Chapter 9 #2
Mason’s expression goes carefully blank. Which means I’m definitely not going to like whatever comes next.
“Tate,” Mason says.
“What?” Tate asks. “She needs to know.”
I sit up straighter. “Know what?”
Tate takes a drink of wine like a coward preparing for impact. “The European product show is in Amsterdam this year.”
I wait. Because surely that’s not the bad part.
“That sounds nice,” I say carefully.
“It’s a major industry show,” Tate continues. “Retailers, distributors, press, private demos. The Sins line is going to be one of our featured launches.”
“Okay.”
“And since Lust is yours, and Envy is in development, you need to be there.”
My pulse kicks once. Hard. Then I look at Mason. He’s watching me. Not apologetically. More like he knows I’m about to throw the breadbasket at him and is deciding whether to let me.
“Amsterdam,” I repeat.
“Yes,” Tate says.
“With who?”
Then Tate points vaguely at Mason. “Him.”
My entire body goes still.
“No.”
Tate winces. “See, that’s what I thought you’d say.”
I look at Mason. “No.”
His gaze holds mine. “It’s not a request.”
I laugh once. “That is a very brave thing to say to a woman sitting beside a butter knife.”
Tate picks up the butter knife and moves it to his side of the table.
“Traitor,” I tell him. I turn back to Mason. “Why are you going?”
“Because Pride will be ready for private retailer previews by then.”
“Pride,” I repeat.
His mouth almost curves.
“And because Lust is already generating international interest,” he says.
“But why do I have to go? Why can’t Tate go?”
Tate grimaces. “I was supposed to.”
“Great. Go.”
“I can’t.”
The thing is, I really believe him. He’d go if he could.
I look at Mason again. “Send Jack.”
“No.”
The answer is too quick. My eyes narrow, and Mason says nothing.
“Oh my god,” I say. “This is because of Jack?”
“This is because you’re the lead designer,” Mason says. “And I’m overseeing the line.”
“Overseeing,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“In Amsterdam.”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
His jaw tightens.
Tate clears his throat. “Technically, you’ll be surrounded by thousands of adult product professionals.”
“Not helping.”
“I sensed that.”
Mason leans forward, forearms on the table. “You will have your own hotel room. Your own schedule. Your own return flight, if you prefer.”
That should make me feel better and it does.
Unfortunately, my brain latches onto hotel room and refuses to behave.
Mason in a suit with his tie loosened after a long day of saying things like market penetration and product demonstration while I try not to combust in a convention center full of vibrators.
I reach for my water and find it empty. Great.
“Your face is doing something,” Tate says.
I glare at him. “Your face is about to be wearing wine.”
Mason’s gaze stays on me. “You don’t have to go.”
That surprises me.
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t have to go,” he says again, quieter this time. “If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll send someone else.”
The table goes quiet. The offer should relieve me. Instead, it irritates me because now it sounds like he thinks I can’t handle him.
“I’m not uncomfortable.”
Tate coughs and I elbow him in the side.
“Ow.”
Mason’s eyes darken faintly. “No?”
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
I should say annoyed. I should say hungry. I should say absolutely not thinking about the logistics of tinted windows, private hotel rooms, and the fact that Amsterdam is probably full of places where bad decisions can be disguised as cultural experiences.
Instead, I say, “Concerned about customs.”
Tate frowns. “Customs?”
“Yes. I assume we’re bringing prototypes, right? What am I supposed to say when airport security opens my bag and finds half the Sins line? ‘Don’t worry, officer, that one’s just Pride. It’s still learning how to release properly.’”
Tate laughs so hard he nearly knocks over his wine while Mason closes his eyes for half a second. I feel victorious.
Then he opens them and looks directly at me. “We’ll ship the prototypes ahead of time.”
“Oh. Good. So no one has to ask why I’m traveling internationally with a suitcase full of sin.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
“Not unless you pack your own.”
My lips part and Tate goes very still. Mason does too, like even he didn’t expect to say that out loud.
The restaurant noise swells around us. Forks against plates.
Low voices. Someone laughing near the bar.
All perfectly normal sounds while my body tries to decide whether to blush, panic, or ignore what just happened.
I choose to ignore it.
“You’re very lucky this bread is excellent,” I say.
The waitress returns to take our orders, and I am grateful for the interruption until Mason orders in flawless Italian and the waitress blushes.
When she leaves, Tate says, “Well, this trip should be fun.”
I point at him. “Do not use that word.”
“What word? Trip?”
“Fun.”
“Amsterdam is fun.”
“This is work.”
Mason’s eyes meet mine.
“Yes,” he says. “It is.”
There’s nothing suggestive in the words.
Nothing obvious. Which somehow makes them worse.
Because I know he remembers the truck and telling me anything could happen and no one would know.
And now I’m supposed to fly across an ocean with him, attend an adult product show, discuss Lust and Pride in public, and then return to a hotel room that is supposedly separate from his, and do all of it like my imagination will respect a floor plan.
I reach for the wine.
Tate raises his glass. “To Amsterdam.”
Mason lifts his glass, eyes on mine. “To the Sins line.”
I stare at him. Then, because I am weak and annoyed and apparently determined to make my own life harder, I pick up my glass too.
“To professional boundaries,” I say.
Tate snorts, but Mason’s gaze doesn’t leave mine.
“To testing them,” he says softly.
My glass pauses halfway to my mouth as the words slide under my skin, hot and slow. Tate looks between us, smile fading just enough to tell me he heard it too. I take a sip of wine. Then another.
Amsterdam.
Alone with Mason Sinclair.
At a product show for sex toys.
I thought the truck was dangerous. Apparently, it was just the preview.