Page 109 of Sin

I cross the room before she can unlock it. She turns, startled, and I catch her face in my hands. This kiss is different, full of things I want to say to her but can’t. When I pull back, her eyes are searching mine.

“What?” she whispers.

I brush my thumb over her cheek. “I’m looking forward to Seattle.”

Her smile is faint. “Oh?”

“I’m looking forward to holding you in my arms without a clock running.”

The words settle between us. Her eyes shine for one dangerous second before she blinks it away.

“Sin.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“I know that too.”

She swallows. Then she rises on her toes and kisses me once.

“After work,” she says.

I let her go. Because for now, that is the only thing I can still do right. She unlocks the door and leaves with the folder tucked against her chest. I stand there long after she’s gone, staring at the closed door, my office still smelling like her.

The rest of the day drags.

She attends a meeting with marketing. I speak with legal. She spends an hour in the lab. I review Seattle projections with Tate, who keeps looking at me like he knows there is something under my skin and he wants to poke it until it bleeds.

At four, Blaze drops by to ask about a production issue and casually mentions Jenna.

“How is she handling you being gone again?” he asks.

“What do you want, Blaze?”

“Just saying. You’ve been traveling a lot.”

“It’s a business.”

“It’s always a business with you.”

I stare at him. He stares back. For a second, I think he’s going to bring up what he heard outside my office again, but doesn’t. Lucky for both of us.

Instead, he pushes away from the doorframe. “Have fun in Seattle.”

When he leaves, I sit there for a long time, looking at the closed door.

Everyone is starting to see pieces. Hell, maybe everyone knows what a bastard I’ve been. And still, at five-thirty, I take off my suit jacket, loosen my tie, and lock my office door so I can change for the flight. Because I am no longer pretending I’m trying to stop. Not tonight.

At six, Laurel meets me in the private garage.

She’s wearing a camel coat over a black dress, her suitcase beside her, laptop bag over one shoulder. Her hair is down. Her lipstick is dark enough to make my mind go blank for one brutal second.

“Ready?” she asks.

I take her suitcase. “Yes.”

I load her suitcase into the back, then stand there for one second with my hand on the tailgate as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I already know who it is before I look and, for a moment, I consider answering. Not because I want to. Because I should.