Page 18 of The Best Worst Mistake (Off-Limits #2)

It’s Lila. I shift my briefcase to my other arm and hit the red button to reject her call, then add, “Joking. It’s an emerald cut. Princess is so last year.”

Abby narrows her eyes at me while I shove my phone back into my pocket, knowing another call from Lila is bound to start at any moment.

“I need to get going,” I tell her, backing away from the security station toward the main screen with all the room schedules and names to check where I’m headed.

“Wait,” Abby says, grabbing my elbow, latching on, like not a day or six months has passed since the last time we stared into each other’s eyes as the world around us disappeared.

I stiffen my spine, but don’t turn her away.

“I’m running insanely late, but I’ll walk with you, at least to the board with all the room numbers.

Which direction are you headed?” She quickly looks around the foyer of the enormous building for a sign.

“There’s a screen with room names and schedules down here,” I say, eyeing her, while picking up the pace. I force myself to walk beside her, praying this is just a heart-stopping coincidence and we’re not on our way to the same bloody conference room.

Am I a little peeved about how things ended between us a few months ago?

Yes.

But am I also a man who finds the woman practically jogging beside me completely irresistible?

Also, yes.

My pulse picks up speed as we approach the display board, praying our eyes don’t land on the same room number.

“So, what have you been up to?” she asks, just as casually as one might ask about the weather.

I turn toward her, frowning.

“Seriously?” I ask, visually scrolling down the list of room numbers.

“Seriously, what?” She runs her finger down the list. I watch where it lands.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Adrenaline starts coursing through me, but I don’t mention it to her yet. We have a few things to work out before I blow her whole day up with the next set of news.

“You never called me after New York,” I say, walking toward a collection of arrows and room numbers mounted on the wall. Sure enough, Abby sets off right beside me. We both turn down a long hall to our right and she loops her elbow tightly through mine.

“I know,” she says, keeping her voice low so no one passing by us might hear. “I hope you’re not upset about that. But I really think I did us both a favor.”

I laugh. Christ. Then, I drop her elbow from mine and shoot her a look that says, are you delusional?

“What?” she asks, looking surprised.

“What makes you think you did us both a favor?” I ask sarcastically, increasing my pace. “Enlighten me.”

“Well, it was still a really great night,” she points out, skipping to keep up.

“You sound like you’re dictating a thank you card to your grandma,” I interrupt as we turn a corner down another long hall.

She scoffs.

“Dax, you live way over here. I live over there. I thought about calling, I really did, but,” she admits, shaking her head, “I just thought it might be best to let us do what we do best.”

“Sleep together and then act like it never happened?” I ask.

“While keeping it no strings attached,” she adds, looking pleased, as if I finally get it.

Is she serious right now?

“You didn’t think you should have at least called before you flew across the entire country here to L.A., because we’re both M & A attorneys and it might be really awkward if we ran into each other like this?”

“Just like you called before you flew across the entire country to my city for work?” she shoots back.

I frown. Fair . “That’s beside the point.”

I left the ball in her court, and that’s where it’s stayed ever since. Grown moss all around it, even.

She looks in my direction, assessing the slight dodge from her not-so-subtle play, but my phone pings again, pulling my attention away.

I curse under my breath.

Three more missed texts from Lila and I’m now officially running nine minutes late.

“Okay, I get it. I do,” she says, still keeping up beside me as we both turn down another hall, following a sign with more room numbers and arrows plastered across it.

Her voice softens. “Brett booked this work trip only yesterday. I’m going to be in L.A.

for the next couple of weeks working on this deal.

It’s huge. Like, career-making level of huge.

I didn’t plan on running into you like this on my very first morning here.

But, now that it’s happened, we should find time to catch up! ”

I come to a halt.

She skids to a stop beside me, wilting as she realizes the phrase she’s just used.

“Sorry, bad choice of words.” She grimaces. “I’d love to talk, but not like this. We’re both running late for our meetings so maybe I can call you later?”

Fucking hell, Abs. You’re giving me whiplash.

I fight the urge to correct the plural use of the word meetings to just one, singular, potentially explosive meeting .

Then trudge on, doing my best to ignore the confusion bouncing through my mind — a mixture of sweaty, sheet-clutching anticipation and doubt — while painfully aware of what we’re about to walk into in, oh, thirty seconds or so.

Give or take. I glance at Abby, who’s still blissfully unaware.

She’s still practically jogging beside me to keep up.

“No hard feelings,” I say. “We don’t need to catch up. I’m good. It’s fine. You’re right, you did us both a favor.” We pause on the corner while Abby checks another sign with room numbers and arrows, pointing us to the right.

“One fifty-six,” she repeats the room number to herself before setting off to the right, the last hall with only a few doors along the way.

Jesus Christ.

I walk faster ahead but she manages to keep up.

“We must be in the same hall,” she murmurs under her breath. “And not to beat a dead horse, but if it makes you feel better, maybe you changed my mind about a few things that night.”

I scoff.

“Your silence afterward could’ve fooled me,” I deadpan. “But I get it. You’re not really one for meaningful connections, so . . . mission accomplished.”

She shakes her head grimly, facing her eyes forward.

“I swear I was just trying to save us from trying something that was doomed to fail in the end,” she says, pushing forward. “I’ve never pretended to be good at this kind of thing.”

“What kind of thing?” I ask, challenging her to spell it out for me as the numbers over each doorway quickly lead up to one fifty-six. “Put a name on it so there’s no more confusion here.”

She silently glances over at me. We’re running out of doors, which means we’re also running out of time. And I still haven’t broken the news to her that we’re about to spend a lot more time together over the next few weeks, whether she wants to or not.

“We’re short on time and I don’t want to get into all that if we don’t have time,” she says. “I’m almost to my room. Where’s yours?”

“Uh, it’s coming up,” I say.

As annoyed as I am, I also don’t want to end this on a sour note before we go into this meeting.

“Would you be up for a late dinner?” she asks. “If not tonight, then maybe tomorrow? A guy’s gotta eat, right?” She smiles faintly.

I face forward again, sneaking glances her way as we both slow our pace.

There’s only one door left.

We both come to a stop right in front of it.

She turns to face me.

“Well, this is me,” she says, sighing.

The sign above it reads one fifty-six .

My heart thumps up to my ears, knowing what’s waiting on the other side of that wall.

She grasps the handle without pushing it open, claiming it as her own.

I grab the handle over her hand and pull it back to keep the door shut. She slides her free hand onto my chest as I do, concern filling her eyes. She must think I’m trying to buy more time with her before our conversation ends, which I am, but not for the reason she’s probably thinking.

“Dax, I’ve got to go in now,” she says, sidestepping in front of me. “I’ll call you to finish this conversation.”

I need at least fifteen seconds to warn her before we walk into that room together.

“I need to tell you something,” I finally say, pushing her hand off my chest in case someone walks out. She takes it as a sign that I want to hold her hand and keeps her fingers laced in mine.

“I’ve got it, Dax,” she says, squeezing my hand, thinking I’m just trying to open the door for her.

She yanks on the door handle again, but I keep it firmly shut with my hand over hers.

“That’s not why I followed you to this room,” I start. Any second now it’s going to register. “We’re going into the—”

“Dax, seriously—” she interrupts.

She’s about to yank on the handle again, but her face erupts as it sinks in. She studies my face, jaw drops, and takes a step back, letting her hand slide off the door.

I nod. “Yep. This is my room too,” I tell her.

Her eyes widen.

She blinks.

Twice.

Three times.

There it is. A full-on shit sandwich combo with chips smacking her right between the eyes.

She takes a bigger step back.

“Oh my God, Dax, don’t tell me—”

I shake my head, as if I’m the one to have something to apologize for even though I’m just as blindsided by the situation as she is.

Just then, the door jerks open from the inside, leaving my hand frozen in the air where I’d just been holding the bloody thing shut.

Abby and I quickly jerk any touching body parts back to our own respective sides.

Lila is standing on the other side, shifting her eyes between us, painting us red with her stare like we’re standing at the epicenter of some great conspiracy theory. One millisecond later, a sour-looking man I’ve never seen before steps into the frame.

Abby turns toward them, her mouth slightly ajar.

“There you are, Dax,” Lila says coolly, crossing her arms. Her eyes dart quickly between Abby and me.

“I was about to tell them to send out a search party for you. You’re never late.

And those texts you sent back were . . .

not very descriptive on when you’d be showing up.

” She narrows her eyes at me, tightening her lips.

I force a smile, remembering the texts. She has every right to be annoyed.

“There’s a reason for that,” I start to say, but Abby spins back to me, her jaw opening and shutting like a fish out of water.

The ferocious bulldog-looking bald guy next to Lila pipes up next. “Where have you been?” he barks under his breath, glaring at Abby.

And, this must be . . .

“Brett, hi, I’m here now,” Abby says, breathlessly.

Somehow, she instantly manages to collect herself, morphing into the very picture of professionalism.

“Accident on the highway. Total lack of subways here,” she adds, stiffly. Then she turns to me, all manner of apology suddenly gone from her eyes before adding, “If we’re all here, let’s get started then, shall we?”