Chapter 5 #3
“You compensated by narrowing the mouth opening.”
“Yes.”
His mouth curves slightly. “That was smart.”
I look down at the desk. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not.”
I glance up.
His eyes are on me. Not the test results. Not the folder. Me.
The air changes again, and I’m instantly aware of every inch of my body. The space between us. The fact that my office suddenly feels too small for both of us and every unsaid thing we dragged in here. Mason sets the folder down.
“Your design is good,” he says. “But it could be better.”
My spine stiffens. “Sure. Like you can tell that just by looking at one test result.”
He moves around the edge of my desk and reaches for the pencil near my keyboard and turns one of the printed diagrams toward him.
“You’re solving the pressure issue from the wrong side.”
I lean in closer despite myself. “No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Mason.”
His gaze darts up, and I realize too late that I used his first name. So does he. For one stupid second, we just stare at each other.
Then he looks back at the paper, but his voice is lower when he says, “The problem isn’t the opening. It’s the valve.”
I focus on the diagram because it’s safer than focusing on him. “We already changed the valve twice.”
“Not like this.”
He sketches a quick line across the design. Then another. Damn him for being right.
I lean closer, studying it. His shoulder brushes mine. Still, my entire body reacts. Mason stills. So do I. The pencil stops moving, but neither of us pulls away.
That’s the worst part.
The silence stretches, thin and hot, until I can hear my own breathing. Until I know he can hear it too.
Then Mason says, very quietly, “This is why I told you to put your blouse on.”
My stomach drops and I pull back immediately. Anger rushes in to save me from embarrassment.
“Don’t.”
His eyes come to mine. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this my fault.”
“I didn’t.”
“You implied it.”
“No.” His voice hardens. “I implied I know my limits.”
I laugh, because the alternative is shaking. “That’s rich.”
His expression goes still.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you keep talking about limits like I’m the only one testing them.”
He says nothing. So I keep going, because apparently I’ve learned nothing from Friday night.
“You’re the one who followed me into your office.”
“Laurel.”
“And you told me you were having a hard time remembering why you shouldn’t touch me.”
The words hang between us. They seem worse in daylight because neither of us can pretend I misunderstood. Mason’s face gives nothing away, but his eyes do. His eyes are a confession.
I lower my voice. “So don’t stand there and act like my blouse is the problem.”
For a second, he doesn’t move. Then he steps closer.
“The problem is that you think I don’t know that.”
My breath catches. The office outside my door might as well not exist. Opal. The phones. The hum of fluorescent lights. The whole company moving around us like everything is normal. Nothing about this is normal.
“Then maybe you should leave,” I say.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Then back to my eyes.
“I should.”
But neither of us moves. Not until someone knocks on the door.
We spring apart like guilty teenagers. Which is ridiculous. Because we haven’t done anything.
Mason turns his head toward the door. “Yes?”
Opal pushes it open just enough to peek inside.
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Mrs. Sinclair is on line one.”
Mason’s expression closes. Mine does too. I reach for the folder on my desk and straighten it even though it doesn’t need straightening.
“You can use my phone if you need,” I say. “I have a meeting with Tate.”
Opal’s eyes widen slightly before she disappears, wisely shutting the door behind her. For a long moment, Mason doesn’t move. Not even when his phone starts ringing in his pocket.
I look up at him. “You should probably take that.”
His gaze holds mine. “Laurel—”
“Boundaries, remember?”
Something flickers across his face. Regret, maybe. Or frustration. Or both. He reaches into his pocket and silences the call without looking at the screen.
I slide the folder toward him, forcing my voice back into something professional. “Take the test results. If you have notes, send them by email.”
He doesn’t touch the folder.
“Laurel.”
“Mr. Sinclair.”
His mouth tightens. For one second, I think he might say something real that would ruin us both. Instead, he picks up the folder.
“Conference room B,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. Bring the prototype and your testing notes. I’ll bring mine.”
He turns before I can respond and walks to the door. With his hand on the knob, he pauses.
“I’ll send my notes by email,” he says.
“Great.”
He opens the door. Then, without looking back, he says, “But for the record, Ms. Cross, Jack wasn’t the reason I came to your office.”
My heart stops. He leaves before I can ask what he means. The coward.
I drop my forehead to the desk. Mason Sinclair is back on Lust. And apparently, so is every terrible decision I thought I’d buried two months ago.