Page 6 of The Best Worst Mistake (Off-Limits #2)

Dax, New York

By some miracle, I haven’t bumped into any of the fast-footed commuters rushing down the sidewalk in a jumbled heap around me, each like a wild-eyed salmon shooting down the river during spawning season. I continue walking backward with my eyes stuck to Abby’s.

I should turn around to make sure I don’t accidentally bump into the wrong person, maybe one who won’t take it so well, but I don’t want to take my eyes off her just yet.

Abby has always been predictably unpredictable. A flight risk if you push her too much, but also likely to hide behind some invisible wall if you don’t. If I risk taking my eyes off her now, she might not be there when I turn back. Spooked and lost in the crowd.

“Abs, if this isn’t Fate, I don’t know what is. And I know you don’t want to mess with Fate. She’s a real angry son of a gun when you fuck with her.” I’m smiling.

Her face melts into the start of a slow-moving smirk.

Time to dig my heels in.

Literally.

We come to a stop, the type of stop that would involve a screeching car sound if we were two characters in a cartoon instead of two caffeinated ex-whatever-we-are on a sidewalk at eight-thirty in the morning.

She nearly bumps into my chest. But, in true Abby form, she avoids my gaze, looking down at her feet, then at a shockingly tall woman passing by, then at a pigeon that’s holding an entire quarter hamburger in its beak. She’s finding every opportunity on this street to avoid my eyes right now.

What the hell happened between us that you won’t even risk getting dinner with me?

I study her face while she feigns distraction.

The curve of her nose, leading to a perfect point, nearly elfish in appearance with her tiny features and big, amber eyes — almost always hidden behind a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses such as she’s wearing today.

The mop of dark hair pulled up out of her face, wrapped into a messy bun with a pen pulled through it on top, as if holding it up.

When I took that phone call outside the coffee shop nearly an hour ago, finally hearing from the junior team that their last round of negotiations had been successful — Silas would be happy — I’d forgotten about my order on the coffee shop counter.

Halfway back to my hotel, I turned around to go back and grab it, knowing I’d be leaving on a flight instead of spending any more time here in New York.

I spent the entire walk back to the shop debating whether or not I should just call her up, Silas’ words pinging around in my head.

See if she was free, because . . . why not?

But — when I’d walked into the coffee shop, ready to grab what was sure to be a lukewarm drink off the counter — I’d seen her.

Against all odds, there she was.

Standing at the pick-up counter. Ripping little pieces of a pastry out of a bag and popping them into her mouth as she watched an argument unfold between the guy behind the register and an angry customer a few feet away.

I barely felt the smile that stretched across my face while I watched her chatting with the woman behind the counter, debating whether or not I should walk back out the door to let our past stay in the past, or if I should cross the room to open things up between us again — like a scalpel, slicing open an old scar.

But then I saw it.

Even from across the room, clear as day. The cup sitting right beside her with my name scrawled across the side — the big, loopy D making it obvious.

But it was the berry-pink lipstick matching her lips smeared across the rim that made me start walking toward her. Made something in my gut whisper, there it is .

Against all odds, the answer.

How, in this entire micro-universe that is New York City, had my cup had the good fortune of meeting Abby’s mouth this morning?

Fuck .

Sometimes Fate makes itself hard to ignore. Throwing subtle signs out, slowly pushing you in the direction you’re supposed to go, taking its sweet time to guide you there.

But other times, Fate screams obscenities in your face until you can’t think of doing anything else but charge down the path it wants you on, whether you really believe you should go there or not.

My feet made the decision for me when I saw the cup — before my brain could catch up. Walking forward, compelled only by the knowledge that she was there.

I’d forced myself to make the most mundane small talk with her — the woman I’d been half-hoping not to see, waiting for her to look over and notice that it was me.

So, after all that, can she really turn me down?

Of course she can.

This is Abby we’re talking about. Leave it to her to take the best-laid plans — t’s crossed and i’s dotted by Fate herself — and hurl them all into a burning inferno.

“Abby,” I say, grinning, waiting until she’s ready to stop pretending that pigeon wrestling the burger in its beak is more exciting than our random shot at this.

She turns back, folding her arms across her chest. “I can see why you’re as successful as you are. Relentless in negotiation, Mr. Harper.”

I shake my head, looking down at the sidewalk. A far less poetic response than I’d had in mind, but we’ve managed to avoid the incinerator so far, so I’ll take it.

“Do you realize how much had to happen to put us at the same coffee counter this morning?”

“I know,” she whispers, scrunching her nose. “And that’s kind of the problem.”

“Live a little, Abs.” I nudge her. “A girl’s gotta eat, right?”

She pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

“Your logic is impeccable,” she assesses, a grin spreading across her face.

“Eight o’clock?”

“Make it eight-thirty,” she concedes.

Done.

She bites her lip like she can’t believe she’s giving in.

I reach for her chin, giving it a little squeeze before turning on my heels to walk forward so she can’t see the shock simmering in my eyes.

“It’s a date,” I say to the next stranger to walk past us — an elderly woman with a stout bulldog on a leash.

“Whoopie!” the woman trills, pumping a fist above her perfectly white head of hair. I think she might be drunk.

“Don’t make this weird,” Abby says, flinging a fist out to give me the slightest gut punch without looking over. “We’re just catching up.”

“Over a white tablecloth,” I remind her. She rolls her eyes, but it does nothing to stop the amusement taking over her face. I lean closer as we walk. “That whole fancy tablecloth thing was your idea, not mine,” I add, lowering my voice.

She bumps her shoulder into me, grinning, but this time she keeps it there as we continue walking.

“You’ve got one hour tonight,” she says, side-eyeing me.

“One hour?” I narrow my eyes back at her. “Oh, I get as long as it takes to eat a full meal. Plus, what’s a full meal without an appetizer, dessert, maybe a round of cheese, a salad . . .”

“Appetizer,” she negotiates. “Plus an entree.”

“Make it a big one, then,” I tell her. “And you’d better plan on chewing it real slow.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she quips back, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Big and slow. Got it. Although, something about that description sounds oddly familiar . . .” She glances back over her shoulder with a huge grin as she hops off the sidewalk. “Don’t you think?”

My heart clenches in my chest.

“Same number as before?” I call out a bit louder as the space between us grows.

“Hasn’t changed!” she answers, spinning around to give me one last goofy grin before turning her back to me once more.

“Some things never do,” I mutter under my breath as I watch her walk away.