Sleeping with Her Enemy

by Jenny Holiday

  “Has that ever happened?”

  “I have no idea!” She laughed and slumped back in her seat theatrically, clutching her hands to her chest. “I love baseball.”

  She loved rules, this one. Systems, plans, routine. It’s why she was such a baseball nut—and why she had rules about when she ate which snacks. It was probably also why she was so good at real estate. Until a few days ago, it used to annoy the shit out of him. She was always rearranging stuff in the office fridge, making it impossible to find anything. But now, for some reason, her penchant for order seemed strangely…hot. Which made no sense, because Dax had always been more of a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. Too bad he couldn’t have come to this realization sooner, back before she was all vulnerable and heartbroken. They could have had some fun together. Well, except for Mason. But still, it was nice to see her so unreservedly happy.

  He checked himself there. Being concerned about a woman’s happiness was not generally a practice he wanted to embrace. He’d tried to make Allison happy, to fix all her problems, and look how that had turned out. He shifted in his seat, watching Amy watch a game on the Jumbotron, where a seat number was drawn and its occupant answered trivia questions. When the hapless fan got the first question wrong, Amy buried her face in her hands, crying out as if personally wounded by the wrong answer.

  Which is why she didn’t see the parade of T-shirted, young, perky venue officials parading down the aisle—the same species that had been running the trivia contest and the other between-inning diversions—until they had come to a stop next to him.

  “Mr. Jennings?” one of them whispered in his ear. “Ready for the big proposal?” She squatted down next to him, and he could see that she had “Jason Jennings” written on a piece of paper, along with what appeared to be their seat numbers. He opened his mouth to correct her, but before he could get a word out, her face changed. “Don’t get cold feet now,” she snarled, annoyance replacing perkiness. “There are half a dozen cameras trained on you, and everybody’s expecting a grand romantic gesture.”

  “What’s happening?” Amy asked, concern etching its way onto her features. “Is everything okay?”

  All of a sudden some kind of bullshit Celine Dion ballad came on, and they were on the Jumbotron. He had a sudden vision of Mason, suggesting they tuck ring shopping into their list of holiday errands after his epic fail of a non-proposal.

  Amy deserved better. Even if it was just pretend. Crossing his fingers that she would take this in the spirit it was intended—as a joke, as something to make her laugh—he leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Just run with this. Follow my lead.”

  The best part? He still had the goddamned ring in his pocket.

  …

  What was going on? Well, Amy knew what was going on. They were the random lucky/unlucky players of whatever game or contest was currently going down. A lifetime of coming to Jays games, and she’d never been tapped. It was kind of like jury duty, she supposed—eventually your number came up.

  “Just run with this,” Dax whispered in her ear. “Follow my lead.”

  Yeah, no way. She wasn’t about to let Dax hijack whatever was happening here, especially if it involved trivia. Especially if it involved a prize. She was about to tell him as much when he slipped out of his seat and knelt on the cement step of the aisle.

  “That’s disgusting. Get up. Who knows what’s spilled…” She trailed off, belatedly realizing that the crowd was roaring in delight. There seemed to be some kind of light on her face, and Celine Dion was insisting that her heart would go on. She shot a questioning glance at Dax. He was looking at the Jumbotron, grinning, so she followed his gaze. Somehow, even though the picture was a live feed of what was happening directly in front of her, understanding didn’t dawn until she saw herself up there, twenty-five feet high.

  Being proposed to.

  Little animated hearts circled around their heads and text came zooming across the screen that said, “Jason + Julie.”

  She looked back at Dax, whose attention was now on her. He was biting his lip as if trying to hold back laughter. She felt an answering giggle making its way up her throat.

  Oh my God, Jason and Julie were going to be so pissed—if they were even still speaking to each other.

  Dax clenched his jaw and cocked his head. The crowd went insane. She sneaked a peek at the Jumbotron, which was showing a close-up of him. Though it was quite clear to her that he was trying not to burst out laughing, she could see how it might look like he was nervous—he was pressing his lips together so hard they had practically disappeared. Or maybe he was playing the crowd, drawing it out for maximum theatrical effect. Either way, the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable—and infectious. Laughter threatened. Oh, boy, did it ever. She had no doubt that if she opened her mouth, a wild, crazed peal of laughter would ring out. So she bit the inside of her cheeks and buried her head in her hands. She could feel her shoulders shaking, and the screaming of the crowd ticked up a notch. No doubt they thought she was crying, overcome with emotion.

  “You have twenty seconds, Mr. Jennings,” said the woman who seemed to be in charge. Still hiding her face, Amy took a couple deep breaths, trying to get control of herself.

  “Amy.” That sobered her up pretty fast. His voice came from everywhere, booming across the stadium. She looked up. He was holding a microphone.

  “I thought her name was Julie,” came an urgent whisper from Boss Girl.

  Dax covered the microphone and craned his neck to whisper back. “It’s a pet name.”

  “Amy is a pet name?” she heard the woman say, but Dax ignored her.

  “Amy.”

  Her heart started to thud as he used the hand that wasn’t holding the microphone to take her hand. Her hand that was suddenly shaking rather violently.

  He was still grinning, so she focused on that, on the fact that they were playing the mother of all practical jokes on a stadium full of people. “I’ve never met anyone like you. You…challenge me every single day.”

  That was certainly true. She was his office enemy-turned-frenemy, after all. She raised her eyebrows as if to illustrate his point, hoping she looked suitably skeptical.

  “I don’t know anyone smarter than you, or more generous-spirited. Or braver.” He was no longer smiling. In fact, he was leveling a serious look at her that made the shaking come back. “Or worthy of love.” She gripped his hand tighter, hoping the cameras weren’t catching the quiver.

  “I think…” His voice had gone scratchy, and he paused to clear his throat. “I think it’s possible that you are going to make me a better man.”

  Amy was unprepared for the tide of emotion that hit her then. She swallowed hard, fighting against an insistent pressure in her throat. What a lovely thing to say, even if it wasn’t true.

  “So when this opportunity presented itself to propose here, in front of your beloved Blue Jays, I thought, yes, this is exactly the proposal you deserve.”

  He dropped her hand then, and she panicked a little. She was going to have to say yes now, wasn’t she?

  But no, he wasn’t done. He handed off the microphone to the woman in the aisle and stuck his hand into his pocket and produced…her engagement ring.

  She heard her own gasp. For an instant, she had the same reaction as when she’d been trying to get it off a few nights ago at the bar. The symbol of everything that had gone wrong, it threatened to choke her.

  But no. She took a deep breath and rode out the sensations and then…it was just a ring. It didn’t have any power over her. Tears still threatened, but she was pretty sure they weren’t about Mason because the laughter was back, too. She wanted to cry and laugh at the same time.

  “Is this okay?” he mouthed, not into the microphone.

  Somehow, magically, it was okay. So she nodded and held out her hand, hoping no one would notice that she’d given him the right one, and Dax slid the ring on her finger.

  The cheers became deafening. Dax got off hi
s knees, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped her in his arms. She buried her face in his neck and let her senses fill with his comforting beachy scent.

  “You have seven seconds to kiss,” their handler barked. “The game is resuming.”

  “Shall we give the people what they came for?” Dax whispered, his lips touching her ear. He pulled back and smiled at her, his eyes bright. Using his thumb to wipe away a stray tear from underneath her eye, he framed her face with both hands. As he moved toward her in what seemed like slow motion, she couldn’t help the answering smile that appeared on her face, seemingly of its own volition. She should have been nervous. She was about to kiss Dax Harris in front of thousands of people, for heaven’s sake. But strangely, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. When his lips hit hers, she lifted up onto her tiptoes and snaked her arms around his neck, welcoming the heat that slowly began to accumulate in her body. It wasn’t like their frenzied, out-of-control kisses on the ferry. This time, his lips were soft, slow, sensuous—but just as potent. He moved her head back slightly to improve the angle, and then let his tongue press against the seam of her lips, creating a hitch in her breath as she opened for him, wanting the kiss to be deeper, longer, more.

  “Enough,” Boss Girl ordered. “Wave to the crowd now.”

  “Fuck.” Only she heard the curse he muttered as he tore his lips from hers. And only she saw the tiny wink he shot her as he slung an arm around her shoulder and used his other hand to wave. Feeling a little like a deer in headlights, she followed suit, ignoring the pulse beating between her legs.

  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.

  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 capt
ured 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?”