Chapter 1 #2
At his side is his wife, Jenna, which surprises me enough to break my stare.
Mason almost never brings her to the office.
She’s elegant in a sleek cream dress, one hand resting lightly against his arm as they walk inside together like some terrifyingly beautiful power couple sent to destroy everyone’s self-esteem.
They are a devastating couple, both of them with dark hair and looks that people pay millions for.
“Sorry I’m late, everyone,” Mason says smoothly. Then his eyes flicker back to mine. “Please continue, Ms. Cross.”
But, of course, it’s never that simple. Mason pulls out the empty chair beside him for Jenna before rounding the table.
Instead of taking the open seat at the end, he slides directly into mine, which forces me to step sideways so quickly I nearly lose my balance in front of the entire executive board.
A large hand presses briefly against the small of my back, steadying me before I can stumble. Heat burns through the thin fabric of my blouse.
“Steady,” Mason murmurs.
My pulse betrays me instantly and I straighten so fast I almost get whiplash and move to the other side of the presentation screen before anyone notices the way my face warms.
Professional. I am a freaking professional.
“As I was saying,” I continue smoothly, refusing to look at him, “the new collection will revolve around the Seven Deadly Sins. If you’ll check your tablets, you’ll see the projected marketing strategy for Q4 and Q1 leading into the launch.”
I click to the next slide.
“The goal is immersion,” I explain. “Every sin becomes an emotional experience. Lust focuses on desire—”
“It won’t work.” The words cut cleanly across the room.
My stomach drops. Slowly, I turn toward Mason. He’s leaning back in my chair like he owns it—and technically, I guess he does. One arm rests along the armrest while the other taps lazily against the conference table. His expression gives away nothing.
Every eye in the room swings between us.
I force myself to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry?”
“The branding.” Mason nods once toward the screen. “It’s been done before.”
A flush creeps up my neck. Not because he disagreed. God knows executives disagree all the time. But because of how easily he said it. Like dismantling six months of my work required no effort whatsoever.
I clasp the presentation remote tighter. “The data strongly supports luxury-focused intimacy marketing.”
“It supports discretion,” he counters. “Not desire.”
The room is painfully silent now.
Mason continues, “You’re presenting sexuality like it’s something people should whisper about behind closed doors. That hesitation kills authenticity, and customers can smell inauthenticity immediately.”
Embarrassment crawls beneath my skin. I can practically feel everyone waiting to see whether I fold under the pressure. And maybe that’s exactly why my temper snaps.
“With respect we don’t sell toothbrushes.” I take one step forward. “We sell intimacy. Fantasy. Pleasure. If discussions about sex make this room uncomfortable, then we’re in the wrong business.”
Somewhere to my left, Owen chokes on absolutely nothing.
Foster stares at the table like he suddenly finds the wood grain fascinating.
Blaze looks seconds away from developing a stress-induced migraine.
And Jenna… Jenna smiles faintly. It’s small enough most people would miss it entirely, but I catch it.
It’s like she sees something in this exchange nobody else does, sending off warning bells in my head.
Mason’s gaze stays fixed on me. Unmoving. Heavy enough to pin me in place. Then, slowly, one corner of his mouth lifts.
“Well,” Owen mutters under his breath, “this is wildly inappropriate.”
That’s HR for you…
“No,” Mason says quietly, never taking his eyes off me. “She’s right.”
The tension in the room shifts instantly.
Mason glances toward the presentation screen again before saying, “Move the Lust line into the next stage of development.”
Relief hits me so fast it almost weakens my knees.
But then he adds, “With one condition.”
Of course there’s a condition.
I straighten carefully. “Which is?”
“I’ll oversee the final design process personally.”
The words land like a warning shot. My mouth parts slightly before I can stop it. Around the room, several executives look openly confused. Mason Sinclair does not involve himself in product development. Ever.
Tate narrows his eyes. “Since when do you care about packaging concepts?”
Mason ignores him completely. His attention remains locked on me. “The branding needs sharper positioning. More emotional impact. If this line is going to succeed, it needs refinement. And a lot of hard work.”
My brain immediately translates what that means. Private meetings. Late-night strategy sessions. Work trips. Hotel conference rooms. Long flights seated beside a man I already spend far too much energy trying not to think about. Bad idea after bad idea after bad idea.
Because the truly horrifying part isn’t that Mason Sinclair intimidates me. It’s that I’m attracted to him anyway.
“Do you have a problem with that arrangement, Ms. Cross?” he asks.
Every survival instinct I possess screams yes.
Instead, I hear myself say, “No, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Good.”
He pushes to his feet in one smooth motion, buttoning his suit jacket as though he didn’t just detonate the remainder of my emotional stability in front of the executive board.
“I’ll find you later so we can compare schedules.”
And then he leaves. Just like that. Jenna follows beside him, graceful and composed, though right before she steps through the conference room doors, she glances back at me.
There’s something knowing in her expression.
Something almost sympathetic. Which is honestly more terrifying than Mason himself.
The second the doors close behind them, the room collectively exhales.
Tate rises from his seat and claps his hands once. “Okay, folks. Great work. Everybody can get back to it.”
Chairs scrape against the floor as executives gather tablets and laptops. Conversations slowly restart, though several people throw curious looks my way on their way out. Opal outright grins at me like she just watched the season finale of her favorite reality show. Traitor.
I stay rooted in place until the room empties entirely. The second the last person disappears into the hallway, I round the conference table and stop in front of Tate.
“What in the hell was that?”
Tate laughs immediately which is completely unhelpful. “No idea, but I’ll admit it was entertaining as hell.”
I plant both hands on the table and lean forward. “Why does he want to be involved? He’s never involved.” I narrow my eyes. “Am I in trouble?”
That only makes Tate laugh harder.
“Laurel.” He shakes his head. “Sin says he wants to work one-on-one with you, and your first thought is that you’re being punished?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“I’m serious.” I straighten. “Your brother looked at my presentation like he was deciding whether to fire me or throw me out a window.”
“That’s just his face.”
“That’s unfortunate for everyone.”
Tate grins. “Listen, if Sin hated your idea, he would’ve killed it immediately. Trust me. The fact that he approved the next stage at all means he sees potential.”
“Then why insert himself into the process?”
Tate studies me for a second too long before saying carefully, “Because something about this caught his attention.”
I cross my arms. “That sounds ominous.”
“It probably is.”
“Tate.”
He holds up both hands innocently. “I’m not messing with you. Sin doesn’t waste time on projects he doesn’t care about. If he’s personally stepping in, it means he believes this line could be huge.”
“That doesn’t explain the staring.”
Tate’s mouth twitches. “The staring?”
“He stared at me the entire meeting.”
“That must’ve been awful for you.”
I glare at him. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Oh, absolutely.” He leans back against the table. “You argued with Sin in front of the entire executive board and lived to tell the tale. That alone deserves a plaque.”
“I didn’t argue.”
“Laurel.”
“Fine. I aggressively communicated.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
I groan softly and drag a hand down my face. The adrenaline from the meeting is fading now, leaving exhaustion behind. Along with something significantly more dangerous. Awareness.
Awareness of Mason’s hand against my back. Of the way his voice sounded when he said my name. Of the dark gray Tom Ford suit Opal is definitely collecting money over right now.
God.
This is bad.
“So,” Tate says casually, “when do you and Sin leave?”
I blink. “Leave?”
“For Napa.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
Tate frowns. “You didn’t know?”
“Know what?”
“There’s a luxury branding conference in Napa next week. Sin goes every year.” His expression slowly shifts into amusement. “Guess who’s probably going with him now?”
Oh no. No, no, absolutely not.
“Tate,” I say slowly, “I need you to tell me your brother is not planning to trap me in wine country for a week.”
Tate’s grin turns positively evil. “Can’t do that, friend.”
I stare at him in horror.
He pats my shoulder sympathetically. “Thoughts and prayers, though.”
“Not helpful.”
His laughter follows me as I leave the room.