Page 96 of Sin

We finish showering in silence, but it isn’t comfortable. It’s thick. Heavy. Full of all the things neither of us wants to say. He dries off at the sink while I wrap myself in a towel and avoid looking at him because if I do, I’ll want him again. Which is ridiculous. I just had him. Twice. Apparently, my body has no concept of scarcity.

We get dressed side by side like this is normal. Like he didn’t spend the weekend in my bed. Like his ring isn’t back on his finger. Like I didn’t watch him put it there ten minutes ago and feel something inside me crack.

Outside, it’s raining. The sky is heavy and gray, which feels fitting because it matches my mood.

Sin carries my laptop bag down to the street without asking, and I let him because fighting over it would take energy I don’t have. His truck is parked at the curb, dark and waiting, looking like the scene of at least three crimes we committed together.

He stops beside the passenger door and opens it for me.

“I think the board will be happy with the results from Amsterdam,” he says.

I look at the open door. And somehow, I find the courage to meet his gaze.

“I think I need to take the L into work.”

His expression stills.

“Like normal,” I add.

For one second, he doesn’t say anything. Then I see it. A spark of pain. Then panic.

“Laurel—”

“And I think it’s best if we end things here before it gets too messy.”

I’m proud of myself for not crying. Deeply proud. Because my throat burns, and my chest feels like someone has put both hands inside it and pulled.

Sin stares at me in the rain, the open passenger door between us, his jaw tight enough to hurt.

“This is already messy,” he says.

“I know.”

His eyes search mine. “Then don’t pretend this is simple.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

The words snap a little. So does something in me.

“I’m trying to do the right thing.”

His mouth tightens. We both hear it. The right thing. As if either of us has been doing that. Rain dots his hair and darkens the shoulders of his coat. He looks exhausted. Beautiful. Wrecked in a way that makes me want to step into him instead of away from him.

He glances down at his ring. So do I. There it is. The proof that whatever we are, whatever this weekend was, it does not belong to me.

When he looks back up, his voice is quieter. “Is that what you want?”

No. The answer is immediate and violent. No, I want to crawl into his truck. I want him to drive us somewhere that isn’t the office. I want another day. Another hour. Another morning where I don’t have to watch him become Mason Sinclair again.

But wanting is what got us here.

So I lie.

“Yes.”

He flinches. Then his expression closes.