Chapter 8
Laurel
Opal is wearing a festive Thanksgiving sweater that makes me laugh the second she stops me. There’s a turkey on the front. Wearing sunglasses.
“You gonna let the team leave early, boss?” she asks.
“That’s above my pay grade.” I lower my tone. “But rumor has it Mr. Sinclair is going to cut us loose by noon.”
Opal grins. “Looks like I’m going to be sixty dollars richer at noon.”
“Only sixty? I’m disappointed in you.”
“It started as twenty, but then Marcus from packaging said Mason Sinclair doesn’t have a festive bone in his body.”
“He probably has at least one.”
Opal’s eyes widen. I stop walking and we stare at each other. Then she bursts out laughing.
I close my eyes. “Forget I said that. I meant his general attitude toward holidays.”
“Sure you did.”
I point at her. “Not a word.”
“Oh, I have many words,” she says. “Just not to you.”
I shake my head and enter my office before she can make it worse.
Today is the last workday before Thanksgiving.
Most of my colleagues are going out of town, but not me.
I don’t have family other than a cousin in Oklahoma, and I’d rather kiss a skunk than spend time with him.
So, while part of me is happy everyone is leaving, it’s also bittersweet.
The good news is, I can have all the lab time I want.
The bad news is, lab time has recently become dangerous because of Mason Sinclair.
It’s been nine days since I found him in the lab working on Pride.
Nine days since we stood too close together and talked about pressure, grip, release, and softer materials like we were capable of being normal about any of those words.
We were not and I’ve replayed the conversation more times than I want to admit.
I toss my bag onto my chair and find a small box sitting on my desk.
The label on top reads: Harvest Collection Promo Samples.
The Harvest Collection was an idea from two years ago that never should have made it past the brainstorming stage.
Someone in marketing thought Thanksgiving themed novelty toys would be funny.
They were right. Unfortunately, they were also unsellable.
No one wanted a mini eggplant called Plow Me or a smiling squash with a suction base.
And absolutely no one wanted the little corn shaped dildo, even though the packaging team argued for three straight weeks that the name Cornstar was genius.
I pulled it out of stock to get rid of it but now I think I have another use for it.
I open the box and stare down at the tiny yellow offender nestled in tissue paper.
It’s ridiculous, bright, cheerful and completely unserious.
Basically the opposite of Mason Sinclair.
I pick it up and it barely fits in the palm of my hand.
I bite back a laugh. This is going to be so funny!
Then Opal appears in my doorway like she smelled poor decisions in the air.
“Oh my god,” she says. “Is that Cornstar?”
“Lower your voice.”
“I thought we destroyed those.”
“Apparently not.”
She walks in and peers into the box. “We also have Gobble Me Gourds?”
“Last one. Want it?”
She laughs. “Hell no, Ms. Cross.” She lifts one of the mini gourds and turns it over. “This is actually kind of cute.”
“That’s how bad ideas reproduce.”
Opal looks at the corn in my hand. “What are you doing with that?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling and it’s your gremlin smile.”
“I do not have a gremlin smile.”
“You absolutely do.” Her gaze narrows. “Are you giving that to someone?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? You’re holding a tiny corn penis.”
I look down at it. Then back at her.
“Technically, all corn is a penis if you’re committed enough.”
Opal cackles so hard she has to grab the doorframe and I laugh despite myself.
“This is the last one,” I say, turning the toy over in my hand, “And I’ve decided Mr. Sinclair needs it.”
Opal laughs. “Boss, you have a death wish.”
I grab a sticky note, ignoring her.
She leans closer. “What are you writing?”
“Nothing.”
I write quickly before I can talk myself out of it.
Since Pride is having performance issues, I thought you could use something with proven stamina. Try not to overthink the shaft angle.
Opal presses both hands over her mouth.
I slap the note onto the corn and stand. “I’m going to hell.”
“Yes,” she says. “But at least you’re bringing snacks.”
I should put it back in the cursed promo box and pretend I never touched it.
Instead, I tuck the little corn toy under a file folder and head for Mason’s office.
His assistant isn’t at her desk, probably already mentally on vacation or, if anything, getting coffee in the lounge.
The hallway is quiet, most people counting down the minutes until they can leave and pretend cranberry sauce is a personality trait.
Mason’s door is open, but he isn’t inside.
Perfect. I step in quickly. His office is exactly how it always is.
Neat. Dark. Expensive. Too controlled. His desk is almost offensively clean, so the tiny corn looks even more absurd when I set it in the center of the desk.
Right where he can’t miss it. I cover my laugh with one hand and walk away before common sense can catch me.
By the time I get back to my office, I’m grinning like an idiot. Opal is waiting at her desk.
“Well?” she whispers.
“Delivered.”
“You’re my hero.”
I’m at my desk pretending to answer emails when I hear him arrive. His footsteps are unmistakable. So is his voice. He must be on the phone, if his low tone is any indication. My fingers pause over the keyboard.
Then his voice cuts off. Silence. Perfect, terrible silence. Which means he saw it. I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. It doesn’t work. A giggle escapes before I can stop it and Opal makes a strangled noise from outside my door, like she knows we’re both in danger.
Then Mason’s footsteps echo down the hall. I sit straighter and pretend to be very busy on my computer. He appears in my doorway a few seconds later.
He holds the toy between two fingers, making it look even smaller. The sticky note is pinched in his other hand. His expression is unreadable. Which, on Mason, somehow means furious, amused, and one bad decision away from leaning too close.
“This your idea of a joke?” he asks.
I look up with my sweetest smile. “I just thought you could take it home to Mrs. Sinclair.”
His eyes narrow. I should stop, but don’t.
“You know,” I add, “give her something bigger than she’s used to working with.”
Opal makes a choking sound from her desk. Mason steps into my office and kicks my door shut.
I lift a brow. “That seems unnecessary for a vegetable-related conversation.”
His gaze drops to the corn in his hand. “This is not a vegetable.”
“It’s corn.”
“It’s three inches long.”
“It’s not the size of the ship, but the motion of the ocean.”
His mouth tightens and I grin. He crosses the room and braces both hands on the top of my desk, leaning in just enough to make my pulse trip. He sets the corn between us.
“Very. Funny.”
“I know.” I lean back in my chair, because he smells too good and I hate that. “I’m hilarious.”
“You left a dildo on my desk while I was on the phone with my wife.”
“That does sound bad when you say it without the holiday spirit.”
His eyes darken. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“What?”
“This.” His gaze stays on mine. “You trying to provoke me.”
My smile falters.
“I’m not trying to provoke you,” I say. “I’m trying to improve morale.”
“Mine?”
“Everyone’s.”
“By implying I’m smaller than a toy corn cob?”
A laugh escapees before I can stop it.
“It’s a baby corn, and, for the record, I only implied Mrs. Sinclair might appreciate the upgrade.”
His jaw flexes.
“For the record,” he says, voice lower now, “that is nowhere near my size.”
Heat hits my face so fast I almost hate him.
I force myself to look bored. “For the record, I don’t care.”
“No?”
“No.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Just once.
Then he looks back into my eyes. “You cared enough to leave it on my desk.”
“I was being festive.”
“You were being a brat.”
The word lands between us and my stomach tightens.
I sit forward before I can stop myself. “Why, Mr. Sinclair. That almost sounded like a complaint.”
His expression changes and the office suddenly feels very small.
“It wasn’t,” he says.
For one second, neither of us moves.
Then Mason straightens and picks up the corn. “HR would have a field day with this.”
“Good thing your brother likes me.”
“Don’t test that theory.”
“I test everything. It’s literally my job.”
His mouth twitches. A real almost-smile. Then he drops the toy back on my desk. “Keep your corn, Ms. Cross.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t corn.”
“I meant because it had a suction base.”
“Most memorable things do.”
His eyes snap to mine and I smile sweetly. He stares at me for one long, heated second.
Then he shakes his head and turns for the door.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Laurel.”
The sound of my first name in his mouth makes my smile slip.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Mason.”
The office clears after that. When Mason sends the email wishing everyone a safe holiday, they all flock to the doors.
Not me. I stay in my office, catching up on emails and messages.
Then I organize my files. I’m in the process of dusting my bookshelf when I hear a clap of thunder.
I move to the window, looking out. Chicago is blanketed in dark clouds and it’s pouring outside.
Well, good thing I don’t have anywhere to be after this, because I’m going to be soaked by the time I get to the L.
I take my time finishing up. At seven, the rain still hasn’t let up, so I finally bite the bullet and gather my things. I’m almost to the elevator when Mason scares the crap out of me.
“What are you still doing here?”
I jump, putting my hand over my chest. “Me? What are you still doing here?”
“Working.”
I say, “I was doing the same.”
He presses the button for the elevator. When the doors open, he motions for me to enter first. The tension is unbearable the entire ride down.
In the lobby, the doorman greets us.