Page 26 of The Best Worst Mistake (Off-Limits #2)

Abby

Brett and I are in the middle of another drawn-out mediation on this deal. Our fourth one this week. Today’s endeavor is an all-day affair that keeps us locked in a conference room together and, more than anything, I wish Dax was sharing this room with me instead of the bulldog.

What makes it almost worse is that Dax and his team are in a separate conference room next door, while I sit here with Brett, and The Nile Group team is somewhere else in the building, waiting for the mediator to act as the middleman and travel back and forth between all the rooms with points and offers and contracts, attempting to get everyone to sign and end this whole thing.

However, it’s not going smoothly for any of us.

We’ve been gridlocked for the last ten days.

All to be expected in this monstrosity of a deal, but it feels like we’re stuck in the eye of the storm, where eventually one of the parties is going to get desperate enough to start throwing more capital on the table to get it done.

Davenport Media, I’m guessing, will go first.

This particular phase involves a lot of waiting and strategizing, which I personally love, but in this deal, it also involves not seeing the other teams for days.

So even though Dax and I have had a professional wall up between us this whole time, making it impossible for us to act familiar with one another, I was getting kind of used to waking up and seeing him here.

I began missing him the first morning we went into separate rooms, the pit in my stomach only growing deeper as the days piled up.

After six hours in this room, Brett is starting to pace while clutching his phone, trolling the crew back in New York, even though it’s well after ten p.m. on the east coast. They’ve been running through every detail of our potential next move, while I’ve been tasked with handling the Uber Eats order for both of our dinners.

Thai curry for me, and a burger for him.

I’m pulling open the food delivery app, thankful for a slight break from document review, when a text from Dax pops up on my phone.

Just seeing his name on my screen sends my stomach spiraling.

We haven’t spoken since the conversation at the coffee machine, where he asked me to give him space and time.

It’s been killing me not to reach out since then, but I can understand him wanting space.

I look across the room at Brett to make sure his phone is still pressed to his ear, my paranoia running high. But the text from Dax breaks the pit in my gut wide open.

Who do you spend Christmas with?

I knit my brows together. What does Christmas have to do with anything?

I think of how to respond before deciding on the truth:

Sometimes Olivia’s family. Why?

His response is nearly immediate.

Why not yours?

Blood pounds in my ears and I set my phone back on the table, face down, wondering what brought this on. Feeling a wave of frustration, even though it’s all innocent enough, I pick it back up again and punch in a reply.

They’re not really big on holidays. Why?

Three dots appear, then disappear. I watch the phone until I feel Brett’s eyes on my face, when I glance up.

“Make sure they don’t put mustard on mine,” he growls, eyes narrowed. “And sweet potato fries if they have them. Barbeque sauce to dip. None of that ketchup shit.”

I squint my eyes and nod, logging the request somewhere in my brain, which is still forming thoughts.

I type another text to Dax and hit send.

Who do you spend Christmas with?

He writes back right away, showing that he isn’t too distracted to respond after all.

My parents.

Then he adds,

How come yours never came for the family weekends at law school?

My breathing speeds up. We just went from innocent to pointed.

This is a completely random family-centered interrogation.

I glance at Brett. Where the hell is he getting these questions from?

Could Brett have mentioned something off-hand to him?

Dax and I haven’t spoken in nearly two weeks, and this is his opening line?

Before I can rein in my unnecessary anger, I respond,

Why the sudden interrogation about my family?

I set the phone back down and focus on slowing my heart rate with deep breaths, then pick it back up to start placing our food order, while trying and failing to convince myself that I really don’t care that he’s asking any of this.

I don’t need to answer any questions about my family from Dax.

I don’t even know why he’d start questioning anything to do with my history.

He never has before. What would make him start now?

Just as I’m typing no ketchup into the special directions box, Brett snaps at me from across the room. “Torres, go to the supply room and grab the document from the printer that Kelly just sent through.”

I glance up from my phone.

“Kelly’s sent it to the printer? Here?”

Kelly, his PA, is sitting back in New York.

He looks at me as if a bug is making its way down my forehead and he’s too annoyed to flick it off for me. Then he parts his teeth and allows himself one long blink before holding my eyes with his.

I really hate this man.

“No, I just printed them from my phone.” He holds his phone up in front of his face to really drive his point home.

I suck in my top lip to stop anything from coming out. I’m even more exhausted by his attitude than usual. Having not had any other staffers to distract him here these past few weeks, Brett Bowen’s wrath has been suffocating me since we arrived.

“Where’s the supply room?” I ask.

“Down the hall. On the left.” He points out the door without looking up from his phone.

Fabulous. I rise from my chair, thankful to get a moment to breathe out of this room. Alone.

“It’s one hundred and twenty-seven pages. Count them before you come back. Not a page missing, Torres,” he adds.

I drop my chin to stop myself from glaring at him, and instead glare at the floor.

“So, I shouldn’t hand a couple pages out to strangers on the way back?” I ask, under my breath.

“What?”

“I said I’ll be right back,” I say louder, more innocently.

I slink down the hall, wondering what came over Dax to throw all those questions out at me in a string of texts.

Questions about my family, the holidays, weekends in which I was the only person I knew whose family didn’t travel in for Parents’ Weekend or family football game days.

I always hid out in my apartment during those weekends to avoid questions about why no one from my life had bothered making it over.

I turn into the last room after hearing a commercial-size printer pushing out page after page, but there’s already someone standing in front of it.

Dax turns around, just as I come to a halt, barely two feet into the room.

He gives me half a smile, then turns back to the printer, as if he doesn’t even know me. Which, I remind myself, was my idea.

I clear my throat, then slide up beside him, both of us staring down at the pages being spit out of the machine, our backs to the open door.

“Hi,” I say, glancing sideways at him. This document must be his, and mine will likely start printing after his is done, which buys us more time to stand here awkwardly like we didn’t have incredible sex just months ago, and six years before that.

“Hey,” he says, crossing his arms.

We stand in silence, the sketchy, mechanical sounds of the printer filling the air. I hate this.

He leans over, just enough that our sides brush against each other, then he tips back, spine straightening again. I look over my shoulder to see if anyone else has made their way inside this same room, or could possibly be standing outside the door to see what happens next.

This is the first time we’ve been truly alone since I got to L.A., and this is how we’re going to spend the few minutes we have?

Absolutely not.

Without giving myself time to change my mind, I spin around and shut the door to the supply room, turning the lock once the latch is in place.

Dax turns, startled. He lowers his eyes to the lock. “Well, that’s one way to make an entrance,” he says, ironically.

I step toward him, lowering my voice.

“So, you’re finally ready to talk, I take it?” I ask, holding up my phone. The text thread between us lights up the screen.

“It’s been a few weeks. If this deal ends soon, I would have hated not getting the chance to do it in person.”

I frown. Do it in person?

He explains, waving one hand between us. “Talk. Talk in person. Not do it in person.” He laughs, but I’m not totally ready to join in yet.

“What was that text string about?” I hiss louder, unsure of how soundproof these walls are. “All those random questions about my family. What’s with the sudden interrogation? What did Brett tell you about me?”

“What do you mean, interrogation ? And what does Brett have to do with anything? I was just curious about you,” he says. He shifts on his feet.

“Curious about me? Or my family?”

“Why would either option make you this upset?” He studies me.

I fold and unfold my arms. “It doesn’t,” I say, flicking my hair back. “I just don’t know why you’d wait nearly two weeks to reach back out to me, and the first thing you want to know is who I spend holidays with?”

“Admittedly weird,” he says, nodding up at the ceiling as if he hadn’t thought of that. “It’s just something that’s been on my mind lately.”

“What, Christmas with my parents?” I say, deadpan.

“No, you ,” he says.

I clench my jaw. “What about me?”

“Christ, Abby. Everything about you.” He moves a step closer. “Seeing you in New York, spending all that time catching up, I realized I knew close to nothing about you. I mean, I know a lot about you, don’t get me wrong, but—”

“Oh, yeah?” I interrupt, wanting to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Away from my family. “What do you know about me, Dax?” I hate how defensive my voice sounds.

I hate it. I hate this. But those questions, while innocent to most, have me on edge.

There are certain parts of my life that I don’t like anyone to know about.

I’m an expert at brushing intrusive questions aside, questions most people would welcome as a sign that someone wants to get to know them better, but it’s hard to hide from his direct line of fire.

“What do I know about you?” Dax repeats my question. His shoulders slump in the middle, like just me asking is an insult.

I shrug, my eyes softening. “Well?”

He licks his lower lip, eyes darkening. Then it all comes tumbling out.

“Abby, I know that you’re one of the most complicated women I’ve ever met. And that even though all the signs point toward you having very little interest in this outside a bedroom, I know that would never be enough. Not for me or you.”

I inhale sharply, my heart pounding. Not sure how to respond.

He keeps going. “I know that you bite your lip — just like that.” He points to my mouth and I release my lip from my teeth.

“Almost like a distraction tactic when you don’t know what else to say.

And it usually works because all I can think about for at least ten minutes afterward is how much I want to be the one biting that lip instead of you.

” I laugh, feeling seen. “I know that when you laugh, your nose scrunches up and your eyes crinkle at the sides in the most stupidly adorable way, and that I’ll do almost anything to see it again and again when I’m around you.

” He pauses to swallow and study me harder before going on, lowering his voice a shade.

“I also know that painting in your apartment was somehow painted by you, and that you have a hell of a lot more than just work going on in that head of yours. No matter how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise.”

I feel like the wind has just gotten knocked out of me.

“But what does any of that have to do with questions about my family?” I ask, in nearly a whisper.

“Because it’s one more piece of the Abby puzzle that’s missing. I know we’re fucking amazing in the bedroom together, but I want to be fucking amazing outside of it, too. And if I’m ever going to get a clear picture of you, I need to know all of you. Not just the parts you’re okay with.”

I feel like I’m standing under a spotlight. And while my heart is darting around the circle of light, looking for somewhere to hide, I know there isn’t one, this time.

“I saw your place in New York, Abs. Living in that office prison cell with a futon, paying someone else to live your life — feed your cat, water your plants. Do you even see the way you’ve chosen to live?

Your entire apartment was bubbling over, brimming to the top with actual life while you don’t even keep crumbs of it in your fridge to feed yourself.

There’s this deeply creative, passionate side of you, locked up in here,” — he presses his finger into my chest, just ribs and skin and muscle left between him and my heart — “that you’re afraid to show other people.

” He shakes his head. “But why? You’ve gotta tell me.

Because coming from someone who’s tried to break your walls down after seeing glimpses of what’s behind them, you’ve built a whole damn fortress up around yourself.

And I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why the hell you think you need it. ”

I feel breathless. Like I’ve just run a gauntlet and come out the other side.

I nearly turn back to unlock the door, intending to run down the hall and avoid this whole conversation that I, admittedly, just opened . . . But something in me keeps my feet planted right where they are. At least for one split second longer.