body reacted to his attention like an absolute traitor.

I yank my laptop closer and force myself to focus on work. Emails. Numbers. Product timelines. Anything other than the memory of his deep voice saying, Please continue, Ms. Cross.

A knock sounds against my office door. Three slow taps. My stomach drops instantly because somehow, before I even look up, I already know it’s him.

“Come in.”

The door opens, and Mason strolls inside like he owns the oxygen in here too. Which, considering his name is on the building, I guess he technically does. He shuts the door behind him with a soft click. And that’s when I notice two things immediately. His tie is loosened now, slightly crooked beneath the sharp collar of his dress shirt. And there’s a faint smear of lipstick near the side of his neck. Oh. Well. Guess that explains why he was late.

An irritating little sting twists low in my stomach before I can stop it. I crush it instantly. Whatever Mason Sinclair does with his wife is none of my business. Absolutely none.

So why am I suddenly annoyed?

Determined to regain control of this conversation before he does, I sit straighter and paste on my most professional smile.

“Mr. Sinclair, you really don’t need to concern yourself with this project. I’m more than capable of handling it myself.”

His dark eyes settle on me, unreadably. I hate that. I want to know what he’s thinking so I can prepare my next move.

I continue before he can interrupt. “Besides, I know you’re a very busy man. Tate mentioned you’re leaving town next week.”

Something flickers across his face. A frown, brief but distinct.

“We’re leaving town,” he corrects as he lowers himself into the chair across from my desk.

The oversized leather chair somehow looks too small beneath him like the furniture itself is intimidated.

I blink once. “Right. Of course.”

“And why do you call him Tate?”

The question catches me so off guard I almost laugh. “What else would I call him?”