Page 29 of The Best Worst Mistake (Off-Limits #2)

Dax

I’ve just started drifting into an almost dreamlike state when my phone buzzes on the nightstand beside me.

My eyes are so sore from the eyestrain of reading hundreds of pages of documents the past few days that even the LED glow of my phone screen sends them into a swell all over again.

After everything that happened between Abby and I in the supply room today, I’m hoping it’s her.

I’d sent her a text afterward to ask what Brett had meant as they were walking out, offering to talk more, but she hadn’t written back yet.

I grab my phone off the desk, but it’s Silas’ name I see. He was supposed to fly in last night to join the flurry of offers today, but much to Lila’s trepidation, his arrival was pushed back a few more days.

Again.

He’s now expected to arrive on Monday in time for next week’s run of meetings. Something about a sailing race in Spain, or something of the sort, delaying his arrival. God only knows when it comes to that guy.

I slide the circle over on my phone and clear my throat, preparing myself to sound alert and ready for a chat.

“Si, hey man, what’s up?” I speak as if it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to call his buddy-slash-attorney at this hour after I’ve already worked a fourteen-hour day for him.

“Hey man, sorry it’s late,” he says on the other line. “Just had to let you know that I won’t be making it next week after all. The swells over in Belize are, like, way too good to miss at the moment. But you and Lancaster are still fine handling everything without me around, yeah?”

I rub my eyes.

“Of course. We’re going in even stronger than . . .” I pause, feeling like I shouldn’t call Abby’s side out. “Everyone else.”

“Is there anything else I can answer for you before you head off to Belize?” I hope this conversation with Silas is short. Like, thirty seconds or less kind of short.

“Nah. I just wanted to see if you were up. I just left Majorca this morning and the time difference there is a beast, man. I was going to see if you and Ryeson were up for a—”

I stop him before he can get the words out, glad he can’t see my reaction to anything that resembles an invitation to anything but sleep right now. “You want me in top shape tomorrow so I can continue digging into this, Si. Primed and ready to win for you,” I say.

“Right. No, yeah, you’re right,” he says, brushing the hope from his voice.

I clamp my mouth shut to stop any snarky responses from coming out and rub my eyes even harder, glad he can’t see my face right now. He’s been so lonely since Grant died.

“Hey, did you see Jules is selling Grant’s nonprofit, over in Boston?” he asks. I note the control in his voice.

“Yeah, I’ve actually been handling the sale for her.”

I let a thick silence fill the line. That’s probably the real reason he’s calling right now. He must have just seen news of the sale.

“I’m sorry, Si,” I say. “I should have told you, man. Client confidentiality and all that, though.”

“Yeah, no, I . . . I understand. It’s wild, man. Wild.”

I close my eyes, wishing I could make some of this easier on him.

“Si? You still there?”

He sucks in a breath, but doesn’t follow it up with any more words about Grant or Jules.

“Yeah, no, totally. Sorry, man. I’ll let you go. I know it’s late. I just, yeah, thank you for working so hard on this. I’m lucky to have you, as always, but you already know that. Glad you know what you’re doing with all this.” He laughs awkwardly.

Christ, Si.

“Of course. Besides, you’re paying me handsomely to do it,” I remind him, forcing a light laugh to coast through the line.

“Highly deserved.” He sounds proud. “Goodnight, man. See you and Lancaster at some point. Looking forward to meeting her. Till then, carry on. Keep me posted.”

I say goodnight and place my phone back on the charger, then roll over and push a second pillow up over my head.

I hate what all the loss has done to him.

But I shake it off the best I can and just as I’m about to slip off into dreamland, my phone buzzes on the nightstand for a second time.

I groan and press it to my ear without even bothering to confirm his name on the screen.

“We’ve got it from here, Si, I swear to God,” I mumble to him.

“Funny, I swore the same thing to God earlier tonight, too,” Abby’s voice streams into my ear.

I pull the phone screen back in front of my eyes to make sure I’m not dreaming just yet.

Sure enough, it says Abby Torres. Clear as day.

I sit up.

“Abby?” I’m now fully awake. “Are you okay? You’re calling” — I glance at the clock — “late. You’re calling really late.” Booty-call levels of late , I want to add.

“Yeah, sorry about what time it is. I just really didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to call you. I couldn’t sleep.” She sounds a bit off. “By the way, have you ever tried yoga?”

I cover my face with my palm.

“You’re not high, are you?” I ask. “While legal, Cali grass is different from New York’s — or at least that’s what I hear, so tread lightly if that’s what you’ve been up to tonight. Do you need a ride home or something?”

She laughs.

“I don’t think so, no. Not unless Starry happened to put something in those double chocolate brownies.

She put a little stack of them on my pillow, Dax, in case I woke up hungry later.

I swear I’ve gained fourteen pounds since I got here, but I can’t resist. I think she gets the eggs from the chicken coop out back. ”

I click on the lamp beside me.

“Okay, yeah, you’ve definitely ingested some special brownies from whoever the hell Starry is.

Sounds sus, Abs, if you’re finding random food on your pillow.

And you don’t need to be taking a ride-share alone right now.

Send me the address of wherever this chicken coop is, unless you plan on having that asshat pick you up? ”

“Asshat?” She chuckles. “You mean Brett?”

“Sure.”

“That’s a great name for him,” she says, and I know she’s smiling through the line. “But, no, I’m not high. Starry’s not some random person, she’s the house granager at the place I’m staying.”

I wince. If not high, then maybe drunk, considering she can’t even get the word manager out right. I rack my brain for why Abby would have a house manager in L.A. making her baked goods from scratch with eggs plucked straight from a chicken coop at this time of night.

Better yet, why is she calling me so late to tell me this type of thing? I’m guessing our little fling in the closet today threw her for as much of a loop as it did me, but I didn’t see her calling me drunk, or whatever she is doing, this late.

I take the bait anyway, too curious not to.

“Why do you have a house manager?” I ask, settling back, giving in to the idea of getting no real sleep tonight.

My phone buzzes against my cheek, even though she’s already on the line.

I look down at the phone, wondering who else is calling me this late.

“Are you trying to FaceTime me?” I ask, her invitation flashing across the screen.

“Just accept it,” she says.

I hit the green button and the screen goes black, only to be replaced by a live image of a pink satin pillowcase with what looks like three chocolate bricks piled up on top of a red plate.

“Can you believe this?” she asks. I still can’t see her face.

“I mean, I was kind of hoping for an entirely different view when I accepted that FaceTime request, but yeah,” I say, vaguely wondering what I’m looking at. “Are those the special brownies?”

She snickers. “The only thing special about them is that they’re made with fresh eggs and that they were left on my pillow .”

I nod, acutely aware that she has a view of me while I’m still looking at a plate.

“I’ve just finished some questionable takeout that was not fresh, nor was it delicious, so unless you’re planning to deliver those to me right now, with the promise that you’re not high or drunk before driving, then I’m having a hard time figuring this call out . . .”

“I’m sure Starry wouldn’t mind me bringing you a few,” she says, thoughtfully. “Which means that I hope you’re up for an in-person visit these days. I’d rather talk face-to-face without the thrill of Brett nearly walking in.”

“Starry, the house manager?” I clarify, trying to keep up.

She corrects me, “The house granager .”

Silence.

“Abby, where are you?” I finally ask.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to show you,” she says.

“Can you turn the FaceTime screen on you now? I need to see if your eyes are dilating properly.”

I can hear her mumbling sarcastically, something about me being high-maintenance, but once the camera’s flipped around, Abby’s nose fills the screen.

“Whoa, hold on,” she says, pushing the zoom out until her face comes into view, dimples deepening on either side of her pillowy lips.

Just looking at her face, especially her face outside work, makes me feel at ease, and I’m suddenly not sure how anyone survived without FaceTime before this moment.

“Hi,” I say quietly, unable to stop a smile from filling my face.

“Hi,” she says, matching my expression.

“Did you call just to let me know that you’re considering marrying whoever this Starry person is tonight for her baking skills and that you need a witness? Or was it really just to show me that pile of allegedly drug-free brownies?”

“Mmm, both?” she answers.

“Well, in that case, I’ll be over in twenty. Though, I only take cash when called to be a formal witness.”

“To a marriage?”

“To anything,” I tell her. “Don’t tell Baldy, but I’m easily bought.”

She laughs.

We sit in silence then, grinning at each other.

“Thank you for answering,” she finally says. “I know today was a bit . . . confusing, to say the least.”

“I’m glad you called,” I say, my voice deepening. Even through the phone screen, I can see her cheeks turning a sweet shade of pink.

“I want to ask you something.” She looks more serious.

My heart rate picks up. “Shoot.”

“I’ve been staying at Quinton Rockwell and Selma Hatfield’s estate since I arrived,” she admits, like it’s some type of confession.

“Okay.” Having lived in L.A. most of my life, random run-ins with celebrities rarely surprise me anymore, though this admission is a bit bigger than most. “I’m sure there’s more to this story, but now that whole house-manager-slash-special-brownie thing does make more sense . . .”

“Right,” she rushes to say. “Staying here is all part of what I’m about to tell you. The house granager-slash-manager and I have kind of become . . . friends.” She pauses to smile. “She’s like the resident grandma of the house. She takes care of everyone Quinton and Selma have here, including me.”

I imagine Abby walking into a warm kitchen with a little grandma figure there to bake brownies and put them on her pillow at night. It sounds amazing.

She pauses and I wait.

Then she takes a deep breath like she wants to say something, before letting all the air inside her fizzle back out. Two more times this happens, before she finally finds the words to express the issue that seems to be plaguing her.

“Obviously, you heard what Brett said in the supply room.” She narrows her eyes as anxiety fills her face, she’s looking more nervous now than she’s looked over the past few weeks of billion-dollar negotiations. “Your text asked if I wanted to talk about it.”

“Something about how being back in L.A. might be getting to you based on something that happened here?” I say, studying her eyes as I do.

She nods, then puts a hand over her chest. “God, my heart is beating out of my chest right now.”

“What did he mean by that?” I ask, slowly. “I thought you’d never been to L.A.”

She chuckles harshly, then looks apologetic, blinking at me through the screen like she’s not sure what to say.

“Abby, I meant what I said earlier.” Christ, if I could teleport to her instead of telepathically hug her right now, I would. “There’s really nothing you can say that’ll scare me off.”

“In that case . . .” She suddenly looks amused.

“Okay,” I go on, “short of you telling me you’re into lighting me on fire or something. But other than that, I’m game for whatever it is that you look so nervous about telling me right now.”

She tucks her lips between her teeth, then tilts her chin up and mumbles “fuck it” toward the ceiling. “I swore I’d never do what I’m asking you to do,” she finally says, looking back at me.

“I’m game,” I announce.

She laughs. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

I return a lopsided grin, but her face shifts to serious, like she’s made her final decision about whatever this is about.

“Will you go somewhere with me tomorrow?”

I laugh. “Like in the daylight?” I ask, fishing for more reassurance that I’m not about to get swept up in the Abby train again.

“Yes. In the morning. I know you’re just as swamped as I am with work, but tomorrow is Saturday, so I thought that maybe you could take a little time off to go see something with me. Something that might be better at explaining some things. Better than my attempt right now, anyway.”

I’m supposed to meet Lila at ten thirty tomorrow morning to run through our next steps of the deal, which, unbeknownst to Abby, is going to be turning into a hostile takeover sooner than we’d have liked.

Regardless of his continued absence, Silas’ business manager wants the deal done and is pushing to have it finished before the month is out.

Abby has next to no idea that Lila and I are burning the midnight oil trying to get in position to push a hostile takeover forward before The Nile Group has the time to give itself over to her side.

“Yes, I’ll go,” I tell her without doubting my decision. Lila can take on a day of document review and fill me in later. She and the other eighteen attorneys we have working around the clock back at the firm this weekend. I won’t be missed. “What time?”

“I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning,” she says. “Text me your address.”