Chapter 11 #2
Mason is still by the windows. Except now his sweater is gone. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders and makes me want to walk directly back into the bathroom and drown myself in the sink. He turns when he hears me.
His gaze drops to the robe. Then to my bare legs. Then back to my face.
“Dinner’s here,” he says.
I glance toward the small table near the sitting area. There are covered plates, a bottle of water, and two glasses.
“You ordered food?”
“You didn’t eat enough on the plane.”
I blink. “Are you keeping a spreadsheet?”
“No.”
“That sounded suspiciously like a no from a man who has absolutely considered keeping a spreadsheet.”
His mouth twitches. “Eat.”
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“The bossy hotel room voice.”
His eyes darken. I know I should stop talking. At some point, I would love to meet the version of myself who does that.
I walk to the table and sit, keeping the robe tightly closed. He takes the chair across from me, but not before I notice the pillow and blanket neatly folded on the couch. The tiny couch built for a small person who does not have Mason Sinclair’s shoulders.
“You’re really sleeping there?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I stare at the couch again. “You’re going to wake up shaped like a question mark.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Worse than a luxury hotel suite in Amsterdam?”
His eyes meet mine. “Yes.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me want to ask. I don’t. Instead, I lift one of the silver lids and find pasta.
“Good,” I say. “Carbs. Finally, someone in this room is making reasonable choices.”
He sits. “You consider pasta reasonable?”
“Compared to everything else happening here? Absolutely.”
Mason eats across from me in a T-shirt, barefoot now, his hair slightly messy from the way he ran his hand through it earlier.
I hate that this version of him feels more dangerous.
When dinner is finished, he stands and clears the plates before I can protest. He sets everything back on the cart, then rolls it near the door.
“I’ll take the bathroom now,” he says.
“Okay.”
He grabs clothes from his suitcase. Not much. Sweatpants. A dark shirt. A toothbrush. A normal amount of things for a normal man. Unlike me, who smuggled a silicone battering ram across international waters.
Before he goes into the bathroom, he pauses.
“Take the bed.”
I shake my head. “We already discussed this.”
His jaw tightens. “Please don’t argue with me about this.”
“Fine,” I say. “But if you end up unable to turn your neck tomorrow during our presentation, I’m telling everyone you lost a fight with Dutch furniture.”
His mouth almost smiles. “Fair.”
He steps into the bathroom and closes the door.
A second later, the shower starts. I stand frozen in the middle of the room.
Because apparently this is my life now. Mason Sinclair is showering ten feet away from me while I’m in a hotel robe, in one shared room, with a bed big enough for a Shakespearean tragedy and a bag containing a sex toy he personally designed.
I move quickly, turning down the bedding, losing the robe, and climbing under the covers. Then, for good measure, I pull them up to my chin like a Victorian widow protecting her virtue. It would be more effective if I weren’t wearing satin shorts.
I grab my phone and check email, trying to stay busy, Anything so I can’t hear the sound of the shower in the other room. Then I scroll on social media. I’m just getting cozy when the shower turns off. I flip to my side, facing away from the bathroom door.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens. I keep my eyes closed. This is a smart strategy.
Then Mason says, “Your suitcase is buzzing.”
My eyes snap open.
“What?”
He’s standing near the wardrobe in dark sweatpants and a black T-shirt, long damp hair hanging freely, looking like every fantasy I have been trying to avoid since we landed. And my suitcase is, in fact, buzzing.
No.
No, no, no.
I sit up so fast the covers slide to my waist.
Mason’s gaze drops. Not to my suitcase, but to me. Then he looks away.
My face burns.
“The zipper must have pressed against something,” I say, scrambling out of bed.
“Something,” he repeats.
I rush to the suitcase, drop to my knees, and unzip it. The buzzing gets louder and Mason makes a strangled sound behind me.
I glare over my shoulder. “Not. A. Word.”
His hands lift.
I dig through my clothes until I find the culprit. It’s not the massive dildo. Thank God. It’s my travel vibrator and its button is flashing like a beacon of shame. I turn it off and shove it back under my clothes. The silence behind me is devastating.
I slowly close the suitcase. Then stand and turn.
Mason is looking at the ceiling like he is praying for divine intervention.
I cross my arms. “I’m a grown woman.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I own things.”
“I am painfully aware.”
“It’s not weird.”
“No,” he says, voice strained. “Nothing about tonight has been weird.”
I narrow my eyes.
Then, because embarrassment makes me snappy, I say, “I thought men who personally design dildos would be less delicate.”
His gaze jumps to mine.
“There is nothing delicate about me.”
The words hit the room like a match. My pulse slams. His does too, I think, because his throat moves as he swallows.
“Could’ve fooled me. You look scared of a little buzzing.”
His eyes darken.
“Little?”
My mouth opens. Well, I walked directly into that. His gaze drops to the suitcase. Then back to me.
“Why bring both?”
My skin goes hot from head to toe.
“I like options.”
His jaw flexes.
“You should get back in bed,” he says.
The way he says it doesn’t help. At all.
“Are you ordering me?”
“I’m begging you.”
Oh. Begging. From him.
Mason drags a hand down his face, then looks at me with an expression so raw it steals every joke from my mouth.
“Laurel,” he says quietly, “I’m trying to do the right thing.”
The room goes still. For a second, neither of us moves. Then I go back to the bed because he asked me to. I climb under the covers and turn onto my side, facing the window.
Mason moves around the room quietly behind me. The couch creaks when he lies down. Then creaks again. And again.
I press my lips together.
“Don’t laugh,” he says from the darkness.
“I’m not.”
The sound that escapes me is definitely a laugh.
The couch creaks again. I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The room is dark except for the soft glow of the city through the curtains. I can barely make out his shape on the couch. I know he has to be uncomfortable.
“Mason, the bed is big enough.”
“What?” His voice is low.
“I said the bed is big enough.”
“For what?”
“For both of us to sleep without touching.”
The word sleep does a lot of work in that sentence.
“Look, it’s not going to do either of us any good to be sleep deprived because the couch won’t stop making noises.” I push up on my elbows. “No touching, obviously. In fact, I’m going to build a pillow wall between us.”
Then the couch creaks one final time as Mason stands. My breath catches in the dark. I hear him pick up a pillow. Then the soft fall of his steps across the room. The mattress dips on the far side of the bed. Not much but enough that my entire body knows exactly where he is.
Mason lies on his back, rigid as a corpse.
I do the same.
There’s at least three feet between us and a row of pillows that I immediately arrange like a border wall. The silence is unbearable.
Then he asks, “Comfortable?”
“No.”
“Same.”
I turn my head. He’s looking at the ceiling, mouth tight, hands folded over his stomach like he is attending his own funeral. Despite everything, I smile.
“Are you scared of me, Mr. Sinclair?”
His head turns slowly. Even in the dark, I can feel his gaze.
“No,” he says. “I’m scared of myself.”
I stop breathing.
He turns back toward the ceiling. I do too and neither of us says another word.
The rain keeps falling outside. The canal glows through the curtains. And in the middle of Amsterdam, in a bed far too big and nowhere near big enough, I lie beside Mason Sinclair and realize the most dangerous thing in this room isn’t the dildo in my suitcase.
It’s the fact that I believe him.