Page 53 of Sleeping with Her Enemy (49th Floor 2)

Anyway, it wasn’t fair to compare Greg and Dax. Dax had been there immediately post-jilting, when she’d been all raw and emotional, and he’d somehow tripped some switch inside her. In real life, things weren’t so…urgent.

Kissing Greg was not unpleasant. Not at all. But as he let his hands fall to her waist, resting them inside her loose blouse and against her skin above the waistband of her jeans, she started to feel a more than a little nervous. His hands paused, as if he was seeking permission to go further. Who knew this was going to be so logistically complicated?

The hands inched up a little bit more. Right. He was waiting for the go-ahead. Well, here it went. Swallowing the lump that was growing in her throat, she let her own hands float up to the top button of her blouse, gauging his reaction as she began unbuttoning. He stepped back and watched her, concentrating intensely. When she was done, she straightened her arms and let the blouse fall to the floor.

What now? Were they supposed to make out some more with her bra on, or should she take that off, too?

“You’re gorgeous.” He seemed to mean it. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered. “I want you to feel comfortable.”

What did she want? It was a good question. To be brutally honest, mostly she just wanted the notch in her belt that this encounter represented. She wanted to get on with life post-Mason. She wanted to have fun, right? This was supposed to be fun. And if she didn’t stop microanalyzing everything, it wasn’t going to be.

“Is this okay?” he said, as one of his hands floated up.

It was as if she were watching their encounter from above, from outside her body, watching herself nod. His hovered for a moment above her breast. But then the instant he made contact with the fabric of her bra, she was shoved back into her body, the sensation of his hand overwhelming her. “Oh!” She lunged away. Of course, she regretted the outburst immediately.

But it was too late. He stepped back and regarded her quizzically. “It pains me more than you know to say this, but I think this might be a mistake.”

“No! It’s not a mistake! I’m sorry, I just need a little—”

Oh, crap, he was stooping to pick her discarded blouse. “I have to say, I’m getting a weird vibe. I’m not sure you’re ready.”

That had been exactly the phrase Dax used, that night they’d nearly set their room at the Ritz on fire.

“…maybe you’re not over him.” She tuned in to what Greg was saying midsentence.

Not over Dax? There was nothing to get over. A couple of make-out sessions, some banter-turned-kissing.

“Didn’t you say you’d been together seven years? That’s a long time.”

Oh, right. He was talking about Mason. Her ex-fiancé. All right, time to take a cue from the fact that he was now making for the bedroom door. The situation wasn’t salvageable. “I’m sorry,” she said once again, buttoning her blouse. And suddenly, she really, really was. She’d blown it again.

When they got downstairs, he offered her another drink. Apparently, he was even going to be sweet while she extricated herself. She politely declined. As he kissed her good-bye at the door, after she’d declined his offer to drive her home and apologized once again, he said, “Don’t worry about it. Maybe you’re just not the hookup type.” Then he planted a chaste peck on her cheek. “But regardless, the guy who does get to be with you—in whatever form—is gonna be one lucky bastard.”

Walking down the sidewalk, she felt like she was doing a walk of shame. Not the traditional kind, but the journey was still infused with regret. Was she ever going to get it together? Was she doomed to spend her life alone, rattling around in her big house with only her vibrator for company?

Maybe you’re just not the hookup type. Greg’s words echoed in her mind. If she wasn’t the hookup type, and she wasn’t the relationship type—at least not for a good long while—what did that leave her?

Chapter Eleven

Dax was strolling along College Street after the second Godfather movie, wanting to stretch his legs before settling in for the final installment. In truth, he was considering bailing. The first two were rightly classics, the third more uneven, in his opinion. And it was late. He was going to have to stay at the condo as he would miss the last ferry. But he was a completist. The same part of his brain that saw patterns in data and had propelled him to success in the software industry didn’t like the idea of leaving before the trilogy was over. Still, he wished he had time to grab a drink before the last movie started. A beer would be just the thing to make the last movie more interesting.

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