Chapter 8 #2
“Evening Mr. Sinclair, Ms. Cross.” He turns to Mason. “I have an umbrella ready for you.”
I brush past the two and see Mason’s black truck waiting by the curb. Behind me, I hear Mason thank the doorman. A second later, he’s beside me, opening the umbrella over both of us. I step out from under it. Immediately, rain hits my face.
His jaw tics. “Laurel.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re going to the L?”
“That was the plan.”
“It’s pouring.”
I bark out a laugh. “I noticed.”
Thunder cracks overhead, loud enough to make me flinch. He moves the umbrella over me again, and this time I’m too cold and too tired to be difficult about it. For three whole seconds.
Then I say, “You don’t have to do that. I’m capable of getting myself home.”
His mouth twitches. “Impressive.”
“I also know how to use crosswalks and everything,” I add, just to be bratty.
“Now you’re just showing off.”
I glance at him and it’s a mistake. The rain has darkened his hair at the edges, and the city lights catch on the sharp line of his jaw. His suit jacket is open and his tie loosened slightly. He looks good, but tired. It’s an annoying combination.
“My truck is right there,” he says. “Let me drive you home.”
“No.”
His eyes hold mine, and for one second, the rain disappears. The doorman disappears. The whole city blurs into headlights and wet pavement and the two of us standing too close under an umbrella that suddenly feels criminally small.
“I’m offering you a ride,” he says quietly. “Nothing else.”
My throat tightens. That definitely should not sound like a dare. Good thing I’m standing in freezing rain, because otherwise I might spontaneously combust.
The doorman clears his throat behind us. “Ms. Cross, it’s really coming down.”
Traitor.
Mason’s gaze doesn’t move from mine. “Five minutes in the truck. That’s all.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“No,” he says. “But I assume you do.”
A gust of wind slams cold rain against my legs, and my flats are soaked through in an instant.
I sigh. “Fine.”
He walks me to the passenger side, opens the door, and holds the umbrella steady while I climb in.
The interior is warm and smells like leather, rain, and him.
Of course it smells like him. Why wouldn’t his truck also be a trap?
I settle into the seat and pull my bag into my lap like it might protect me from poor choices.
Mason shuts my door, circles around the front of the truck, and climbs in beside me.
The second his door closes, the outside world goes muffled.
Rain pounds against the roof. The windows fog at the edges. The heat hums low. And suddenly, I am very aware that I am alone in Mason Sinclair’s truck. Honestly, I should not be allowed to make my own decisions.
He starts the engine. “Address?”
I give it to him, and he enters it into the navigation system, then pulls away from the curb.
For the first few blocks, neither of us speaks.
Which is fine. Silence is good. It gives me plenty of time to stare out the window and not think about how his hand looks wrapped around the steering wheel.
Naturally, I think about it. His sleeves are rolled beneath his coat.
Just enough that I can see the strong line of his wrist when he turns.
His wedding band catches the light. That should cool everything. But then I remember those same hands braced on my desk. The way he leaned in. The way his voice dropped when he called me a brat. My stomach flips and I shift in my seat.
Mason glances over. “Cold?”
“A little.”
He reaches out, turning up the heat as we come to a stop at a red light. Rain streaks down the windshield, turning the city into smears of gold and red. For one second, I can see his reflection in the glass. His profile. His jaw. His mouth.
I wonder what it would feel like.
The thought comes out of nowhere. Well, not nowhere. Still, it hits me hard enough that I stop breathing.
I picture leaning across the console. My hand against his chest. His head turning toward mine. That first second before either of us remembers all the reasons we shouldn’t. His mouth close. His breath warm. The rain hiding everything outside while we ruin everything inside.
I can almost feel it. The scrape of his jaw. The heat of his hand at my neck. The sound he’d make if he finally stopped being careful.
The light turns green, but the truck doesn’t move.
I blink and glance up. Mason is looking at me. Not at the road. At me. My heart slams once, hard.
“What?” I ask.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Then lifts.
“Nothing.”
The car behind us honks.
Mason looks forward and drives, and I press my knees together before staring out the window like the streetlights are fascinating.
They’re not. They’re blurry and yellow and doing absolutely nothing to distract me from the fact that, for one horrifying second, I imagined leaning across the console and kissing my very married boss in his very expensive truck.
A minute passes.
Then he says, “You went quiet.”
“I’m enjoying the silence,” I answer pointedly.
He laughs at that.
“Sorry,” he says. “I like to get to know people in my truck.”
I glance over. “That sounds like something you shouldn’t mention to HR.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Speaking of your truck,” I say, desperate for literally any subject that isn’t the way his laugh just settled somewhere beneath my ribs… and legs, “why are the windows so tinted? Isn’t that against the law or something?”
“Why?” He glances at me. “You going to call the cops on me?”
I meet his gaze. “Maybe.”
Another red light catches us, and I bite back a groan. Seriously?
I clear my throat. “So, what are your plans for the holiday?”
“Nothing.”
“With seven brothers, I find that hard to believe.”
He says, “Everyone has plans this year.”
There’s something in the way he says it like he practiced making it sound casual and missed. I don’t want to ask.
Naturally, I do.
“What about Mrs. Sinclair?” My voice comes out lighter than I feel. “Surely she has family in town.”
“Her family lives in Kansas,” he says. “Which is where she is.”
Oh. There are a million things I want to ask. Why aren’t you with her? Why did you offer me a ride if you’re going home to an empty house? Why does that make my chest feel tight?
I don’t get the chance, because he speaks again.
“To answer your other question, the windows are tinted for privacy.” I swear his tone lowers. “No one can see what’s happening inside here.”
My traitorous mind jumps right back to the kiss scenario, except this time it’s darker inside the truck. Warmer. The rain louder. The windows fogged enough that the whole world disappears.
My pulse thrums in my neck. And lower.
“Fascinating,” I say, because apparently that is the only word my brain has left.
Mason’s gaze cuts to me. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
He smiles then, not fully, but enough that it promises trouble.
“Bet I can guess where your mind went.”
I turn toward him. “I doubt that.”
“You sure?”
“Extremely.”
His fingers tighten around the wheel as he eases the truck forward. “You were wondering what all you can do in this truck without being seen.”
My lips part. Because he’s mostly right.
“And how did you come to that conclusion?”
“Because you pressed your knees together.”
My entire body goes hot and I look out the window so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
“I did not!”
He says nothing. Which is worse. Silence from Mason Sinclair is never empty. It is heavy and deliberate and somehow more inappropriate than words.
I fold my arms. “Fine. Maybe I was wondering.”
“About the tint?”
“Yes.”
“Not the truck?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Not the back seat?”
My breath catches and his eyes flicker briefly to mine, and I know he heard it.
“I didn’t say anything about a back seat,” I say.
“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
The green light ahead turns yellow. He slows instead of trying to beat it.
I glare at the windshield. “Are you intentionally stopping at every light?”
“I’m obeying traffic laws.”
“Convenient timing.”
“Very.”