Page 61 of Sin

“Must be a very big pair.”

“Careful, Mr. Sinclair,” I say as I walk toward the jet. “You’re starting to sound curious.”

His footsteps follow behind me.

“I’ve been curious for months, Ms. Cross.”

I nearly miss the first step onto the plane, which would have been a perfectly poetic way to die. Death by flirtation. Very on brand for me lately.

I catch myself on the railing and refuse to look back at him. “Careful, Mr. Sinclair. Curiosity can get a man in trouble.”

His voice is right behind me. “I know.”

Of course he says it like that. Low and calm, like he isn’t currently trying to burn my life down with three words and a sweater.

I step into the jet and immediately feel wildly out of my tax bracket. The inside is cream leather, dark wood, soft lighting, and polished metal. There are seats facing each other, a small sofa along one side, a table already set with bottled water, fruit, and pastries that look too perfect to be eaten by real people.

A smiling flight attendant takes my coat, and I clutch my laptop bag like it contains state secrets instead of presentation notes and one extremely questionable packing decision. Mason steps in behind me and the cabin suddenly feels smaller which is impressive, because it’s bigger than my first apartment.

“First time on a private jet?” he asks.

I glance at him. “What gave me away? The dead-eyed panic or the fact that I’m trying not to touch anything?”

His mouth curves. “Both.”

“Wonderful.”

The flight attendant gestures to the seats. “You’re welcome to sit wherever you’re comfortable.”

Comfortable? That’s adorable.

I choose a seat facing forward because I like the illusion of control, then tuck my laptop bag under my feet and sit. Mason takes the seat across from me, where I have no choice but to look at him. Dark sweater. Jeans. Strong thighs. One ankle crossed over the other like he isn’t the reason every nerve in my body is currently sending emergency alerts.

The flight attendant offers us coffee. I say yes because I need something to do with my hands. Mason says no because apparently he has decided to make eye contact his beverage of choice.

Once we’re settled, the cabin door closes and the plane begins to move. My stomach moves with it.

Mason says, “You don’t like flying.”

“I’m fine with flying.”

“Your face disagrees.”

The plane picks up speed. My heart does the same. I stare out the window as the runway blurs, trying to breathe normally while my body prepares for certain death. Then the jet lifts. I don’t even notice Mason switching seats until my hand shoots out for the armrest only for him to grab it. His fingers close around mine, and the panic in my chest does not disappear.

It changes.

Because now I’m not thinking about the plane. I’m thinking about his hand. The size of it. The strength. The way his thumb moves once across my knuckles, barely there, like comfort by accident. I should pull away. I don’t.

But neither does he.

For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. The city falls away beneath us, gray and glittering under the morning light, and I sit there holding Mason Sinclair’s hand like it is normal.

When the plane levels out, I should let go. I don’t do that either.

Mason’s gaze is on our joined hands. Then on me.

“Better?” he asks quietly.