Chapter 8 #3
The truck rolls to a stop. Again. Rain beats against the roof, steady and intimate, and the windows are so dark I can’t see anything but distorted reflections of passing headlights and the hard line of Mason’s profile.
He doesn’t look at me when he says, “For the record, you can do almost anything in this truck, and no one would know.”
My head swims. Is this what Eve felt like in the Garden of Eden? Because I don’t think I’ve ever been this tempted in my life.
I swallow. “Almost anything?”
His gaze turns to me slowly.
“There are limits.”
“Like?”
“My patience.”
The words land low in my stomach. I should make a joke. I should say something about Cornstar, or holiday traffic, or the fact that this conversation has veered so far out of acceptable workplace conduct that Owen would probably burst into flames if he heard it.
Instead, I whisper, “And what happens when you run out?”
Mason goes completely still. The kind of stillness that makes me realize he has been holding himself back this entire time.
His jaw flexes once.
“Don’t ask me that.”
My heart pounds. “Why?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Then lifts.
“Because I might answer.”
The cab feels smaller than it did a second ago. Hotter. My fingers curl around the strap of my bag, and I have the insane urge to lean toward him just to see what he would do. Would he stop me?
Would I want him to?
The light turns green. Neither of us moves. The car behind us honks again. This time, Mason doesn’t look away from me right away. When he finally drives, his hand tightens on the wheel.
I stare straight ahead, breathing like a normal person. Or trying to.
“Very educational truck ride,” I say.
His mouth curves. “You asked about the windows.”
“I regret that.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Maybe I’m just gathering product research,” I say, because joking is safer than whatever just happened. “Private environments. Confined spaces. Practical applications.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
I nod. “Yes. Market analysis.”
“Sounds thorough.”
“I’m very committed to my job.”
His gaze lands on me. “I know.”
The rain keeps falling. The truck keeps moving. Chicago slides past us in dark glass and wet pavement, and suddenly I’m aware of every forbidden inch between my body and his. I look back at him. He’s watching the road, but his jaw is tight. His hand flexes once against the wheel.
When we pull up in front of my building, neither of us moves right away. The rain is still coming down hard, drumming against the roof, blurring the entrance to my apartment into a watercolor mess. Mason puts the truck in park, and I unbuckle my seat belt too quickly.
“Thank you for the ride,” I say.
Very polite and professional. Very much like I’m not picturing climbing into his lap and finding out if his mouth is as controlled as the rest of him.
“You’re welcome.”
I reach for the door handle.
“Laurel.”
My hand stays on the handle. “Yes?”
He turns toward me and the cab feels smaller.
“About earlier,” he says.
“The corn?”
His mouth twitches. “Not the corn.”
“Then I have no idea what you mean.”
“Liar.”
The word is soft this time and I make the mistake of looking at him.
His eyes are on me, and there is nothing unreadable about him now.
Not in this light. Not in this truck. Not with the city washed away outside and the heat building between us like we’ve been waiting for the storm to give us permission.
It would be so easy.
That’s the worst part. I could lean forward. He could meet me halfway. One kiss. Just one. A terrible, stupid, unforgettable kiss that would answer every question my body keeps asking against my will.
My gaze drops to his mouth.
His breathing changes and my fingers loosen on the door handle. Mason’s hand moves. It settles on the console between us, close enough that if I moved mine an inch, our fingers would meet.
I want to touch him so bad, but I know what will happen if I do, so I pull my hand back into my lap.
I force a smile I don’t feel. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Sinclair.”
His jaw flexes at the name. For once, he doesn’t correct me.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Cross.”
I open the door. Cold rain rushes in, shocking and clean. Before I can step out, he reaches behind his seat and pulls out the umbrella from the lobby.
“You stole the doorman’s umbrella?”
He smiles. “I borrowed it.”
“Does he know that?”
“He will when I return it.”
I take it from him, our fingers brushing around the handle and my heart stutters like an idiot.
“Thank you,” I say.
His gaze holds mine. “Get inside safe.”
I nod and climb out before I can do something unforgivable.
I don’t look back as I hurry toward my building. I absolutely do not. Not until I’m under the awning. Then I turn.
His truck is still there. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I can see him watching me. For one breath, neither of us moves. Then I lift the umbrella slightly, like an idiot.
Mason’s headlights stay on until I’m inside.
Only then do I let myself lean back against the lobby wall and close my eyes.
I didn’t kiss him.
I didn’t touch him.
I didn’t cross the line.
So why does it feel like I left part of myself in his truck anyway?