Page 15 of Worth the Wait

Zoe's smile widens. "Of course not. Just thought you might like to know what you're dealing with." She taps a manicured finger against my doorframe. "Welcome to Blake Financial, Jackson. It's going to be an interesting year."

She saunters away, leaving me with the distinct impression that I've just been assessed—and that Zoe suspects far more than she's letting on. Then it hits me… a small flutter in my stomach sends a beacon of hope racing through me. Maybe Zoe already knows who I am. Because maybe Tarryn has talked about me.

Inside my office,I turn my attention to the Westfield contract materials Tarryn prepared. Her notes are comprehensive, meticulous, almost artistic in their precision. I compare them to my own approach—broader strokes, focusing on leverage points and negotiation strategy rather than granular details.

Looking at our work side by side, the complementary nature is obvious. Her exactitude combined with my strategic vision would make for an unbeatable combination. In another universe, we'd be the perfect team.

But in this one, we're competitors for the same position, with eight years of unresolved history complicating every interaction.

I spend the afternoon reviewing her previous work on the Westfield account, grudgingly impressed by her thoroughness. When six p.m. arrives, I'm still deep in analysis, comparing her approach to mine, looking for ways to demonstrate my value without undermining hers—a delicate balance I'm not sure is possible.

But there’s no use in staying here all night; I won’t be able to figure it out. So I pack up my things and grab my phone to head home to my empty apartment.

The elevator doors are closing when I hear her voice—"Hold, please!"—and my hand shoots out automatically to stop them. Tarryn hurries in, eyes on her phone, not realizing it's me until the doors close behind her.

"Oh," she says, the single syllable laden with surprise and wariness. "Thanks."

"No problem."

We stand in uncomfortable silence as the elevator begins its descent. Tarryn keeps her eyes fixed on the changing floor numbers, her profile illuminated by the harsh overhead light. She's changed since this morning—her hair now pulled back in a sleek ponytail, a tailored trench coat draped over her arm. The scent of her perfume with subtle notes of vanilla and amber fills the confined space, stirring memories I've spent years trying to suppress.

The elevator lurches suddenly, lights flickering before stabilizing. We both reach for the wall instinctively as the car grinds to a halt, and for one heart-stopping moment, her body ispressed against mine—warm, solid, achingly familiar despite the years between us. I feel her sharp intake of breath, see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.

"You've got to be kidding me," Tarryn mutters, pulling away as though burned, jabbing at the lobby button with unnecessary force.

Nothing happens. She tries the emergency call button, which connects to a bored-sounding security officer who promises to contact maintenance.

"They say it shouldn't take more than ten minutes," she reports after hanging up, smoothing her already perfect skirt. "Apparently, this has been happening with elevator three."

"Good to know," I say, leaning against the wall opposite her. "I'll take the stairs next time."

"Twenty-three flights might be a bit much, even for someone as fit as you," she says, then immediately looks as if she regrets the observation, a flush of color rising to her cheeks.

The implication that she's noticed my physical condition hangs between us, creating a new tension in the already charged space. Her eyes dart away, then back, as though she can't quite decide whether to acknowledge what she's just revealed.

"I could manage it," I say, holding her gaze. "I've always enjoyed a challenge."

A hint of the old fire flashes in her eyes. "Is that why you’re here, Hayes? A challenge?"

"I didn't say that." I fold my arms, studying her. "Though you've certainly gone out of your way to make working together as difficult as possible."

"Excuse me?" Her chin lifts in that defiant way I remember so well. "I've been nothing but professional."

"Professional, yes. Also distant, defensive, and determined to pretend we've never met before." I take a step closer, watchingher carefully. "Tell me something, Tarryn. Do you still hate me, or is this just your default setting with everyone?"

"I never hated you." Her voice drops, carrying an undercurrent of emotion that makes my chest tighten. "That would have been easier."

The admission hangs in the charged air between us, more revealing than I expected. I search her face, looking for traces of the girl who once knew me better than anyone.

"Then what was it?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.

She looks away, fingers twisting unconsciously at the thin gold chain around her neck—the one that disappears beneath her blouse, the one that still holds the daisy pendant I gave her on our first anniversary.

"It doesn't matter anymore." She sighs, shoulders dropping slightly. "That was a lifetime ago."

"It feels like yesterday sometimes," I counter, surprising myself with the honesty. "Especially when you look at me like that."

"Like what?" Her eyes meet mine, vulnerability flickering beneath professional composure.

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