Page 45 of Sin

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.

“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.