Page 38 of Sin

“So have you.”

I need to get away from her, so I reach for the nearest tool and turn back to my station. “Well, I won’t keep you.”

She returns to her station and starts unpacking her materials. I try to focus on the project in front of me, but every sound she makes pulls at my attention. The slide of paper across metal. The click of her laptop opening. The soft scrape of her chair. The soft clearing of her throat.

Two weeks. I lasted two weeks. And all it took was one dark red sweater and a sketch called Envy to remind me that avoiding Laurel Cross was never a solution.

We work in silence for the next hour. Mostly. Laurel sketches. I test. She mutters to herself when a curve doesn’t sit the way she wants. I pretend not to listen. She taps her pen against her bottom lip. I pretend not to notice. I do a lot of pretending around Laurel Cross. It’s becoming a full-time job.

By nine, most of the office lights beyond the lab have gone dark. By ten someone from facilities pokes his head in, sees both of us working, and immediately decides whatever he came for can wait. By eleven, Laurel has kicked off her heels and is sitting cross-legged on her stool, sweater sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hair falling loose around her face.

I’ve taken my tie off. That feels like a mistake. Especially when she slides off her stool and wanders toward my station with her mug in hand.

“So,” she says, stopping beside me. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing.”

Her brows lift. “You’re in the lab at nearly midnight working on nothing?”

“Yes.”

“Convincing.”

I don’t look at her. “Go back to Envy.”

“I will after you show me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re annoying.”

“That’s not a reason.” Then she leans one hip against the edge of my station and looks down at the parts spread across the table. Her gaze narrows. “Is that part of the Sins line?”

I don’t answer quickly enough. Her smile grows.

“Oh my god. It is. Which one?”

“It’s not ready.”

“Come on, Mason. You can show me.”

I set down the tool in my hand and finally look at her. Bad idea. The lab light hits the red of her sweater and makes her skin look warmer than it should. Softer. Her mouth is curved, her eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that always gets her into trouble and has been getting me into worse.

“It’s Pride,” I say.

“Pride,” she repeats.

The way she says it shouldn’t do anything to me. It does.

I pick up the casing because I need something in my hands that isn’t her. “It’s still early.”

She reaches for the sketch at my elbow before I can stop her. Her eyes move over the drawing, and for the first time since she walked in, she goes quiet.

“What?” I ask.

She studies the design. “It’s beautiful.”