Page 29 of Sleeping with Her Enemy (49th Floor 2)

Then it was over. A Yankee batter was up, and the umpire had called a strike before they’d even sat down. The people immediately around them were still enchanted by the lie, patting Dax on the back and talking animatedly among themselves. Dax was riffling through a handful of papers Boss Girl had left him.

He huffed a laugh and turned to her. “Dinner at Canoe and a night at the Ritz-Carlton.”

“Yeah, for Julie and Jason.”

“Well, Julie and Jason made their bed—and apparently not with each other.” He twisted around in his seat as if waiting for judgment to come from on high. Then he turned back to her, grinning. “And if you want to eat at Canoe, courtesy of the Blue Jays, I suggest we get out of here, stat.”

When she didn’t answer right away, he leaned over and whispered in her ear again. “I, for one, am famished.” Then he sat back and let his eyes roam all over her body. It was like he was daring her to hear the double entendre, to take what he’d said the wrong way.

Well, hell. It wasn’t their fault Jason and Julie were cheating on each other. So mimicking him, she let her own eyes slide down his chest. “Me, too.” She licked her lips. “But I have to go home and change first if we’re going to Canoe.”

…

Dax had to admit that he’d been curious about Amy’s house. Knowing she was some kind of real estate guru would have been enough to pique his interest—where did real estate gurus actually live?—but add in there the bits and pieces he’d heard about her planning out her whole future with Mason, and he was really wondering.

The taxi let them out on Ava Road. He knew she’d grown up in ritzy Forest Hill—about as far from the modest Scarborough bungalow he’d grown up in as it was possible to get—and apparently when she bought her own place, it was just on the outskirts of her childhood neighborhood. He suspected Jack paid her well, and knowing her, she’d probably scored the deal of the century on the house, but even so, Forest Hill proper was probably not accessible for someone just shy of thirty, even if Mason had been paying his share—which somehow, Dax very much doubted he was. Still, the house was nice, in an upscale area. The prototypical Toronto semidetached house, it probably had three bedrooms, four if the basement was finished. Enough for a family to grow into. Though knowing her, she probably had a succession plan mapped out and would, timing the market perfectly, flip the house and move up.

“I packed everything I thought I would need when I moved into Cassie’s place,” she said, leading him up the cobblestoned driveway, “but I didn’t bring anything suitable for dinner at Canoe.” Climbing the steps to the porch, she murmured, “Please let no one be home.”

If by “no one,” she meant Mason, he had to agree.

“I gave Mason a week to get his stuff out, but it’s only been six days, so he could still be here,” she whispered as she unlocked the door. “Hello?” she called, key still stuck in the lock. “Mason?” When there was no answer, she dashed inside and headed directly for the stairs. “I’ll be right back!”

No way was she leaving him there to possibly run into Mason. It wasn’t that, like her, he was afraid of the guy. No, it was more that he was afraid he might punch the asshole’s lights out. Not that he thought Amy should have married Mason. Just that he didn’t want the dick to get off scot-free. What kind of a coward bails on his wedding an hour before it’s supposed to start, adding a totally unnecessary layer of humiliation to the heartbreak he was doling out?

So he jogged up the stairs after Amy, following some rustling sounds coming from one of the bedrooms on the second floor. It was empty, but he could hear louder versions of the same rustling sounds coming from what must be a walk-in closet. Not wanting to scare her, he called out, “So this is the conjugal bedroom, hey?” It was probably kind of a jerk thing to say, but he needed to get them back on their normal, semi-confrontational footing. He didn’t regret the big fake proposal and was glad she’d seemed amused by it, at least initially. But he’d been surprised to find himself, near the end, hit with a wave of what had felt like genuine emotion. He’d been a little choked up, truth be told, as, it seemed, had Amy. Apparently, proposals were such culturally loaded things that even a fake one between two people who didn’t like each other had power. There had certainly been enough other people around them wiping away a tear or two.

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