Sleeping With Her Enemy(26)

…

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.

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.