Page 23 of The Best Worst Mistake (Off-Limits #2)

Show, not tell, my law professor had drilled into us during a heady job prep course in my final semester.

I’d dealt with situations much worse than having a short, angry man bouncing a pen off my chest, but Brett didn’t know that at the time.

In fact, most people would never know that.

And why would they? All my potential boss needed to know at that moment was that I was stronger than most of the people he would interview that day.

The reason why I considered myself to be stronger didn’t matter.

It should never matter.

I was an underling back then, much more so than I am now. But even back then, I’d learned how to see people for what they really were. I’d learned that skill from a very young age. So what I saw in Brett that day had, in the strangest sort of way, calmed my nerves.

Plenty of people don’t show you who they really are for years and years — gaining your trust before letting you down, harshly in the most extreme cases.

But other people show you who they are right from the beginning, so you never have to be surprised later.

At that moment, Brett showed me that he was the second type of person.

Knowing what I was getting into without any niceties or pretenses right from the start was oddly comforting.

The other big firms I interviewed with that week showered me with lavish dinners and the promise of end-of-year bonuses the size of most people’s salaries.

They were all handshakes and nods, pretending to be unaware of the online reviews by anonymous associates that warned how hard the billable requirements would be, once I was past the fancy dinners and empty promises designed to get me to sign.

Brett’s firm had offered me a signing bonus with a clear picture of what my life would be like there. They showed me who they were without any pretense, and I respected them for that.

So when Brett’s job offer landed in my inbox the next week, along with four others from, on the face of it, kinder firms, I’d taken the job with Brett.

The one that put me within striking distance of that nasty little man every single day.

I told myself that once I’d proven my skills and earned a partnership offer, I’d have shown him and myself I could make it through anything.

Including another man treating me like dirt — like I was disposable until I’d proven otherwise. And I would prove otherwise.

That’s the point of all this.

Between my endless working hours, my empty fridge in a mostly empty apartment, and my paying someone else to care for the dozens upon dozens of plants I love to surround myself with, I’m climbing my own personal mountain to slay the demons. To fill the hole I didn’t exactly dig myself.

Olivia, Dax — no one understands my reasons behind the long hours or my unshakable work ethic like I do. But even that is just another reason to keep climbing without looking down at how far I’ve already come. Not every battle is fought for a good reason. Sometimes, it’s simply fought to win.

As I turn my back to the room to fill my paper cup with coffee — that comes with black grounds, as it’s the very last drop from the carafe — I hear Dax enter the room.

More accurately, I hear his laugh enter.

And if I ever forgot that muscle and body memory are a thing, I remember now because my entire body tingles, skin rising with goosebumps as my heart hammers in my chest.

That laugh.

I don’t have to look to know that he’s here, but I do, since the only thing better than hearing his laugh is seeing the grin stretch across his face while he does it.

I spin around, half-expecting him to be walking in with Silas, since I heard he might be coming in today, and I’m a bit curious to see the man in real life again.

We met years ago when Silas came to visit Dax at law school a few times.

That was back before he was a known powerhouse or household name, of course.

But it’s only Lila and Dax walking in. They both look calm — even cheery — with big smiles plastered across their well-rested faces. The whole thing makes me green.

Dax must feel my eyes on him because his carefree demeanor morphs into a smirk, and he excuses himself to get coffee from the machine at the back. The machine I’ve just taken the last bit of coffee from.

Again? What is it with me stealing this man’s caffeine?

“It’s out,” I say, motioning to the empty coffee pot, forcing myself to appear nonchalant upon seeing him.

Like nothing more than a polite greeting between acquaintances running into each other at the coffee maker, as practical strangers might do every now and then. “I was about to make more though.”

He should be as concerned as I am that someone here might sniff out any type of romantic history between us.

Although I’m not sure his job security is wrapped up in something as trivial as a half-baked romance between him and another attorney, who happens to be here in the conference room today.

He is, after all, employed by his mother.

I glance over at Brett to see if he’s watching us, which he’s not. Instead, he’s getting dangerously close to yelling at someone over the phone — something to do with his hotel not offering turn-down service. He’s probably talking to his poor assistant back home.

“Thanks,” Dax says, motioning to the coffee machine. He takes an empty cup from the stack, as if to let the room know he’s only standing beside me for the coffee.

I keep an eye on Brett, making sure he can’t hear me while I rub my nose vigorously, attempting to casually hide my mouth from any bored lip readers in the room.

“I called last night,” I say into my hand, turning my back toward the room. “And listen, I can’t risk someone here knowing that we have” — I lower my voice, whispering the last word out from under my breath — “ history .”

Then I serve up a perfectly raised brow, just to drive my point home.

“No one on my team would care.” He shifts his eyes toward Lila, though he doesn’t look thoroughly convinced himself. “They know I wouldn’t let something like an acquaintance I hooked up with forever ago cloud my judgment on a deal like this.”

I stare at him.

“An acquaintance you hooked up with?” I whisper, feeling more than a little offended. “You can’t be serious.”

“Is there a term that you’d rather I use when defining our past?” he asks.

I hold my coffee cup up to block my mouth from the room, lowering my voice even more.

“Uh, I’d probably use the term friends with benefits before something as removed as hookup acquaintance ,” I say, pointedly. “You make it sound like we weren’t even, I don’t know . . .”

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to find the right word to describe what he is to me.

“Like we weren’t even friends ?” Dax asks, watching me fill the machine back up with water from a nearby pitcher to make another round of coffee for the room. I’m sure there’s staff around somewhere to do this, but it’s giving us a reason to talk, in case anyone’s watching.

“Well,” I say, feeling a bit gutted, “yes.”

“I don’t know about you, but in my world, friends don’t ghost each other for months at a time.” He shuts the lid of the machine once it’s full.

“Okay.” I eye the room in case someone else is coming over.

“We can definitely have this conversation, but later. I want to have this conversation,” I add, quickly.

“Just please, for my sake, don’t make it obvious that we know each other.

Brett would literally take me off the deal the exact second he figured it out.

I wanted to explain everything last night but you didn’t call back. ”

He turns around to eye Brett, whose phone is still glued to his ear.

“So that’s the asshole who’s turned you into a self-isolated robot back in New York?” he asks quietly.

I swallow, watching my boss.

“I can’t have this conversation right now. Just pretend you don’t know me. At all.”

His eyes finally flash to mine and the look in them makes me feel sick. He looks disgusted that I’d even ask such a thing.

“Everything is on the line for me right now,” I plead, searching his eyes for any hint of understanding.

“Everything?” he asks. His voice sounds strained.

I shake my head, wishing he’d answered my call last night so we didn’t have to whisper our way through this conversation in the back of a crowded room.

“You have to understand. Keep it neutral. We can talk through it once you’re ready to take my call—”

“I promise,” he interrupts, flashing a tight smile. “You don’t have to worry about me blowing your cover by showing that I know you.” He pauses. “I mean, that I knew you.”

The direct alteration from current to past tense plucks a few bricks off the little bridge that I thought we might be rebuilding between us.

“Thank you,” I say, softening my jaw.

I keep an eye on Brett, making sure he’s still pummeling whoever is on the other end of that phone, instead of paying any attention to me right now.

Then I start fiddling with the coffee machine, like I’m still working on making more.

Twisting a few knobs here and there, without looking directly at Dax.

“It’s this one, right here,” he says, placing his hand on mine and moving it to a red button on the other side.

The warmth of his hand threatens to melt my reserve, and for that one split second, I don’t even care if anyone notices.

I need to make things right between us. I don’t know why I ever thought I shouldn’t call him after what happened between us in New York.

Just being near him again is like fighting the world’s strongest magnet, each of us trying to move in the opposite way, when really, all we should be is pressed together. No space left between us whatsoever.

“Can we make time to talk?” I ask, shifting my eyes to his. “Please?”

Thankfully all the attorneys in the room seem to be more interested in the new spread of croissants and bagels being introduced than the overly familiar conversation between the two people at the back.

He wets his lips, but doesn’t answer right away.

I allow myself to study him closer and consider how hurt he must have been when I went radio silent a few months ago, following that night. It might be too late to try and make this right.

I infuriate myself to no end.

“Please?” I repeat. “I can call you tonight. Unless . . .” I don’t want to say the words out loud, as if it might solidify his need to never speak to me again. Unless you’re really so mad at me that you won’t even take my calls now.

He turns his back to the room, filling the cup he grabbed earlier with fresh drip coffee, then shifts his eyes until they’re gazing directly into mine and leans in.

“Let’s give it some time,” he says, his voice stiff. “Let the newness of seeing you here wear off a little for me. I want — I need — to think more clearly when it comes to you.”

It’s not an outright no , but it still stings, like a hornets’ nest just unleashed inside my chest, the pain finding my heart a thousand times over.

I get why, I really do. I should never have let my fear of falling for him get in the way of reaching out after what happened between us.

Even if I wasn’t ready, even if I’m possibly still not ready, or possibly never will be.

Simply not calling him at all was the wrong thing to do.

I see that now. I never meant to hurt him.

“That’s fine,” I say, turning back to the machine. I twist a random knob, unsure of why, other than giving my hands something to do. “I get it. Totally fair. And yeah, you’re right. I’ll call you in the next week.”

“Make it two,” he says, his voice softening. Barely.

“Got it,” I say, nodding, and feeling gutted. I’m angry with myself for making him feel like he has to distance himself from me. “You ready to do this, then?”

“Ready.” Then he turns to me with a smile that somehow manages to look like an apology.

A few months ago, it was him asking me for a chance to catch up. Not the other way around.

I don’t know what I want while I’m here. But I do know that Dax hating me isn’t it.

“Alright then,” he says briskly, before stalking across the room to call our joint meeting to order.

“Alright then,” I repeat to myself, wishing more than anything in the world that I could take back so much of what’s unfolded between us already.