Page 17 of The Best Worst Mistake (Off-Limits #2)

Dax

“Text from Lila Lancaster,” my car’s text-reading feature announces.

I grip the steering wheel. She’s already texted me four times.

“Would you like me to read it?” the voice asks.

“Yes,” I answer.

A robotic woman’s voice begins reading Lila’s text through the speakers so loudly that it hurts my ears, much like Lila might in real life, and I press the speaker button down on the wheel to save my hearing for our meeting and the scolding she’ll likely have ready.

“Dax! Where are you? We’re starting in three minutes. I’ll hold down the fort until you get here, but you better hustle!”

I’m already mumbling, “Yeah, no shit, Lila,” when the car’s robotic voice interrupts with, “Would you like me to reply?”

The car automatically reads back what it just heard me muttering, as if it were meant to be sent as a reply text to Lila.

“No shit, Lila,” the car repeats.

My eyes widen as the voice asks if I’d like to send that reply.

“No!” I yell, hitting a button on the wheel.

“Okay, I’ll send it,” the car responds.

“Cancel!” I grumble, hitting another wrong button on my steering wheel as I maneuver around a family of ducks that’s taking its sweet, sweet time to cross the road right in front of the parking lot entrance I’m trying to turn into.

“Sent!” the voice responds cheerfully and I swear there’s a hint of smugness in the typically monotone voice.

My jaw drops, but I can’t help but laugh.

“Fuck,” I say under my breath, choking back another chuckle.

I need to update my phone. It’s been acting out all week.

“Text Lila,” I say, after pressing the correct command button on my steering wheel.

“What would you like to say to Lila?” the car speaker asks.

“Sorry, stupid phone malfunction. Be there in two.”

“Sorry, stupid. Be there in two,” the car repeats back. “Shall I send it?”

“No!” I yell, hitting the steering wheel’s button in another slight panic to stop the text from sending.

“Sent!” the voice chirps again.

“Ugh,” I groan, pushing back into the headrest, still waiting for the last duck to cross. But when I imagine Lila’s face as she opens up those last two texts, I crack into a smile.

Yeah, she’s not going to buy that it was just a phone malfunction, but it’s at least a tiny bit funny.

I start laughing a little too hard, all by myself in my car.

The steel in Lila’s eyes when I finally get in there for this meeting is going to be epic.

As it should be, considering the magnitude of what’s at stake today, but for some reason, this only makes me laugh harder.

I’m not worried about our deal. Silas has enough capital to buy anything he wants, and if The Nile Group is suddenly on his must-have list, then that’s what Lila and I are going to get for him.

After sliding into a parking spot, I manually shoot Lila a quick apology text, blaming it on my phone needing an update, then I jump out of my car, briefcase in hand.

Of all the days to be late. I’ve worked my ass off on plenty of high-stake negotiations, but this one is shaping up to be a hostile takeover, considering The Nile Group has been courted by another company for nearly a year at this point.

My firm’s PR team has been working endlessly to put Davenport Media in the best public spotlight in the lead up to this moment.

Today we will surprise everyone by putting our offer on the table.

I have a feeling we’re going to need every last bit of corporate power we can possibly exert once Silas’ intentions are known.

There are already two other offers on the table, both from stealth companies that have been trying to keep their offers under wraps.

That is, until Silas’ head of development got a whiff of their long-standing attempts.

And now, here we are.

After jogging across the parking lot, I pull open the front door of the mega office building full of rented-out conference rooms — neutral territory, I remember Lila saying once she’d been able to collaborate with the other potential buyers and get everyone meeting here today.

The door lifts off my fingertips as someone walks in behind me.

“Thanks,” I say, without turning around.

Then I head straight to the metal detector line, already unbuckling my belt while sliding my shoes off using only my toes.

I toss everything onto the conveyor belt, including my briefcase and phone, before walking through the detector with my hands held up over my head like I’m the main attraction on a shooting range.

“In a hurry today, bro?” Randy asks on the other side before waving his handheld detector over my outstretched arms and down each one of my legs.

“Lila is probably catching fire at this very moment out of sheer rage,” I tell the security guard, whom I’ve gotten to know over the last couple years of having acquisition meetings for various companies at this conference building.

“Accident on the 101. Stopped for well over an hour. Should probably have called the company chopper in to get me outta there.”

Randy chuckles, knowing I’m only half kidding.

“You know the machine is running slower than usual today, too,” he tells me, eyeing the tattered belt that’s slowly passing through the ancient tunnel at a snail’s pace. “The world’s conspiring against you today, man.”

“Trust me, nothing is going to stand in the way of this deal going through,” I mutter. “Not even the world conspiring against me.”

However, as I stand near the conveyor belt on the other side of Randy’s manual check, waiting for my belongings to make it through, I realize that I may have underestimated the universe.

I’m tapping my foot when a spicy waft of vanilla perfume hits me.

It smells just like the tiny amber bottle of pure vanilla extract my grandmother used to hold under my nose for a sniff before we added it to her biggest ceramic bowl — the one with the halo of chickens around it — as we made her famous sugar cookie recipe.

Something about the sweet scent transports me back to her kitchen, always so calming and warm.

Someone else is waiting for their belongings to make it out of the ancient machine, and they move in a little too close to my side. I step about six inches away and clear my throat.

“You look exhausted,” the waiting woman says, leaning over.

I must be hearing things because the voice sounds a lot like Abby’s, but why would Abby be here?

I blink a few times, trying to clear my mind of her memory. It’s been months since we saw each other, but it’s like she lives just below the surface of my mind. And now I’m hearing her voice in L.A., of all places.

The security operator pauses the conveyor belt to stare at me, then shifts his eyes to the person standing too close to my side. I widen my eyes at him then swivel my head, following his eyes right to—

No.

It’s Abby. Abby is standing right beside me.

What the fuck is she doing here?

She grins nervously.

“Maybe a little matcha would help you wake up?” she asks, scrunching her nose.

My breath quickens when she speaks.

I look around, first not believing my ears, and now, my eyes.

Her dimples, my weakest spot on the planet, deepen. Her thick, black hair is piled high on her head in a perfect little bun with tortoiseshell glasses framing her sharp, amber eyes. She’s wearing a navy business suit, and the same nude heels she wore on our last night together.

A sudden memory of those shoes heaped in a corner of her bedroom hits me right below the belt.

“Abby?”

Before the mirage can disappear, and before I can think twice about what I’m doing, I step toward her, wrapping her into an unexpected hug.

“Dax,” she sighs my name like she’s embarrassed to see me, but her breath tickles my ear, just like it did the last time we . . . When I . . .

Fuck.

I loosen my grip, remembering the unanswered note I left on her nightstand.

I pull her arms down from where she’s looped them around my neck and take a step back.

She looks down at the space I’ve just put between us, and swallows.

“What are you doing here?” she stammers, looking around.

“Me?” I say, forcing a more professional tone into my voice. “Working. You?” While I’d love to believe she tracked me down to make amends, she looks ready for a meeting, coffee cup in hand. The same berry-pink lipstick stain across the rim.

Fucking hell .

“Me too,” she says, before tearing her eyes away to look down the length of the conveyor belt for her own bag.

My briefcase is nearly out of the black tunnel.

I pull it the rest of the way out and see her briefcase coming through next.

I should run to my meeting, really I should run out of this entire building since there’s a good chance I already know how this might play out.

But I decide to wait another thirty seconds for hers, too.

“Unless, of course, it turns out that I’m stalking you. What a turn of events that would be, eh?” she says, adding a nervous laugh at the end.

I can’t bring myself to join in. This building is full of conference rooms that can be rented out to serve as neutral ground for contentious negotiations, but considering that we’re both in mergers and acquisitions, the odds of us walking toward the same conference room right now is still too high for comfort.

And I don’t think she realizes yet what might be happening.

I catch the moment her eyes dart down to my ring finger — so quickly, I nearly miss it.

I hold my empty hand up, just to make her squirm.

“Eloped last month,” I tell her, frowning.

Her eyes flash to mine, lips parted like she’s about to protest, then thinks better of it.

“Ring hasn’t come in yet but it’s beautiful. Princess cut. Two carats. You should see the way it sparkles in the light,” I add.

She purses her lips and rolls her eyes, trying to hold back a smile while not bothering to lift her own empty hand.

Just as I’m about to tell her I’m kidding, my phone rings.