Page 8 of The Best Worst Mistake (Off-Limits #2)

“Amazing. She fell for island life, so I lost a best friend but gained a cat. Poor replacement, but fortunately, we’d kind of bonded — Toby and I — by the time she decided to stay there indefinitely.

She says the bonus of me having Toby is the reassurance he provides her — that I’ll go home often enough to feed the poor thing and twirl a string around for him to grab every now and then instead of dying young and alone at my desk. ”

I swallow, wishing all that hadn’t just tumbled out of my mouth.

“Liv had to give you her cat to ensure that you’d leave your office sometimes?” Dax shakes his head. “If only our younger selves could see us now . . .”

“Pathetic, I know.”

“Is it working?”

“The part about me leaving the office to go twirl a string around for him every day?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope.”

“How does poor Toby survive then?”

“I have a cat walker. Like a dog walker, but for cats. Carla is her name. I think they’re best friends — Toby and Carla. Truthfully, I’m a bit jealous of her. Sometimes I use my cat cam from the office to peek in on them and see just the two of them chatting away. Lots of heavy petting.”

He snorts. “Of course you do,” he adds, sarcastically.

“And I do go home more now than I used to. Toby livens up the place, and I like having him there. Although, I get the sense that he’s very unimpressed with me.

I’ve had to convince him to like me with bits of catnip and liver treats and whatnot, but it’s worked.

Kind of. Now, we watch old comedy movies and eat chips together when I do make it home.

He absolutely loves Fun with Dick and Jane . ”

Dax doesn’t even try to hide his amusement, resting his chin on the heel of his hand while his eyes dance in the candlelight, because apparently he had to go and pick a restaurant with candlelight.

Unfortunately, I go on.

“For better or worse, I’m a very boring human being.” I bite my lip.

“You are anything but boring,” he says, hiding a smile behind his fist.

“It’s this profession though, right? I’m a bona fide workaholic with nothing else but a cat who half-hates me at home to show for it.”

There I go, blushing wickedly again. I subtly peek at my watch, wondering how much longer I have to wait until we get out of here and move on to the next portion of our evening.

He drops his hand away from his mouth and picks the menu back up.

“Honestly, you’re like a breath of fresh air compared to the girls I usually go out with.”

My heart warms from the compliment, but it quickly turns into a frown when I imagine the type of girls he usually goes out with.

“And even though you practically live at your office, minus the nights you’re at home watching Fun with Dick and Jane with a cat, you’ve only just made senior associate?”

“I thought we weren’t talking about work,” I point out, trying to steer the conversation as far away from me as possible since it seems to be going so well.

“You’re the one that brought it up,” he reminds me.

“Right.”

I pick a ragù bolognese off the menu, then place the menu down next to my water glass and look around for the waiter. I’m not used to relaxing, or doing much besides speed-eating in between meetings.

“Well, regardless, I’d love for you to meet Toby,” I tell him, smiling in a way that was meant to be suggestive, but may have come up a bit short, based on how antsy I feel.

“At some point, sure,” he answers lightly, taking a sip of his water.

Okay, maybe this really is just a platonic catch-up for him after all.

The waiter arrives to take our order. My bolognese, roasted salmon for Dax, and a bottle of wine for the table. Great. Then I settle back against the booth.

“You look beautiful tonight, by the way,” he says.

I snort, nearly feeling the water whiz back up into my nose. I was smart enough to trade my flats out for the heels (thank you, Liv), though the whole effect hardly conjures up a compliment with as much depth as beautiful .

“Please,” I tell him, rolling my eyes, ignoring a tiny flutter in my stomach that’s suddenly grown a bit larger. “You really don’t have to butter me up. I came straight from work and slept in my office last night. Do you ever sleep at your office?”

“You’ve never had to try hard to look beautiful,” he says, bumping my knee under the table with his.

He nudges me a few more times while I try to focus on taking another sip of water without dribbling out the side corners of my mouth since I can’t stop smiling.

He holds up two fingers and moves his leg away.

“And that’s strike two for bringing up work. ”

Shit.

“Sounds mildly threatening.” I frown. “What happens after strike three?”

His eyes begin to dance with the candle. “You don’t want to know.”

But the look on his face has the opposite effect. It makes me want to take the bait. I take another gulp of water and swallow it all down — the water and the butterflies — wondering where the waiter is with the bottle of wine we’ve just ordered.

I shrug.

“Maybe I do want to know what happens on strike three,” I tell him. “Might be worth it.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says menacingly. “But you’re not going to like it.”

“Doubt it,” I shoot back, grinning. “I might like it a lot.”

He grins wider than me, and the whole room behind him all but fades away.

I blush too easily, glancing down at the table to mask it, but look up just in time to see his gaze traveling down to where the satin fabric of my camisole dives down into a V.

I clear my throat, and his eyes snap up to meet mine.

We both begin to laugh.

The fact that Dax is here for one night before heading back to L.A.

tomorrow makes everything between us feel a little less permanent.

Like an innocent flirtation in a hotel lounge between two people who might only be there for one night.

No matter what does — or doesn’t — happen will be over by tomorrow, the moment he steps on a plane.

“So, if we’re not here to talk about what-shall-not-be-named,” I say, fighting the urge to say work, “and you’re heading back home in the morning, then what else is on your to-do list for New York?” I hope he’ll be bold enough to say, me .

“There’s plenty I’d love to do while here,” he says, sitting back, resting his napkin across his lap. “But I’m out of time, really.”

“Ah, but not quite,” I point out. “So, if you only have one night left in this city to do anything at all, what would it be?”

“You tell me what I should do. You’ve lived here long enough.”

I sit back and study him while he waits.

“Well, I’d probably start right here at this fancy restaurant eating some of the best food in the world with an incredibly well-chosen dinner companion.” I’m half-smiling. “Excellent plan so far.”

“Good.” He nods. “And then?”

“Then, since all the shows will be over by the time we get out of here, I’d probably do a late-night stroll through Times Square so you can take the requisite tourist photo with all the famous billboards lining the streets behind you.”

“Nah, too crowded.” He shakes his head.

I narrow my eyes at the ceiling so as not to stare at the way his lips barely part in the center as he watches me come up with something more fitting.

“Okay then, a very secluded moonlit ride up to the top of the Empire State Building,” I try next, leaning in.

“Getting warmer,” he says. Half his mouth twitches up into a lopsided grin. “Still a bit too touristy for me, though. I want a real, homegrown idea from a native New Yorker.”

I ignore the fact that I’m not a true native New Yorker. Tiny detail in the grand scheme of things.

“Nothing too touristy. Got it.” I bite my lip.

Then I rake a hand through my hair, wanting to get this next idea right on the money.

“Then, I’d have my wonderful dinner companion walk me down her most favorite street, popping into all the dimly-lit lounges and cute little bakeries that stay open too late serving martinis and pastries for people who wor—”

I clasp a hand over my mouth before the full word comes out.

He stifles a laugh.

“That doesn’t count,” I mumble, sliding my hand away.

He laughs, nudging my leg again under the table.

“Barely, by the skin of your teeth. Go on,” he says, sitting back in his chair again. “I like where this one is going.”

“After trying at least one bite or beverage from all the best shops on the way, I’d ask my fine dinner companion to be shown the best view in the city. One that only she knows about.”

He tilts his jaw and studies me, clearly intrigued now.

“Which is?” he asks.

“Well,” I start, leaning in, “I’d venture to say that—”

But the waiter arrives to lay all our food out across the table, taking his sweet time to ceremoniously uncork the wine and pour both of our glasses half-full before informing us that the entertainment will grace the restaurant shortly.

Once he has left, I settle back into my chair, the spell of that moment nearly broken.

“You were saying?” Dax asks.

“I guess you’re just going to have to wait to find out about that view,” I tell him, grinning.

“Maybe not,” he says. Then he takes his wine glass and holds it up, waiting for me to take mine in my hand like him. His eyes shine with mischief.

“To the best view in the city,” he says, clinking our glasses together. He winks. “And to not having to wait around to find out what it is, since I’ve already got it right here.”