Page 12 of Worth the Wait

"We weren't finished talking."

"Yes, we were." I set the pot down with careful precision, the ceramic making a too-loud click against the counter. "And this isn't appropriate workplace behavior."

"Cut the HR bullshit, Tarryn." His voice drops lower, the familiar cadence sending an unwelcome ripple of awareness down my spine. He steps closer—too close, close enough that the subtle notes of his cologne bypass my conscious mind and target something primitive instead.

Cedar. Bergamot. Jackson.

My traitorous body recognizes the scent before my brain can mount a defense. Heat blooms across my chest, crawling upward to stain my cheeks. The break room suddenly feels airless, oxygen molecules seemingly repelled by the charged particles between us.

"Did you know I was coming to Blake?" His question pulls me back to reality, but his proximity makes focusing nearly impossible. The counter edge digs into my lower back as I instinctively retreat, solid surface meeting unyielding flesh.

I'm cornered. Trapped between cool marble and the radiating warmth of his body.

"What?"

"Simple question. Did you know I was interviewing here?" His eyes—those damnable blue eyes that haunted my dreams long after I'd convinced myself I'd forgotten them—pin me in place. "Were you hoping to blindside me, or was this just a cosmic joke at my expense?"

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. The fluorescent lights catch the faint stubble along his jaw, highlighting how it's sharper now, more defined than the boy I once knew. The change should make him a stranger. Instead, it only emphasizes how thoroughly I still know the geography of his face—and how desperately my fingertips suddenly itch to relearn it.

The thought sends a jolt of panic through me. I force my hands to remain at my sides rather than curl into fists or, worse, reach for him.

"You narcissistic ass," I hiss, stepping closer despite myself, drawn into his orbit against every screaming instinct for self-preservation. His heat envelops me like a physical caress, my skin prickling with awareness beneath my silk blouse. "You think I manipulated a major law firm's hiring decisions to what—get revenge? Sabotage your career?"

I'm close enough now to see his pupils dilate, black expanding to swallow blue. Close enough to count each individual eyelash. Close enough to feel his exhalation against my upturned face, warm and coffee-scented.

"News flash, Jackson. Until yesterday, I hadn't given you a second thought in years."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but the flash of hurt in his eyes gives me a twisted satisfaction that immediately curdles into shame. This close, I can see the pulse thrumming at the base of his throat, the slight flare of his nostrils as he inhales sharply.

"Well, that makes one of us," he says quietly.

His words land like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs more effectively than any courtroom defeat. Before I can process their implications, his expression shifts to something harder, more distant—yet his body remains mere inches from mine, a proximity that scrambles my synapses and makes coherent thought nearly impossible.

The space between us vibrates with potential energy that mirrors the confusion wreaking havoc on my internal equilibrium. I become hyperaware of every sensation—the brush of silk against my oversensitized skin, the slight tremor in my fingers, the way my body unconsciously sways toward his like a flower seeking sunlight.

Most disturbing of all is the realization burning through my professional armor: despite eight years, despite everything I've built, despite every wall I've constructed—I still remember exactly how his lips feel against mine.

Before I can process this admission, his expression shifts to something harder, more distant. "For the record, I had no idea you worked here. If I had, I might have reconsidered the offer."

The words sting more than they should. "Well, I'm sorry to have complicated your career plans," I say, ice crystallizing around each syllable. "But I was here first, and I've worked too hard to let your presence affect my shot at junior counsel."

"That's what this is about? You think we're competing for the same position?"

"Aren't we? Miguel mentioned 'leadership pipeline' and 'fresh perspective' often enough during your interview process."

Jackson laughs, the sound lacking any humor. "So that's why you're so determined to keep our history under wraps. You're afraid it'll undermine your professional standing."

"It has nothing to do with?—"

"Doesn't it?" He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne, the same brand he wore in college. Close enough that his warm chest brushes against me, testing my resolve. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're terrified that someone might think we know each other."

The observation hits too close to home, slicing through my defenses with surgical precision. Because he's right—of course he's right. He always could see through me, even when I didn't want him to.

"You don't know anything about me anymore," I say, the words coming out more vulnerable than I intend.

"I know you still wear the necklace I gave you," he says softly, his eyes dropping to the collar of my blouse where the chain is just visible. "Eight years, and you still wear it."

My hand flies to my neck automatically, fingers closing around the delicate pendant beneath the fabric. I'd put it on this morning just like I do every morning, without thinking, a habit so ingrained I hardly notice anymore.

---