Chapter 2
Laurel
Opal stops me the second I pass her desk.
“Good call on the color.”
I blink at her. “What?”
“Mr. Sinclair’s suit.” She proudly lifts a thick wad of cash like a trophy. “Dark gray. You just made me four hundred dollars.”
Despite myself, my mouth twitches. “That much?”
“People underestimate how predictable rich men are.” Opal beams. “Anyway, lunch is on me today.”
Normally I’d tease her about running an underground casino out of the marketing department. But my brain is still stuck in that conference room.
On Mason’s eyes locked on mine.
On his hand against my back.
On the fact that he inserted himself into my project for reasons no one—including his own brothers—seems to understand.
And then there’s the conference in a week. A full week trapped with Mason Sinclair while pretending I don’t notice things like the way his suits stretch across his shoulders or how his voice sounds rougher when he’s irritated. Fantastic. Truly fantastic.
“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?”
“Mr. Sinclair.” The words land with deliberate weight. “Like you call me.”
I stare at him for a second, trying to determine if he’s serious.
“You cannot honestly expect me to call all seven of you Mr. Sinclair.”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.” I lean back in my chair. “Half the time there are at least three of you in the same room.”
His mouth twitches faintly. “You seem to manage.”
“I manage because Tate acts like a human being.”
Mason’s gaze sharpens slightly. “And I don’t?”
The smart answer would be immediate denial. Unfortunately, my mouth has never once cared about my survival instincts.
“I think ‘human being’ might still be under review. Besides, Tate told me to call him by his first name.”
Silence stretches between us for one dangerous second. Then—to my absolute horror—a low laugh rumbles out of him. Deep. Rough. Brief enough that I almost think I imagined it. It changes his entire face, which feels deeply unfair.
“I can assure you,” he says, “I’m very human, Ms. Cross. And I believe I’ve told you numerous times to call me Sin.”
Something about the way he says it sends heat skittering down my spine.
I clear my throat quickly and drag the conversation back to safer territory. “Regardless, I still think your involvement on this project is unnecessary.”
Mason studies me for a long moment, fingers resting loosely against the arm of the chair. “You think I’m here because I don’t trust your abilities.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.” He leans forward then, forearms braced against his thighs, and suddenly the office feels much smaller than it did thirty seconds ago. “I’m involved because your idea has potential. More than potential, actually. But you’re holding back.”
My brows pull together. “Holding back how?”
“You keep trying to make the brand palatable.” His eyes stay locked on mine. “Safe. Luxury matters, yes. But desire isn’t clean, Laurel.”
The sound of my first name in his voice does unfortunate things to my nervous system.
“It’s messy,” he continues. “Emotional. Vulnerable. You can’t market fantasy if you’re afraid of it yourself.”
I stiffen immediately. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“No?”
“No.”
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes. The movement is quick, but I catch it anyway. And suddenly I’m painfully aware that we’re alone in my office with the door closed.
Mason leans back again slowly. “Good. Then Napa shouldn’t be a problem.”
“You really intend to micromanage this project personally?” I ask.
“I intend to make it successful.”
“It was already going to be successful.”
A slow smirk touches his mouth this time. “Confident.”
“I’m good at my job.”
“I know.”
A strange energy hums through the air between us. Thick. Charged. Dangerous in a way that feels impossible to explain out loud. I felt it the first time we met, when he leaned against my office doorway three years ago and told me to stop calling him Mr. Sinclair.
Call me Sin, he’d said casually. That’s what my friends call me.
As if we were friends. As if the nickname itself wasn’t intimate somehow. And God knows I’ve felt this tension every time we’ve crossed paths since then. In elevators. Meetings. Hallways. Brief conversations that somehow lingered in my head for hours afterward.
But this… this feels worse.
Maybe because we’re alone. Maybe because he keeps looking at me like he’s trying to peel apart layers I work very hard to keep intact. Or maybe because I can’t stop wondering what his mouth would feel like against mine. Which is exactly the moment my brain should be chemically sterilized.
Mason’s gaze drifts over my face slow enough to make my pulse stutter.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he says quietly.
“I’m literally at work.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His voice lowers on the last sentence, rough enough to scrape along my nerves.
And suddenly I’m hyperaware of everything.
The silence in the office. The faint scent of cedar and spice clinging to him.
The way his broad shoulders stretch against dark fabric when he leans back in the chair.
My body responds before my brain can catch up and heat curls low in my stomach.
I should say something professional. Something smart. Instead, I just stare at him for one suspended second too long.
And then I see it.
The wedding band on his left hand. Gold wrapped securely around his finger.
My gaze catches on it like a slap and reality crashes back so fast it almost physically hurts.
His wife. Jenna smiling beside him in the conference room.
Jenna’s lipstick on his neck. Jenna following him out the door while everyone else watched them like royalty.
What the hell am I doing?
The warmth inside me cools instantly, replaced by sharp embarrassment. At myself more than anything. I straighten in my chair and put distance back into my voice.
“I’ll have Opal coordinate the travel arrangements for Napa.”
Mason’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly.
“Laurel—”
“The revised presentation files will be ready by Friday,” I continue briskly, cutting him off before he can say whatever was about to come out of his mouth. “And I’ll prepare alternate campaign concepts for you to review before we leave.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You’re dismissing me.”
“I’m working.”
A beat of silence passes. Then Mason slowly rises from the chair, all six-foot-whatever of intimidating male authority unfolding to his full height.
He plants one hand on the edge of my desk and leans down just slightly.
Not enough to invade my space. Enough to make me very aware he could if he wanted to.
“You do that every time,” he says quietly.
I force myself to meet his eyes. “Do what?”
“Pull away the second things become real.”
My heartbeat kicks painfully against my ribs.
“That’s a very inappropriate thing to say.”
A muscle shifts in his jaw. For the first time since he walked in, he almost looks frustrated.
“You think this is one-sided?” he asks softly.
The question steals the air from my lungs because there’s no arrogance in it this time. No teasing. No smug confidence. Just honesty and it’s raw enough to terrify me.
I glance down right at the wedding band still wrapped around his finger. And whatever dangerous thing was trying to grow between us dies immediately. I push back from my desk and stand.
“I think,” I say carefully, “that you’re married, Mr. Sinclair.”
Something unreadable flashes across Mason’s face before his expression shutters completely. When he speaks again, his voice is calm and controlled.
“Yes.”
That single word settles between us like a locked door.
Good.
It needs to stay locked.
For both our sakes.