Chapter 10
Laurel
I find out the Amsterdam trip is in a week when I get back to the office and check my email. One week. Seven days. Actually, six and a half if I want to be dramatic. Which I do.
It’s all there in neat, professional bullet points.
Travel arrangements on the company jet. Expo times.
Presentation schedule. Retailer meetings.
Press walk-throughs. The hotel we’ll be staying at.
When we land. When we leave. When we’re expected to be charming in front of international buyers who want to hear words like innovation and consumer experience instead of what we actually mean, which is this toy will make you see God if we engineered it correctly. There’s even a section marked Downtime.
Downtime. As if that word doesn’t become a felony when attached to Mason Sinclair and Amsterdam.
I click through the itinerary twice. It’s all very polished. Very clean. Very corporate. A business trip. That’s all. Just two executives traveling to represent a product line. No big deal.
Except I can still hear Mason’s voice in his truck.
No one can see what’s happening inside here.
I close the email. Then open it again. My nerves feel like live wires under my skin, sparking every time I see his name listed beside mine.
This is a terrible idea.
I should tell him I changed my mind. That would be the smart thing to do. The responsible thing. The thing a woman with even a tiny survival instinct would do after spending the weekend fantasizing about her married boss’s hands, mouth, truck, and frankly alarming product design skills.
But I don’t.
Instead, I manage to shove all feelings aside with the same grace and emotional maturity I use to kick shoes under my bed when I don’t want to clean.
I finish Lust. I perfect my presentation.
I test the prototype until the numbers are so beautiful even Mason has to approve them without making one of his little almost-smiling faces.
Which he does by email. Because apparently we’re both pretending distance is a personality trait now.
The week passes in a blur of late nights and design notes.
Before I know it, it’s the night before we leave.
The office is mostly empty by the time I leave the lab.
Lust is packed in its custom case, gleaming like the expensive little troublemaker it is.
The presentation is done. My notes are printed.
My laptop is charged. My backup charger is in my bag because I am a professional woman who can manage international travel.
I go to my office to make sure I have everything. Laptop. Charger. Notes. Prototype. Backup prototype.
I’m doing one final sweep when I open my top desk drawer. And stop. The massive dildo Mason left me is still there. I stare at it. The pink sticky note is still tucked beside it.
I should leave it. There is absolutely no reason to take a giant dildo to Amsterdam. I reach for the drawer to shut it. Then pause, because maybe I should bring it…
I pick it up, and it lands heavy in my hand.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter.
Then I wrap it in a scarf, because apparently modesty matters when smuggling spite across international borders, and tuck it into my bag. It takes up an obscene amount of space.
I zip the bag closed before I can change my mind.
Then I stand there, staring at it. Then, I grab my coat. Because this trip is already a disaster. Might as well pack accordingly.
I sleep for approximately forty-seven minutes.
Not consecutively, either. By the time my alarm goes off, I’ve already been awake for an hour, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Amsterdam, Mason Sinclair, and the massive dildo currently tucked inside my suitcase like the world’s least appropriate emotional support item.
I shower, do my hair, and spend way too long staring into my closet like the perfect travel outfit might reveal itself through divine intervention.
Eventually, I choose a black wrap dress because it’s comfortable, doesn’t wrinkle easily, and makes me feel like I have some control over my life.
The fabric skims over my curves, tying at my waist and dipping just low enough at the neckline to make me feel feminine without looking like I’m trying to seduce airport security.
Or my boss. I pair it with boots, a long coat, and the kind of lipstick that says I am a professional woman on an international business trip and absolutely not someone who packed her married boss’s sex toy out of spite.
At exactly seven, my phone buzzes.
Mason Sinclair
I’m downstairs.
My stomach flips. Rude. I grab my purse, my laptop bag, and my suitcase, then lock my apartment before I can decide to fake an illness and hide in my bathtub until the plane leaves without me.
Mason is waiting by the curb. Not in a suit.
That’s the first problem. He’s standing beside his truck in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that fits across his shoulders like someone designed it specifically to destroy my ability to form rational thought.
His hair is slightly damp, like he showered not long ago, and there’s a pair of sunglasses tucked into the collar of his sweater. I wonder what his hair looks like down.
He looks up when I step outside. His gaze moves over me slow enough that I feel it everywhere the black dress touches my skin.
I lift my chin. “Good morning.”
His eyes return to mine. “Morning.”
That’s it. One low, rough, not-enough-sleep word. Already, this trip is a mistake.
He reaches for my suitcase.
“I can get it,” I say.
“I know.”
He takes it anyway and loads the suitcase into the back of the truck. I climb into the passenger seat before he can open the door for me. Petty? Yes. He shuts my door with a look that says he is choosing not to comment, which is honestly growth for both of us.
I buckle my seat belt and stare straight ahead as he gets in beside me.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
“Thrilled.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“It was the answer you deserved.”
He starts the truck, and the engine rumbles beneath us and my thighs press together before I can stop them. Excellent start.
Mason pulls away from the curb. “Did you sleep?”
“Absolutely.”
“Liar.”
I look over. “Do you ever get tired of saying that?”
“Do you ever get tired of proving me right?”
“I slept enough.”
“That means no.”
“That means I’m not discussing my REM cycle with you before coffee.”
His gaze drops briefly to the cup holder, where a lidded coffee waits. I look at the cup. Then at him.
“You got me coffee?”
“It’s a long drive to the airport.”
I pick up the cup and take a sip. It’s exactly how I like it. My chest does something inconvenient.
I swallow. “How did you know my order?”
“Opal.”
“Oh.”
For some reason, that make me sad, but then I shake my head. What? Did I really think Mason Sinclair would take the time to know my drink order? Come on.
I take another sip of coffee and pray for strength. The city slides by in gray morning light. People hurry down sidewalks with coats pulled tight. Traffic builds as we head toward the private terminal, and every red light feels personal.
We pull up to a red light, and he turns his head to really look at me.
His gaze drops to the neckline of my dress, to the knot tied at my waist, then back to my face.
It isn’t crude. It isn’t even lingering.
It’s restrained like he knows exactly what he wants to look at and is refusing himself the pleasure.
My pulse goes stupid.
“What?” I ask.
His hand tightens around the steering wheel.
“You look nice.”
“Thank you,” I say. Then, because I cannot leave well enough alone, I add, “You look less terrifying in jeans.”
His brow lifts. “Less?”
“Slightly.”
“I’ll try harder.”
“Harder. My favorite word.”
Just great. That sounds like something I didn’t mean. His eyes darken and my face warms. Neither of us says anything for a full minute.
Then he asks, “Are you nervous about the presentation?”
“Yes,” I lie.
It is not entirely a lie. I’m nervous about the presentation.
I’m also nervous about the plane, the hotel, the downtime, the dress, the suitcase, his sweater, his hands, his coffee, his mouth, and the fact that somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean there will be nowhere to run except a private jet bathroom, and that feels like information my imagination should never have been given.
“You’ll do well,” he says.
I take another sip of coffee even though it’s too hot and hum under my breath.
The private airport entrance appears ahead, sleek and quiet behind a security gate. My stomach flips again. This is happening.
Mason pulls up to the security checkpoint and lowers his window. While he speaks with the guard, I stare straight ahead and try to look like someone who has not made several questionable packing decisions. The guard waves us through.
As we drive toward the waiting jet, Mason glances over.
“Still time to back out,” he says.
I turn to him. “Is that what you want?”
His jaw tightens. For a second, he doesn’t answer. Then he parks near the plane and cuts the engine. The sudden silence is brutal.
He turns toward me.
“No,” he says. “I don’t want you to back out.”
The truck feels too small again.
Too warm.
Too private.
His eyes hold mine, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to lean across the console. How close we already are. How his sweater would feel beneath my fingers. How his mouth would taste like coffee.
I don’t move. Neither does he.
Then someone knocks on the window, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Mason closes his eyes for half a second, like he’s asking God for patience. I turn to find a smiling airport employee standing outside.
Saved by aviation.
Wonderful.
Mason gets out first while I sit there for one more second, breathing like a normal person. Or trying to. Then I open my door and step into the cold morning.
Mason is already at the back of the truck, lifting out my suitcase and then my overnight bag. You know, the bag with the…thing.
“What’s in here? This thing weighs a ton.”
“Shoes.”