Sleeping With Her Enemy(44)

“How could you right-swipe that guy? Gross. He looks like a total player. Like he should be in a Versace ad from the 1980s.”

She dropped her phone into her purse and dipped her spoon into her soup. “Unlike you, I suppose? Anyway, I’m surprised you didn’t know about Tinder.”

“I do know about Tinder. The way they mine Facebook profiles is genius. But it’s not really my thing from a user standpoint.”

“But you’re a total womanizer. And this is womanizing—or manizing—stripped down to its essence.”

“I have historically enjoyed female company, that’s true.” He ignored her snort. “But I like to meet women in person.”

“So you can put your magic moves on them?”

She wasn’t wrong, exactly, but there was a better way to put it. “Call me old-fashioned, but I just don’t think a snap judgment based on a photo and maybe one sentence of a bio is going to be reliable. Even if you’re only looking for a hookup, there’s something to be said for chemistry.”

“Ah, I see. You’re a romantic.” She grinned. “Kind of.”

They ate in silence for a minute, him still feeling the urge to defend himself but also feeling that to do so would amount to protesting too much. Because, she was right—he wasn’t a romantic.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Amy asked.

Finally, a subject that wasn’t a minefield. “At the risk of having you mock me mercilessly, I’ll tell you that I’m going to a revival of the Godfather movies at the Royal Cinema.”

“Oh, that sounds great, actually. I love the Godfather—though I’ve only seen the first one.”

“Come with me—it starts Saturday at four.” That was fine, right? They were supposed to be friends. Friends went to the movies together.

“Can’t.” She slurped her soup. “I’m going on the Tinder date.”

“Right.” He slurped right back at her in order to cover a spark of annoyance. “So what’s this guy’s deal?”

“I don’t really know. That’s the beauty of Tinder.” She pulled out her phone. “It doesn’t matter anyway.” She wagged her eyebrows at him. “That’s also the beauty of Tinder.” A few taps and she turned her phone toward him, displaying another picture of the Mason-esque toothpaste ad dude. He looked…

Nice.

Like a nice version of Mason. Which might be exactly what Amy needed. Obviously, there had to have been something real between them for their relationship to last seven years. She thought she wanted casual, but it was clear as day that she was incapable of casual. Which was why he was steering clear. So if she could find someone who had the good qualities of Mason but also didn’t take her for granted…well, that would be her best-case scenario, wouldn’t it?

“So you guys have corresponded beyond Tinder? You know he’s not a psychopath?”

“Yeah, we’ve emailed a bit, exchanged some pictures.”

The idea of this guy with pictures of Amy on his phone did not sit well with Dax. Not at all. But he was done opining on matters that didn’t concern him. “I gotta get back.” He stood and replaced the lid on the soup he never wanted in the first place.

“Me, too.” Amy mirrored his actions. “That McQuade deal is heating up. I have meetings all afternoon.”

He’d been trying to lose her, but he could hardly object when she followed him to the elevators that would take them to their common destination. A bunch of people got on with them, and the elevator stopped every few floors, disgorging lunchers back into their offices. Amy was on the other side of the elevator from him, and she’d taken her phone out. It was crowded enough that he couldn’t quite tell what she was doing. Was she tapping? Scrolling?

Swiping?

The forty-ninth floor was only four short of the top, so by thirty-nine the last two passengers besides them got off. Amy didn’t notice, so engrossed was she with her goddamned phone. He watched the display tick past forty.

Forty-one.

She right-swiped. There was no mistaking it.

So he crossed the empty space between them, snatched the motherfucking phone out of her hand, and kissed her, bringing his lips down on her surprised gasp.

She didn’t seem to be objecting, though. After a moment of passivity—no doubt he’d shocked her—her hands came to his chest and pushed. Hard. But not like she wanted him to stop because she also tilted her head back and loosened her jaw, letting his tongue invade her mouth. So he let himself be propelled backward until his back hit the side of the elevator. There were mirrors on the back wall, and when he glanced to his side, he could see them from behind, her pressed up against him, the purple dress riding up as she lifted up onto her tiptoes and hooked one leg around him, her foot winding around his calf.