Chapter 9
Laurel
My weekend was hell. And not just because I was alone.
No, I spent the entire weekend thinking about that damn truck ride home.
His voice. His hands on the steering wheel.
The rain. The tinted windows. The way he said no one could see what happened inside his truck like he wasn’t handing my imagination a loaded gun and telling it to be responsible.
It wasn’t responsible. Not even a little.
I fantasized about every possible scenario.
Kissing him. Climbing over the console. Sucking his dick while the rain hid us from the rest of Chicago.
Fucking him in the back seat of that stupid truck until the windows fogged and neither of us remembered how to be careful.
Inviting him into my apartment. Letting him pin me against my front door before I could talk myself out of it.
Basically, my vibrator had a very long and heroic weekend. By Sunday night, the poor thing made a noise no product in our catalog should ever make, and now I need a new one. Which is why I’m already frowning when I walk into my office Monday morning.
Then I come to a stop.
Right there in the middle of my desk is a silicone dildo. That isn’t unusual on its own. I work for a sex toy company. I once found a box of glow-in-the-dark butt plugs in the break room beside the coffee filters.
It’s the size of this one that makes me pause.
It’s massive. At least nine inches. And girthy. There’s a pink sticky note stuck to the tip.
I step closer and read it.
From the line I personally designed. This is what my wife enjoys each night.
—Sin
My entire body goes hot. Then cold. Then hot again. My hand is actually shaking as I peel the sticky note off and set it aside.
Holy.
Shit.
He has to be joking. Right? There is no way this would actually fit inside anyone who wants to walk again.
I pick it up before I can stop myself. It’s heavier than I expect.
Smooth, soft silicone, perfectly shaped, with a flared base and enough arrogance molded into it that I know he designed it.
Of course Mason Sinclair would design a dildo that looks like it should come with a warning label and a prayer candle.
I turn it over in my hands and my mouth goes dry.
This is what my wife enjoys each night. I should be disgusted and toss it into the trash and wash my hands with bleach.
Instead, my traitorous brain decides to picture Mason holding it.
Then Mason using it on me. Then Mason’s mouth near my ear in that truck saying You can do anything and no one would know.
I squeeze the toy so hard it bends slightly. Nope. Absolutely not.
Because God hates me, someone clears their throat behind me.
“Jeez, Cross. Doing some product testing?”
I nearly launch the thing into the ceiling.
Instead, I snatch Mason’s note off my desk and turn to find Tate standing in my doorway, grinning like he just caught me committing a felony.
“Very funny,” I say. “Someone left it as a prank.”
His gaze drops to the toy in my hand. “That’s a prank? Looks more like a challenge.”
I shove it behind my back. Which is stupid.
Tate’s grin widens. “Relax. I’m not judging. Everyone needs a hobby.”
“My hobby is firing people who stand in my doorway making jokes before coffee.”
“I don’t work for you.”
“Give me time.”
He laughs and leans against the frame. “Well, you ready for lunch?”
I glance at the clock. “It’s not even noon.”
“It’s Monday after a holiday weekend. Time has no meaning, and I want a drink.”
Fair. I grab my purse with my free hand, then realize I’m still holding the enormous dildo like it’s evidence in a murder investigation.
Tate looks at it.
I look at it.
Then I drop it on my desk so fast it makes a very unfortunate thud. Tate loses it.
“Not a word,” I warn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a face.”
“My face has questions.”
“Your face can mind its business.”
He holds up both hands in surrender.
I grab my purse. “You buying us drinks?”
“You’ll have to ask Sin. He’s buying.”
I slow. “That’s nice of him to pay.”
“Yeah… and because he’s going to be there.”
I close my eyes. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I would, but you’re already holding that purse like you’re about to beat me with it.”
“I might.”
“Understandable.”
And because I have that kind of luck, Mason walks up at that exact moment.
“Good morning.”
I turn slowly. He stands there in a dark suit and black overcoat, looking like he stepped out of an expensive car and directly into my nervous system. His eyes go from Tate to me. Then over my shoulder, into my office.
His mouth curves.
“Wow,” he says. “That’s impressive.”
My cheeks catch fire.
“What was it?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know. “Nine inches?”
“I’ve seen bigger,” I snap.
Mason’s gaze darkens just for a second. Enough to make my pulse trip.
“Have you?” The words are calm, but I’m not fooled.
Tate makes a quiet choking sound beside me.
I lift my chin. “Much bigger. And for the record, if that was supposed to impress me, it didn’t.”
“No?” Mason asks.
“No.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Then back to my eyes.
“Good thing it wasn’t for you, then.”
The hit lands before I can prepare for it and my stomach twists, but I refuse to let him see it.
Tate clears his throat. “So… lunch?”
“Yes,” I say, too brightly. “Lunch sounds great.”
Mason finally turns to him. “Let’s go.”
Tate falls into step beside him. I follow a beat later, trying not to think about the toy sitting on my desk.
Trying not to think about the note. Trying not to think about Mason’s wife.
Trying really, really hard not to think about the fact that if that was the kind of thing Jenna enjoyed each night, then Mason Sinclair was either a liar, a sadist, or far more capable than any woman should be forced to contemplate before lunch.
Unfortunately, I contemplate it all the way to the elevator.
The hits just keep coming because Mason is driving us to lunch in his big black truck. And because Tate is a gentleman, or because the universe has a sick sense of humor, I somehow end up in the front seat. Again.
I buckle in and immediately pull out my phone. Emails. Beautiful, non-threatening emails that don’t have tinted windows, large hands, or a back seat.
It’s times like these I wish I were more social.
I’ve spent so much time working on my career that I’ve let friendships fall to the side.
Not on purpose. It just happened slowly.
One late night at the office turned into ten.
One missed dinner turned into months of rain checks. Eventually, people stopped asking.
Mason and Tate let me have my silence as they chat about something one of Dante’s kids did over Thanksgiving.
Apparently glitter glue was involved. And a dog.
And possibly a very expensive rug. Sounds like Mason ended up spending the holiday with them.
Which is nice. He had somewhere to go. I don’t even have that.
I’m deep in thought when the truck comes to a stop. Tate gets out first, but Mason lingers. I can feel him looking at me before I lift my head.
“Are you okay?”
I meet his gaze. “Fine. Why?”
His eyes move over my face, softer than they have any right to be. “You seemed kind of sad.”
That lands too deep. Way too deep. So, naturally, I smile like my heart hasn’t just done something stupid and painful in my chest.
“Nope. I’m good.”
Then I get out of the truck before he can ask me any more questions I might accidentally answer.
The restaurant is Italian, tucked between a florist and a bookstore with fogged windows and a hand-painted sign out front. It smells like garlic, bread, and expensive red sauce before we even make it through the door. They know both Mason and Tate by name.
The hostess lights up when she sees them, and an older man behind the bar calls Mason “ragazzo” like he has known him since he was in diapers.
I glance around. “Should I be concerned that everyone here looks like they’d help you hide a body?”
Tate grins. “Only if you’re the body.”
“Comforting.”
Mason leans down and says into my ear, “Foster’s grandparents own this place.”
I turn my head, which puts us way too close. His mouth is inches from mine. Close enough that if I inhaled too deeply, I’d probably do something humiliating.
“Grandparents?” I ask. “I didn’t know they were alive.”
His gaze drops to my lips. Then back to my eyes.
“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “I’m sure you’ll meet them.”
I step back and nearly collide with Tate.
“Careful,” Tate says, catching my elbow. “You look like you just saw the ghost of Thanksgiving future.”
“Just hungry,” I say.
Mason’s mouth twitches. Traitor.
We’re seated in a booth near the back. Tate slides in first, leaving me with the outside seat. Right across from Mason. Because apparently the theme of my life is direct eye contact with this man.
A waitress brings water, bread, and a bottle of wine without asking. Then Foster’s grandfather appears beside the table and kisses Tate on both cheeks before clapping Mason hard on the shoulder. He looks at me next. Then smiles.
“Oh,” he says, pointing between me and Mason. “Who is this?”
“No,” I say immediately.
Tate chokes on his water while Mason’s brows lift. The old man blinks.
I force a smile. “Sorry. Reflex. I’m Laurel Cross. I work with them.”
“Ah.” His smile widens. “The pretty one who makes the dirty toys. I was hoping you were dating Tate.”
I stare at him. Tate loses the fight and starts laughing. Mason says something in Italian that sounds like a warning.
The old man waves him off and takes my hand between both of his. “Welcome, Laurel Cross.”
He says something else to Mason before leaving. I reach for bread because carbs are safer than eye contact.
Tate leans back in the booth. “So. Amsterdam.”
My hand freezes halfway to the butter.
I glance at him. “What about Amsterdam?”
Tate looks from me to Mason, then back to me.
“Oh,” he says slowly. “You don’t know.”
My stomach sinks and I put the bread down.
“I don’t like when sentences start that way.”