Chapter 6
Laurel
Tuesday morning is a fresh new hell that starts as soon as I get out of the shower.
Normally, I grab something from my closet that makes me feel unstoppable.
Today, I stand there in a towel, staring at every outfit and wondering how Mason Sinclair is going to look at it.
Which is ridiculous and annoying and deeply inconvenient.
It’s also why I end up pulling on a black dress that falls past my knees and has a high collar.
Nothing to see here, folks.
I pair it with black boots, because apparently my goal is to look less like a woman attending a prototype meeting and more like I’m on my way to identify a body.
I make it through hair and makeup before I catch myself in the mirror and pause.
I look like a witch. Not even a sexy witch.
A judgmental one with a quarterly budget meeting after lunch.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter.
So I go back to the closet. By the time I leave my apartment, I’ve changed twice and landed on a different black dress.
This one has a sweetheart neckline, fitted waist, and enough structure that I don’t feel like I’m overcorrecting for a man who shouldn’t be factoring into my wardrobe decisions. I pair it with black flats.
It’s raining when I step outside. And, because I apparently woke up determined to be tested by God, Mason Sinclair, and public transportation, I forgot my umbrella.
Luckily, the entrance to the L is across the street, so I only get a little wet.
At first. By the time I get into the city, it’s pouring hard enough that the sidewalks look silver and the wind keeps shoving rain sideways beneath every awning.
My hair is damp at the ends, my flats are soaked, and I’m shivering by the time I stop by my office to grab the final testing notes.
I make it to Conference Room B at exactly eight.
Mason is already there standing near the table in a charcoal pants and matching shirt with sleeves buttoned, tie perfect, hair dry, looking like the weather wouldn’t dare inconvenience him without written permission.
He glances up when I walk in. For half a second, his expression changes.
His gaze moves over me quickly, taking in the damp hair, the wet hem of my dress, the way I’m trying very hard not to shiver.
“Rough morning?” he asks.
I close the door behind me. “You could say that.”
I set the prototype and notes on the table with more force than necessary.
He has the same in front of him. His own sketches. His own printed reports. His own annoyingly precise handwriting marked across the margins of my design like he had every right to touch it. I stare at the papers. Then at him.
I say, “You’ve been busy.”
“So have you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.” I hate that his mouth almost curves when he says it.
I pull out a chair and sit, mostly because my shoes are still wet and I don’t trust my dignity to survive much longer standing up.
Mason doesn’t sit right away. He studies me again.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
“No.”
A shiver immediately betrays me.
He turns toward the credenza behind him and picks up a folded suit jacket I hadn’t noticed. Then he sets it on the chair beside me.
“No, thank you.”
He says, “You’re shaking.”
“I’m annoyed.”
“You can be both.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He looks back, calm as ever, which only makes me more annoyed because he’s right. I am both.
Still, I don’t touch the jacket.
Mason exhales through his nose and finally sits across from me.
He opens the folder in front of him. “I reviewed your latest notes.”
“I assumed.”
“You were close.”
He slides one of his sketches across the table.
I don’t want to look but do. He redesigned the valve housing.
Not completely. Just enough to solve the pressure drop without sacrificing suction strength.
It’s clean, elegant, and exactly the kind of solution I would have found eventually if I hadn’t spent two months pretending I wasn’t angry at him.
I stare at it for a second too long.
“That might work,” I say.
“It will work.”
I glance up. “God, I missed your humility.”
Something shifts in his expression and makes me regret the word missed the second it leaves my mouth.
His gaze holds mine.
“I wasn’t aware you missed anything about me, Ms. Cross.”
The room gets very quiet.
I look down at the sketch. “It was sarcasm.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
Mostly. Maybe.
I reach for my pen. “Let’s focus on the prototype.”
“For once, we agree.”
I hate the for once. I hate the way his voice lowers around it. And I really I hate that I notice both.
I lean over the sketch and force myself back into work. “If we change the valve housing, we’ll need to test noise levels again. The last version was too loud at higher intensity.”
“I already accounted for that.”
“Of course you did.”
His mouth twitches. “Problem?”
“Several. But let’s start with the fact that you’re irritating.”
“That one has been well documented. Just ask Owen.”
Despite myself, I almost smile. Then another shiver runs through me, sharper this time, and my teeth actually chatter.
Before I can stop him, he stands, reaches for the jacket, and drapes it around my shoulders.
His knuckles brush the damp ends of my hair as he settles the jacket over me, and the warmth of it hits all at once.
Him. His scent. Clean, expensive, familiar.
Cedar and soap and something I’ve been trying very hard not to remember.
My fingers curl against my lap.
“Mason,” I say quietly.
“You’re cold,” he says.
The words are simple. Professional, even. So why do they feel like something else? I pull the jacket tighter around myself before I can think better of it as another silence stretches between us.
Then I clear my throat and pick up my pen. “The prototype.”
“Yes,” he says, sitting back down.
But his voice is different now. Rougher.
So is mine when I say, “Show me how you think this works.”
His gaze stays on me for half a second longer than it should.
Then he reaches for the sketch and turns it toward us both.
“Gladly.”
We work for over three hours, arguing the entire time over Lust. By the time we leave, I’m convinced I’m being punished by god.
He calls over his shoulder, “Same time tomorrow. I’ll have a new prototype.”
The next morning, I arrive ten minutes early.
It’s not because I’m eager. It’s because I spent the entire night thinking about valve housing, pressure control, and Mason Sinclair’s jacket over my shoulders, and at some point, sleep became less likely than me voluntarily joining a company softball league, which Opal has asked of me many times.
So I get to the office early.
When I reach Conference Room B, the lights are already on and Mason is inside, standing at the table with his jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and a new Lust prototype in his hand. He sets the prototype carefully on the table.
“Good morning, Ms. Cross.”
I step into the room and close the door behind me before I think better of it. Then I immediately think better of it but it’s too late. Mason’s gaze flickers to the door, then back to me, but he doesn’t say anything.
I move to the table and look down at the prototype. It’s sleek. Cleaner than the last version. Same overall shape, but the housing is tighter, adjusted exactly where he sketched it yesterday. There’s a new seam along the base. A better seam. Damn him.
“You built this last night?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“You do realize we have an entire product development team.”
“I’m aware. I wanted to see if I was right.”
I look at the prototype again. I hate that my fingers itch to pick it up. I hate more that I’m impressed.
I reach for it anyway.
Mason’s hand moves at the same time and our fingers brush. Still, the contact shoots straight up my arm like a warning flare.
I pick up the prototype and turn it over in my hands. “You changed the seal.”
“I reinforced it.”
“You also changed the angle on the tip.” I glance closer. “And added suction?”
“Slightly.”
I glance up. “Slightly enough to affect sensation.”
His eyes hold mine. “That was the point.”
Heat climbs the back of my neck. I look away first, which is becoming an annoying habit.
“It still needs testing,” I say.
“That’s why we’re here.”
“Mechanical testing,” I snap back.
“Obviously.” The word is dry.
I set the prototype on the table and reach for my laptop. “Did you run initial pressure?”
“Yes.”
“Noise levels?”
“Yes.”
“Battery drain?”
“Yes.”
“Did you leave anything for me to do, or should I just go home?”
His gaze moves over my face, and something in it softens. Only for a second, but long enough to make my stomach flip.
“I left the final call to you.”
I look down at the prototype. “Why?”
“Because you know the product better than I do.”
I don’t like compliments from Mason Sinclair. They get under my skin and set up camp.
“That almost sounded respectful,” I say.
“It was.”
“Well.” I clear my throat and open my laptop. “Don’t strain yourself.”
He pulls out the chair across from me and sits. “I’ll try to survive.”
For the next twenty minutes, we work. Mason is good at this.
Not just boss good. Not just billionaire CEO who thinks owning the company makes him an expert good.
Actually good. He knows the mechanics. Knows the materials.
Knows exactly how much pressure the motor can handle before performance starts to drop.
He catches things quickly, asks irritatingly precise questions, and doesn’t once talk over me.
It would be easier if he did. I know how to handle condescension.
I’m reviewing the suction readout when the prototype pulses once against the testing pad, then settles into a low, steady rhythm. Mason leans in to look at the screen and his forearm brushes the edge of my sleeve.
“The pressure curve is smoother,” he says.
I nod. “It’s holding.”
“The noise?”
“Down twelve percent from the last model.”
His gaze cuts to mine. “Twelve?”
I try not to smile. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m pleased with the result.”
“Same thing.”
“No,” he says. “It isn’t.”
Something in his voice makes me look at him.
He’s close enough that I can see the faint shadow under his eyes.
The kind that says he didn’t sleep much either.
His tie is missing today, collar open at the throat, sleeves still rolled.
There’s a tiny smear of something dark near his thumb. Grease, probably.
I hate how intimate that feels.
The prototype hums softly between us. Which should not make the silence worse. It does, really. I reach for it to switch modes, but Mason’s hand closes over mine before I can press the button.
“Not that setting,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens. “Why?”
“It spikes too fast.”
I glance at the screen. “The pad can handle it.”
“I wasn’t worried about the pad.”
My breath catches before I can stop it. Mason realizes what he said at the same time I do. His hand leaves mine and the air turns sharp.
I sit back in my chair. “Mechanical testing, remember?”
His expression closes. “I remember.”
“Good.”
“Laurel—”
“No.” I reach for the prototype again, because focusing on work is safer than focusing on whatever just happened. “Don’t make it weird.”
His mouth tightens. “I’m not the one making it weird.”
I laugh once. “You rebuilt my sex toy prototype overnight and then put your hand over mine while warning me about intensity settings.”
His eyes darken and I realize too late how that sounded. Wonderful. Great job, mouth.
Mason leans back in his chair, studying me like he’s trying to decide whether to be amused.
“You’re right,” he says.
That surprises me enough to shut me up.
“I am?”
“Yes.”
“Could you say that again? Slower?”
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something almost warm in his eyes. “You’re right. I crossed a line.”
I don’t know what to do with that either. This man is becoming deeply inconvenient.
I fold my arms. “Which line?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Just once. Then returns to my eyes.
“The one where I keep pretending this is only about the prototype.”
My heart kicks hard against my ribs while the prototype continues humming on the table between us, soft and steady and obscene in the sudden silence. I should say something smart.
Instead, I say, “Mason.”
His name comes out quieter than I mean it to. His jaw flexes.
“Call me Sin, Laurel.”
My lips part at the same time his phone vibrates on the table. We both look down. Jenna’s name glows on the screen like a slap.
I push back from the table and stand.
“Take the call,” I say.
He looks up at me. “Laurel.”
“No.” I grab my notes. My hands are steady, which feels like a miracle. “We’re not doing this again.”
“We’re not doing anything.”
“Exactly. Let’s keep it that way.” I tuck my laptop under my arm and nod toward the prototype. “Run the next sequence without me. Send me the results.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I have a meeting with Owen.”
His expression tightens, as if he doesn’t like that.
So I do the only thing I can. I get the hell out of there.