Chapter 5
Laurel
** Two months later **
“Oh my god. Yes. Right there. That’s it.”
The words come out too loud and too close to something they absolutely are not. I yank my hand away from the suction device a second before someone clears their throat behind me.
My entire body freezes.
“Am I interrupting?”
Jack’s head snaps up. My lips part as I stare at him, and for one humiliating second, we just look at each other across the conference table like we’ve been caught doing something far worse than product testing.
Which, technically, we haven’t. Not exactly. We’re working late. That’s all.
Working late at eleven o’clock on a Friday night, with two empty wine bottles between us, prototype parts scattered across the table, notes scribbled in my messy handwriting, and my blouse hanging over the back of a chair because, at some point, the room had gotten too warm.
Which means I’m standing here in my pencil skirt and a black lace bralette, my skin flushed from wine, frustration, and the sudden awareness that the man behind me has gone completely silent.
Slowly, I turn.
Mason stands in the doorway. He looks like the devil himself has come to collect on a debt I don’t remember making.
His gaze lands on my face first. Then drops.
Not quickly enough to be polite and definitely not slowly enough to be accidental.
It moves over my bare shoulders, the swell of lace at my chest, the chunky strip of skin between my bralette and skirt.
By the time his eyes return to mine, heat has climbed my throat and turned my pulse into something wild and stupid.
Jack recovers first.
“No, sir,” he says, voice tight. “Ms. Cross and I were just testing a new prototype for Lust.”
Mason doesn’t look at him.
“It’s eleven o’clock at night on a Friday.” His voice is calm. “Surely you have better things to do.”
He says you like he means both of us. But his eyes are on me and the implication lands sharp and hot under my skin.
I lift my chin before I can think better of it. “As you know, many long hours of testing go into our products, Mr. Sinclair.”
His jaw flexes.
“This is the fifth prototype,” I add.
The point hangs there between us, bright and cutting.
If he had been here, he’d know that. Mason’s gaze narrows, and then, slowly, it travels over me again.
This time, he doesn’t pretend it’s accidental.
From my face to my mouth. Down to my bralette.
Lower, to the tight line of my skirt. Then back up, inch by inch, until his eyes lock with mine.
My breath catches.
“I’ve been well informed of your progress, Ms. Cross.”
The way he says my name feels like a warning. Then his gaze cuts to Jack.
“As for you, I’ve heard you’ve been allowing your other duties to suffer in favor of assisting Ms. Cross on this project.”
Jack’s cheeks flush red. “Sir, with all due respect—”
“I’d suggest you end that sentence there.”
The room goes painfully still, and I feel Jack’s embarrassment like a spark to dry kindling, and suddenly all the heat in my body has somewhere to go. Anger. And it’s the kind that burns cleaner than desire and feels safer to hold.
Mason looks at me again. “Ms. Cross, be in my office first thing Monday morning.”
Normally, the sober part of me would recognize that as an order. The smarter part of me would nod, put on my blouse, and live to fight another day. Unfortunately, both of those parts are currently drowned in merlot and outrage.
“Why wait?” I ask.
Jack makes a small sound beside me, but I ignore it. Mason goes very still. I grab my blouse from the chair, but I don’t put it on. I should. God, I absolutely should. But common sense has already lost, and the reckless part of me wants him to look. Wants him to know I know he’s looking.
“I’m ready now,” I say.
Something dark flashes in Mason’s eyes and his brow lifts before he steps aside and gestures toward the hall.
“By all means, Ms. Cross.” His voice drops just enough to pull a shiver down my spine. “Let’s do this on your schedule.”
I brush past him. Big mistake. His scent hits me first—expensive soap, clean cotton, and that faint trace of cedar that belongs only to him. It slips beneath my skin like an old memory. Like a weakness I thought I’d cured myself of.
I hate that I missed it.
Behind me, Jack says my name. “Laurel—”
I keep walking because if I stop now, I might remember that I’m half-dressed, half-drunk, and walking straight into a room alone with a man I’ve spent two months trying very hard not to want.
In Mason’s office, I flip on the lights and toss my blouse in one chair. Mason takes his time and says nothing behind me as he shuts the door.
I turn on him before he can speak. “If you brought me in here to reprimand me, go ahead.”
He studies me for one long second. “Put on your blouse.”
I laugh once. “That’s your opening argument?”
“My opening argument is that you’re half-dressed and drunk in a lab with one of my employees.”
“One of your employees?” I repeat. “Interesting. Because two minutes ago, he was apparently neglecting his duties by helping me do mine.”
Mason’s eyes narrow. “Jack has responsibilities outside of Lust.”
“And so do you.” Wine makes me brave and I step closer. “Where were you?”
His expression shuts down. “That’s not your concern.”
I almost laugh again, but it sticks in my throat. “Not my concern? You put me in charge of Lust, disappeared for two months, and then walked back in tonight like you had the right to look disappointed.”
“I was never disappointed in your work.”
“No. Just in me.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Only for a second. But I see it. Worse, I feel it.
“That depends,” he says.
My pulse stutters. “On what?”
“On whether tonight is a habit.”
I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Oh, I heard you.” I take another step toward him. “I’m giving you a chance to make it sound less insulting.”
Mason Sinclair doesn’t retreat. He stands there in his perfectly tailored suit, while I come closer in lace and fury and pretend this isn’t the closest we’ve been in months.
His gaze flickers over my face. “You and Jack seemed comfortable.”
I move closer still, until there’s barely an arm’s length between us.
“You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to disappear, come back, stare at me like that, humiliate Jack, and then pretend this is about company policy.”
His voice lowers. “How was I staring at you?”
The question hits like a match struck in a dark room. I should step back but I don’t.
“You know exactly how.”
His gaze drops again, slower this time, and my skin reacts before my pride can stop it. Heat spreads across my chest. My nipples tighten beneath the lace.
“Put on your blouse,” he says again, rougher this time.
I lift my chin. “Make me.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Mason goes utterly still and then the air changes. His eyes darken, and for one suspended second, I realize exactly how dangerous it is to taunt a man who has spent his entire life getting what he wants by refusing to reach for it too soon.
He reaches past me, and for one wild second I think he’s going to touch me. My breath catches. My body betrays me so completely that I have to curl my fingers into my palms to keep from reaching for him first. But he doesn’t touch me. He picks up my blouse and holds it open.
“For once in your life,” he says, voice low, “stop daring me to prove a point.”
That should not feel intimate, dammit.
“Why?” I whisper. “Because I’m embarrassing you?”
His eyes lock on mine.
“No,” he says. “Because I’m having a very hard time remembering why I shouldn’t touch you.”
The confession lands between us with a violence that steals the air from my lungs. For a moment, I forget everything.
The prototype.
The two months.
His wife.
Then the last thought hits, cold and sharp, slicing straight through the heat.
His wife.
I step back so fast I nearly stumble. Mason’s hand twitches like he wants to catch me, but he doesn’t.
I shove my arms into my blouse with shaking hands, suddenly furious that I let the moment get that far. Furious that he did. Furious that some part of me wanted him to go further.
“You don’t get to say things like that to me,” I say.
His expression tightens. “Laurel—”
“No.” I button the blouse wrong, realize it, and give up halfway. “You really don’t. Not after vanishing. Not after walking in there and acting like I owe you an explanation. And definitely not when you’re married.”
The word hangs there and Mason looks away first. It should feel like a victory.
It doesn’t.
His phone lights up on his desk. Then it starts ringing. The name on the screen is clear from where I stand.
Jenna.
A bitter laugh presses against the back of my throat, but I swallow it down because I refuse to give him that too. So, I walk toward the door.
“Laurel.”
I stop with my hand on the knob.
Behind me, his voice is quieter now. “I didn’t come back tonight because of Jack.”
My fingers tighten around the handle.
I don’t turn around. “No?”
“No.”
My heart beats once.
“Then why did you come back?”
Finally, he says, “Because I read your report.”
I close my eyes. Coward.
I open the door and glance over my shoulder. “Then send feedback by email like everyone else.”
I leave before he can stop me or before I turn around and ask the question that’s been eating me alive for two months.
If he stayed away because of me…
What the hell happens now that he’s back?
Monday comes far too soon. For half a second, I think about calling in sick, but I don’t. Mostly because hiding from Mason Sinclair feels too much like giving him something, and I’m already annoyed that he’s been living rent-free in my head all weekend.
The office is buzzing when I step off the elevator. Not the normal Monday morning kind of buzzing either. This is sharper. Quieter. The kind of energy people pretend they aren’t feeding on while absolutely feeding on it.
Everyone knows Mason is back.
I barely make it Opal’s desk before she stops me.
“Mr. Sinclair is looking for you,” she says, then lowers her voice. “Jack is, too.”