Page 5 of The Best Worst Mistake (Off-Limits #2)

“Ryeson can explain how the company jet works, if that’ll get you on it, although the last time I asked him to explain aviation, he just gave me that goofy smile of his and called it magic .

” Silas flutters his hand out like he’s spreading imaginary pixie dust across my office, but there’s a sharp edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

Ryeson operates the private aviation company that Silas uses to manage his fleet of airliners, all of which were inherited from his father.

“I’ve never been afraid of flying,” I retort, annoyed that I can’t seem to shake this conversation topic, though not surprised in the least, given my history of losing against this particular friend.

I’m not sure why he trusts me to do his legal work, except for the fact that the book of business was basically passed down to me the day his father — my mother’s client — died and Silas was forced to take over the whole Davenport Media empire.

Silas stares at me expectantly, waiting for the gig to be up.

For me to tell him why I’m not too keen on the idea of heading back to New York to do his company’s bidding.

It’s a big city, sure, but I haven’t seen her in at least six years and I have this strange, gut feeling that if I went, I couldn’t trust the universe not to have me bump into her.

And then for me to not try to make the most of it when I did.

I run my tongue along my teeth, considering how to put this.

“You represent Davenport Media and all of our dealings,” Si says. “You can’t just not oversee the negotiations regarding acquisitions in New York without telling me why.”

“It’s not what you think,” I say.

“Then what is it?” He drains his glass in one gulp before setting it down empty, rising to collect the darts from the board. I estimate that gulp cost him a few hundred dollars or so.

I clear my throat, ready to steer the conversation off in another direction, but apparently the pause and tenor of my throat clear is enough for him to see right through me.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, you can’t be serious,” he says, pushing his forehead into his hand. “You’re still hung up on her. You don’t want to go because Abby’s there.” His face morphs into a dark grin. “That must be it. I always knew she was more to you than just a fuck buddy situationship.”

“Hey,” I say sternly. “Watch your nicknames, Si. She wasn’t a—”

“If not a fuck buddy, then what was she, exactly?” he interrupts, throwing another dart at the target on the wall. “In your own words.”

I frown, unsure how to label what Abby and I had back in law school. “Abby was—”

“Your girlfriend?”

I scoff. “No.”

“Your good-time girl?”

“God, no. What? What does that even mean?” I roll my eyes and turn back toward the cart, throwing the rest of the bourbon down my throat. It burns, but at least it’s distracting me from Silas’ interrogation. “Not everything needs some ridiculous label.”

He narrows his eyes at me, dart paused in his grip, that familiar know-it-all expression stretched wide across his face. “That’s what someone who’s still hung up on a girl might say.”

“Christ, Si, it’s been years. Plus, she’s the one who never wanted it to be more than a physical thing.”

“Beside the point. Listen,” he says, turning toward me.

”Wouldn’t the possibility of tapping that friends-with-benefits whatever” — he pauses to curl his fingers in exaggerated air quotes — “have you racing back over there at the chance? If it was me, I’d be chomping at the bit to stir things up with her again, and you know I would. Abby’s hot.”

“What am I supposed to do, call her up and say, ‘Hey Abby, I know we haven’t spoken in six years, but do you want to grab dinner Tuesday night in New York?’”

He blinks at me as if I’m a total idiot. “Yeah. You do it exactly like that. I don’t see the problem.”

“I don’t want another meaningless hookup,” I say, cringing at my words as they come streaming out of my mouth.

It might be the truth, but Silas isn’t going to let me declare something like that and let it slide.

“Anyway, she lives on the east coast, and I’m over here.

Whatever happened — if something were to happen — it wouldn’t last past the night. ”

“And there’s a problem with that?”

I shrug.

“You want a relationship?” he asks, looking more thoughtful than I would have guessed he’d look before that question came out.

“Why are we arguing about some fictitious meet-up that’s never going to happen?” I ask, staring across the room. Then I grab another bottle, bracing myself for the onslaught of ribbing about to come my way. “I mean, if we’re talking in general, then yeah. I’m getting tired of doing the same shit.”

Si lowers the darts. “Yeah, man, I get that.”

I stare at him. I would have never pegged this particular friend as a softy in the relationship department. I’ve watched him bounce between women for nearly two decades now, but maybe losing his father, then Grant, has softened him up just the slightest bit.

“No, seriously. Hooking up with a bunch of women is a riot, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something pretty empty about it at the end of the day,” he admits.

“If I could get exactly what I wanted in a woman . . .” — he pauses, that hundred-yard stare taking over his eyes before snapping back to the room — “I would settle down for life, I swear to God.”

He doesn’t have to say her name for me to know who he’s talking about. We both let a moment pass before Silas throws another dart, this one with about half the gumption of the others.

He turns back to me. “Rip off the Band-Aid. Just call her before you go.” There’s a softer edge to his voice now. “Life is shorter than we know, bro. If you do run into her there, just take her out. See where it goes. Don’t be a wuss about it.”

I pour another splash of bourbon in my glass, then fix my jaw. “It’s highly unlikely I’d run into her anyway,” I say, glancing out the window.

“Well, figure it out. You’re going next week,” he says, pulling the darts off the board and morphing back into client-mode before stalking over to the spot he was throwing from before.

He sends another dart flying across the room but it hits the metal rim of the target with a metallic thud before bouncing to the floor.

“You want me to go with you?” he asks, cocking a brow.

Then he shoots me that famous look that gets him plastered all over the tabloid papers as one of the hottest wealthy bachelors under thirty-five.

Probably doesn’t hurt that he looks more like a fitness model than your typical run-of-the-mill inheritor of a staggering fortune.

“Nope,” I say, quicker than I mean to.

He laughs.

I like to think he’s only teasing, but Silas is the type that would actually usher me onto his jet if he thought a bit of fun was dangling on the other side of the country.

And getting the chance to rib me about Abby — or even track her down, just so he can watch the awkward reunion unfold between us — has Silas written all over it.

“No . . . but thanks,” I add in a more subdued tone.

The idea of him showing up at the office in New York with Abby under one arm like a little trophy, ready to hand her over to me, makes my stomach roll.

“I’ll go. You don’t have to ask again or threaten to go yourself.

Big city, right?” His face shifts wickedly, like I’ve just given him an idea.

“Don’t get any ideas, Si,” I add, ruefully.

He chuckles. “Dude, you push multi-billion-dollar deals for me without losing any sleep, face down some of the most aggressive attorneys in the country, and yet, you’re this concerned over the possibility of running into a fling from forever ago?”

“Six years.”

He laughs. “Okay, then, six years. You’ve had six years to get over this chick. And the chances of running into her are slim to none, like you said. Unless . . .”

Silas pauses to rub the thick stubble across his jaw.

“Unless what?” I ask, hoping to get ahead of whatever he has rolling around that thick skull of his.

“Seriously. Just forget I said anything.” I hold my palms up as if surrendering.

“I’ll make sure the juniors get the deal done then be back by the following day.

We have to get moving on the Kipsee deal next.

No more wasting time on the smaller details of that one. It might be too late to—”

“Just go for it, man.” He’s pushed back to Abby. “Call her up. Tell her you’re going to be there next week. Maybe she’d be up for, oh, I dunno, a private conversation or something. Start there. Did you ever even take her out? Like, properly?”

“What do you know about properly taking a woman out?” It’s my turn to laugh now.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Silas winks before holding the last dart up to his eye and taking quick aim.

The dart lands squarely in the bullseye with a heavy thud.

He turns to me, holding his arms out as if he’s just won the lottery, and says, “Now, if that’s not a sign of how things are going to go for you when you get there, then I don’t know what is.

You’ll thank me later. Now go tell your PA to book your flight. ”