Page 10 of Worth the Wait

The elevator doors open on my floor at precisely seven fifteen a.m., and I step out, already mentally reviewing my schedule for the day. No meetings with Jackson on the calendar, which means I can reasonably?—

"Tarryn! Excellent timing."

I freeze at the sound of Miguel's voice. He's standing outside his office with—of course—Jackson at his side. Both men are holding coffee cups and looking far too alert for this hour.

"Good morning, Miguel," I say, my voice impressively steady. I nod slightly in Jackson's direction, not quite meeting his eyes. "Mr. Hayes."

"We have a situation with the Westfield contract," Miguel says, apparently oblivious to the tension crackling between us. "New information came in overnight that requires immediate attention. I need my two best minds on this."

My stomach drops. "Both of us?"

"Absolutely. This is precisely why we brought Jackson on board—his negotiation experience combined with your attention to detail will be unstoppable." Miguel beams, clearly pleased with his strategic pairing. "I've reserved Conference Room C for the two of you. The revised documentation is already waiting in there."

"I'm happy to take point on this," I offer quickly. "I'm familiar with the entire contract history?—"

"Which is exactly why you'll be showing Jackson the ropes," Miguel interrupts, clapping Jackson on the shoulder. "Consider it an orientation exercise. I've cleared both your schedules until noon. I expect a preliminary solution by then."

With that, Miguel disappears into his office, leaving me alone in the hallway with Jackson. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence stretches thin between us, weighted with eight years of unspoken words.

"Conference Room C is this way," I finally say, turning on my heel without waiting for a response.

I can feel Jackson following half a step behind me, his presence like a physical weight against my back. The hallway seems impossibly long, each click of my heels against marble amplified in the morning quiet.

Conference Room C is the smallest meeting room on our floor—a glass-walled cube barely large enough for a table and four chairs. Intimate is the polite word. Claustrophobic is more accurate. Especially when sharing the space with all six-foot-three inches of a very fit and tempting Jackson Hayes.

The documents are spread across the table exactly as Miguel promised. I take the seat farthest from the door, immediately reaching for the closest folder as if it contains the secrets of the universe.

Jackson sits across from me, his movements deliberately casual as he shrugs out of his suit jacket. The action draws my attention despite my best efforts, his crisp white shirt stretching across his chest which is definitely broader than I remember. My mouth goes dry when my eyes drop farther down to his thick thighs and the more than healthy bulge that’s sits below his belt.

Shit, fuck no!

I focus harder on the documents, squeezing my eyes shut, determined to maintain professional distance. "The Westfield contract has twenty-seven addendums and over four hundredpages of supporting documentation," I say without looking up. "I suggest we start with the latest revision and work backward to identify the issue."

"I've already reviewed the complete file," Jackson says, his voice irritatingly calm. "The problem is in Section 5, Paragraph 12—the liability clause for the subsidiary acquisitions."

I look up sharply. "When did you have time to review the full file?"

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. "Last night. Miguel sent it over after our meeting."

Of course he did. I grit my teeth and flip to Section 5, scanning the text until I find the paragraph in question. He's right, which is even more annoying.

"The language is ambiguous," I concede, reluctantly impressed. "If interpreted broadly, it could expose Westfield to liability for pre-acquisition actions by the subsidiaries."

"Exactly." He slides a document across the table. "And based on these financials, that exposure could be substantial."

Our hands brush as I reach for the paper, and the contact—brief and accidental—sends a jolt of electricity up my arm. I jerk back automatically, nearly knocking over my coffee cup in the process.

“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing the cup as a wave of coffee sloshes over the side.

“Easy.” He chuckles, grabbing a napkin from a small stack in the corner and handing it to me.

“Thanks.” I take it, wiping up the mess.

Jackson's eyes meet mine, and for a moment I glimpse something raw and unguarded in them before his professional mask slides back into place.

"Sorry," he murmurs, though whether it's for the touch or something deeper, I'm not sure.

We work in tense silence for the next hour, exchanging documents and observations with minimal conversation. It's excruciating and efficient in equal measure. His approach to contract analysis is frustratingly different from mine—less methodical, more intuitive, looking at broader patterns while I focus on granular details.

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