Sleeping With Her Enemy(17)

Kat gave a low whistle. “Hubba, hubba,” she said. “Your ex-groom is a giant fucking idiot.” She punched her brother’s shoulder. “Right, Dax?”

“That’s actually true,” he said. “I’ve always thought that.”

Amy patted her hair. She had tried to put herself together as best as possible with the few supplies she had in her small wrist purse. She always felt better with her red lips on. She’d almost been swayed by her mother’s insistence that a bride shouldn’t have such a bold lip, had nearly caved and allowed her mouth to be painted a tepid pink. Now she was glad she hadn’t, because she needed all the armor she could muster for the walk of shame. Or the ferry of shame, or whatever. “It was nice to meet you, Kat.” She turned to Dax. “I guess I’ll see you in the office tomorrow?”

“Weren’t you gonna go on a honeymoon? You should take some time off. Go without Mason.”

“Nope. Mason was too busy at work to get away right now. We were going to go on a trip in the fall. I was just planning to come back to work on Monday.” Ouch. That sounded pretty pathetic when she said it out loud.

“You want a hoodie or something?” he asked. When she shook her head, he said, “I’ll walk you to the ferry.”

She mustered a fake smile. “Thanks, but I think I’d rather go by myself. That’s going to be how it is now.” She cleared her throat because she felt like her voice was going to catch. “Might as well get used to it.”

He nodded, but he did walk her out of the house, shutting the door behind him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t invite you to my wedding,” she blurted. Where the heck had that come from? What an odd thing to say. But she had agonized over it, just a little. She’d invited literally everyone else from his company and hers and a bunch of people from the Rosemann Agency, the third company on the floor. She most definitely hadn’t wanted him there—the idea of Dax watching her get married made her skin crawl—but it had seemed a little rude to so conspicuously leave him out.

He shrugged and smiled. “No worries. I wouldn’t have come, anyway. We don’t like each other, remember?”

Right. She nodded.

He stuck his hand in his pocket and produced her ring, which she had, amazingly, managed to not think about since he’d taken it off her at the bar. “Don’t forget this.”

The sight of it made her ill. “Can you…” What? Give it to Shelby?

“Throw it in the lake?” he supplied. “Have the stone reset into a samurai sword you can use to chop Mason’s head off?”

She couldn’t help but laugh, which had the effect of making her stomach stop churning. “No, but would you mind just hanging on to it and bringing it to me at the office? I don’t want to…” What? Give it back to Mason? Look at it ever again? She was just putting off the inevitable, but she felt, as irrational as it was, that she couldn’t do the walk of shame with the ring in her possession. The tiny thing was just too big a burden.

He nodded and pocketed it.

She was almost overcome with relief, relief mixed with…gratitude? She cleared her throat. “Well, thanks. For, ah, everything.”

“No problem, Strawberry Girl.”

Oh, God. She felt like she might start crying again. No. No, no, no. She straightened her spine, grasped her handbag with all her might, and started clacking down the path in her heels.

She wanted to look back, but she didn’t. Just kept concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Step, step, step. Until finally she clicked her way up the ramp onto the waiting ferry. Walking to the far end, she stood against the far railing so she was facing the skyline.

As the boat bumped out of the dock, her phone buzzed. She’d sent the requisite text to her brother earlier, but forced herself not to look at the fifty-nine—yes, fifty-nine—unread texts she had. The one incoming made it an even sixty. She looked down. Mason. She swiped over to her email, and the icon showed a hundred and seventy-seven unread messages.

As the boat picked up speed, the wind whipped through her hair. It felt good. Surprisingly good. The sun, warm on her skin, did, too. Another buzz. Sixty-one texts. She looked down at the phone. Her screen saver picture was a shot of Mason opening a record she’d given him last Christmas, his face intensely concentrating on the task.

You know what? Fuck it.

She stood up straight, retracted her arm in her best imitation of Brandon Morrow, the Jays’ most underappreciated pitcher, and hurled the phone into Lake Ontario.





Chapter Five

“This is so amazing. I can’t thank you enough,” Amy said, spinning in a slow circle in Cassie’s apartment.