Chapter 5 #2
There’s a question in her eyes. Several, actually.
I ignore every single one of them and nod. “Thanks.”
By the time I reach my office, my stomach has already started doing something dramatic and unnecessary. I step inside, close the door, and lock it for good measure. Not that a lock has ever stopped a man like Mason Sinclair. Still. It makes me feel better.
There’s an email from Jack waiting in my inbox. The subject line is simple.
You alive?
I smile. His message asks if I got in trouble for Friday night. He also tells me Mason has pulled him from Lust and will be taking over prototype design himself.
I stare at that part for a long second.
Of course he is.
The crazy thing is, Mason may be one of the few people here who actually knows how to design a working prototype.
He didn’t build this company by sitting behind a desk and looking pretty in expensive suits.
He built it because, at some point, he knew the products inside and out.
Which makes it even more irritating that I’m almost looking forward to seeing what he can do.
I type back a quick reply letting Jack know that I understand and that I didn’t get in trouble. That’s not entirely true. I didn’t get formally reprimanded. Emotionally, I’m still deciding.
After that, I get to work, answering email after email and pretending my pulse doesn’t jump every time footsteps pass outside my door.
We’re heading into the fourth quarter, which means the entire company is shifting into holiday mode.
Right now, our goal is promoting all the ridiculous seasonal products that somehow keep making us an obscene amount of money.
The tinsel nipple clamps are projected to be a bestseller for the fourth year in a row.
I’m just finishing up a response about candy cane-colored vibrating cock rings when there’s a knock on my door.
Groaning, I push back from my desk and get to my feet.
Opal knows better than to let anyone interrupt me when my door is closed, which means she either failed to stop the person or, more likely, didn’t bother trying.
Which means I know exactly who I’m going to find when I open the door. I take my time crossing the office.
Is it petty? Yes.
Is it worth it? Also yes.
By the time I reach the door, he knocks a second time.
I unlock it and open it just enough to look at him. “Yes?”
Mason stands there in a dark suit, his expression unreadable. His gaze dances over my face, then past me, scanning the room like he expects to find someone hiding under my desk.
“Are you looking for someone, Mr. Sinclair?”
His eyes return to mine. “Just trying to figure out what took you so long to open the door.”
Behind him, Opal snickers from her desk.
I step aside and let him enter, but I keep the door cracked. I round my desk and sit because standing in front of him feels too much like waiting for instructions.
“Yes?” I ask again.
He doesn’t sit. He just stands on the other side of my desk.
“I asked you to come to my office first thing this morning.”
“I know.”
“And yet here I am. In your office.”
“Yes,” I say, folding my hands on the desk. “Here you are.”
His jaw tightens, but only barely.
“I don’t appreciate being ignored, Ms. Cross.”
I tilt my head. “Interesting. Neither do I.”
The air between us sharpens. For one second, neither of us says anything. His gaze holds mine, and I feel it like a hand at the back of my neck. Then he closes the door. The click of the latch sounds louder than it should.
My spine straightens. “I left that open.”
“I saw.”
“Then you also saw that I wanted it open.”
“Do you need a witness?” he asks.
My pulse trips. I hate that the question lands somewhere low in my stomach before my brain catches up.
“No,” I say. “I need boundaries.”
His mouth tightens at that. Good. Maybe he does understand the word after all.
Mason steps closer to the desk, lowering his voice. “Then let’s establish some.”
I lean back in my chair even though every instinct in me wants to lean forward.
“Perfect,” I say. “You first.”
Mason doesn’t answer right away. He takes his time looking at me, like he’s deciding whether I’m a problem to solve or a fire he should stop standing so close to.
Finally, he says, “Jack is no longer assigned to Lust.”
“I gathered that.”
“He’ll return to his regular duties.”
“Wonderful. Glad we established the thing you already did without speaking to me first.”
His eyes narrow. “It wasn’t a request.”
“No. It was an announcement.”
“It was a business decision.”
I laugh once, but there’s no humor in it. “Right. Business. For the record, Jack was helping because I needed an engineer who understood the mechanics. He was useful.”
“I’m aware of Jack’s skill set.”
“Are you? Because from where I was standing Friday night, it seemed like you were more interested in embarrassing him than evaluating his contribution.”
“Jack overstepped,” he says.
I sit forward. “No, he didn’t.”
“He was alone with you after hours.”
“Working.”
“With wine.”
I lift a brow. “Do you want to discuss company alcohol policy, or do you want to discuss Lust?”
His silence answers me.
Heat crawls under my skin. Not because he’s right.
He isn’t. Not really. Because he sounds jealous and I can’t afford for him to sound jealous.
Not when I’ve spent the entire weekend replaying the way he looked at me in that conference room and how I can still hear his voice in his office, low and rough, admitting he was having a hard time remembering why he shouldn’t touch me.
“So,” I say, reaching for the nearest folder on my desk, “if you came here to tell me you’re taking over prototype design, fine. Consider me informed.”
“I’m not taking over.”
That stops me.
I look up. “Excuse me?”
“I said I’m not taking over.”
“But Jack said—”
“I said Jack is off the project.” Mason steps closer to my desk. “I didn’t say you were. It means I’m joining the project. We’re going to be working side by side, buddy.” Then his gaze drops to the folder in my hand. “Are those the latest test results?”
The shift is so abrupt it almost gives me whiplash.
My throat feels tight, but I nod. “Yes.”
“Show me.”
I toss the folder onto the desk between us.
He picks it up, and for a few minutes, neither of us speaks.
He scans the pages with the same focus he brings to everything.
Ruthless. Precise. Annoyingly attractive.
I hate watching him work because he understands the numbers immediately.
His eyes move over my notes, and I can tell the exact second he catches the issue I’ve been circling for days.
He taps one line with his finger. “The seal isn’t holding at higher intensity.”
I cross my arms. “No.”
“The motor is fighting the suction.”
“Yes.”