Page 11 of Worth the Wait

The worst part is that Miguel was right—our styles complement each other perfectly. By nine thirty, we've not only identified the problem but drafted three potential solutions.

"Your approach is good," Jackson says, reviewing my draft of the revised clause, "but it's too conservative. You're thinking like a shield when sometimes you need to be a sword."

I bristle at the critique. "I'm thinking like someone who doesn't want our client sued into oblivion."

"And I'm thinking like someone who wants to use this liability issue as leverage to renegotiate the subsidiary pricing," he counters, sliding his own draft across the table. "See? Same protection, but we position it as Westfield doing the sellers a favor, which justifies the price reduction."

I hate that he's right. I hate even more that I didn't see it.

"It's aggressive," I admit reluctantly.

"It's effective," he corrects, a hint of the old Jackson—confident, slightly cocky—bleeding through his professional veneer.

The familiarity of it hits me like a physical blow. For a second, I'm eighteen again, arguing with him about college application strategies in my parents' kitchen, his eyes alight with the same certainty, the same barely contained energy.

I need air.

"I'm going to grab more coffee," I announce abruptly, standing so quickly my chair rolls backward as I turn away from him. "Do you want anything?"

"Tarryn."

Just my name, spoken softly, but it stops me cold. I know that tone—intimate, intent, impossible to ignore.

"This isn't the time or place," I say without turning around.

"Then when?" His voice drops lower. "Because we need to talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about." The words come out sharper than I intended.

"Nothing?" I hear him stand, feel him moving closer, and every nerve ending in my body goes on high alert. "You really believe that?"

I turn to face him then, keeping the table between us like a shield. "What I believe is that we're colleagues now, and anything else is irrelevant to our professional relationship."

His eyes narrow slightly. "Is that what Miguel would say if he knew about our history?"

The question lands like a slap. "Are you threatening me?"

"Jesus, Tarryn, no." He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "I'm trying to figure out the rules here. Am I supposed to pretend I don't know you? That we didn't grow up together? That I don't remember exactly how you like your coffee or the sound you make when?—"

"Stop," I cut him off, heart hammering against my ribs. "Just stop."

A tense silence falls between us. Outside the glass walls of our conference room, the office has come to life—colleagues walking past, phones ringing, the normal hum of a workday beginning. None of them aware of the emotional minefield inside our little glass cube.

“Come on, you can’t seriously expect us to ignore the elephant in the room forever. I mean shit, it’s been eight years.” I stare at him, curious what that is supposed to mean.

Eight years so it doesn’t matter? Eight years so I should get over it? Eight years ago and we were just silly little kids and had no real concept of love?

“Can’t we at least laugh at the fact that we both somehow ended up working at the same firm?”

“Yeah, somehow, huh?” I say before turning away and walking out of the room, uninterested in whatever story he’s about to tell next to explain how he ended up working here.

The break room is empty when I finally escape there, my hands shaking slightly as I pour coffee I don't need. I take a deep breath, then another, trying to center myself before returning to the conference room.

"Hiding out?"

I nearly drop the coffee pot. Jackson stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

"Did you follow me?" I demand, embarrassingly aware of how juvenile the question sounds.

---