Page 30 of Sleeping with Her Enemy (49th Floor 2)

She didn’t respond to his baiting remark, but the rustling stopped, and she stuck a head out of the closet. “We’re not actually going to the Ritz afterward, are we?”

He shrugged, looking around the room, which, with its bright greens and aquas, seemed very Amy. No sign of Mason here at all, other than the fact that the bed was unmade and there were some men’s toiletries on the long, low dresser lining one wall. “We can do whatever you want. But I say why not check out the room, have a drink before we call it a night? We can get dessert from the restaurant to go.”

“Ha!” She disappeared back into the closet, but he could still hear her disbelieving giggle. “Okay, I’ll throw in some sweatpants and stuff then.”

“How romantic,” he drawled, but there was something about the image of Amy, sprawled out in sweats in a room at the Ritz-Carlton, that stirred him. Okay, stirred his dick, to be more precise. It was just like seeing her in her Blue Jays getup. She was usually such a girlie-girl, with her office dresses and her red lips. Seeing her without her usual feminine armor was strangely affecting.

Speaking of feminine armor, his eye was drawn to what he assumed was her side of the dresser. A few glass bottles stood next to some framed pictures. He wandered over to inspect the pictures. One was of her with what had to be her parents and brother. The four of them stood against a Christmas tree with smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. The tree looked like something out of a design magazine—the whole family did, actually. It jibed with what she’d told him about her parents. The second picture couldn’t have been more different. It was of her and her brother, judging by the fact that the same guy had also appeared in the family photo. They were at the Rogers Centre, and Amy was dressed in a getup not unlike the one she was changing out of now. Both grinned widely and Amy held a novelty foam finger decorated with the Jays’ logo. The third picture was, of course, of her with Mason, and it appeared to be a selfie. The close crop meant he couldn’t tell where they were, but they were smiling. They looked happy—though to Dax’s eyes, Mason also looked a little self-impressed, as if he were posing rather than being captured in a genuine moment. It reminded him of the last picture he and Allison had taken.

Clearing his throat, he let his gaze slide over the lineup of bottles. Lotion, hair products…he picked up a bottle of pink liquid. Aha! Strawberry body mist from Bath & Body Works. He pressed his nose to the dispenser.

“What are you doing?”

He turned. She wore an emerald-green dress made out of some drapey material that crossed over one shoulder like a toga before flaring out from her hips, 1950s-style. She looked like a cross between a green Greek goddess and Marilyn Monroe. Crap. The sight, combined with the smell of her, even if wasn’t emanating from her but from its bottled source…he could only hope his jeans and open blazer would cover the evidence of just exactly what she was doing to him.

“This is why you always smell like strawberries,” he said, demonstrating a talent for stating the obvious.

“Yeah,” she said, moving around the bed to stand next to him. “Mason always thought it was unsophisticated.” He bit back a protest. “I used to wear Strawberry Shortcake perfume when I was a girl. I loved it, so I just never stopped. Mason said it was embarrassing for a grown woman to wear a cartoon perfume.” She trailed her hands over the framed photos on the dresser. He watched her face. It didn’t change as she traced the edges of the frame holding the picture of her with Mason. “He had a point, I guess, so I upgraded to the more respectable Bath & Body Works version.” She rolled her eyes self-deprecatingly. “It still only costs eight bucks a bottle, so it’s hardly Chanel, but it seemed to placate him.”

“Mason is a complete fucking idiot, because this shit smells incredible.” He couldn’t help it. It had to be said.

She turned from where she had been looking at the photos, startled, but then a slow smile blossomed on her face. “You”—she poked him in the chest, and her finger might as well have been a brand because he had to bite his lip to keep from groaning—“are turning out be a surprise.” Then she opened the bag she had slung over her shoulder, grabbed the photo of herself with her brother, and dropped it in. “Ready?”

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