Page 16 of Worth the Wait

"Like you're seeing ghosts."

The elevator space feels impossibly small now, the air between us thick with unspoken words and memories. I'm acutely aware of her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers nervously smooth nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt.

"We're going to be working together," she says finally, changing course. "Closely, from what Miguel indicated. Can we at least attempt to be civil?"

"I'm perfectly civil," I reply, a hint of a smile tugging at my lips. "You're the one who looks like you've swallowed something unpleasant every time I enter a room."

A reluctant laugh escapes her—brief, but genuine. "You always did have a talent for exaggeration."

"And you always had a talent for deflection." I hold her gaze. "Some things don't change, it seems."

Something shifts in her expression—a softening, perhaps, or a moment of recognition. She opens her mouth as though about to say something significant, her eyes locked with mine in a way that makes my pulse quicken.

The elevator jolts back to life with jarring suddenness, the lights brightening as we resume our descent. The moment shatters, whatever she was about to say lost in the mechanical hum and the return to reality.

Tarryn steps back, professional mask seamlessly sliding back into place. When the doors open at the lobby, she moves past me without meeting my eyes.

"Good night, Jackson," she says, the use of my first name a small but noticeable concession.

I watch her walk away, heels clicking a precise rhythm against the marble floor. She pauses at the revolving door, one hand rising unconsciously to twist a strand of hair that's escaped her ponytail—a nervous habit she's had since we were sixteen. The gesture is so achingly familiar, so at odds with the polished attorney persona she's cultivated, that I find myself rooted to the spot, struck by the contradiction.

For a moment, as she pushes through the door and disappears into the evening, I glimpse something beneath the armor—a flash of the girl I once knew, visible in the slight hesitation of her movement, in the unconscious grace of her fingers against her hair.

The question isn't whether those glimpses are real, but whether they're enough to build a bridge across eight years of silence and hurt. Whether there's anything left worth salvaging from the wreckage of what we once were to each other.

Back at my apartment, I pour a glass of scotch and stand by the window, watching the Chicago skyline gradually light up as darkness falls. My phone buzzes with a notification—an email from Miguel's assistant, informing me that Miguel wants to meet with Tarryn and me tomorrow to discuss the Westfield contract.

Apparently, we're being assigned to work together.

The irony isn't lost on me. After eight years of complete separation, the universe has not only thrown us into the same firm but is now forcing us into direct collaboration. And hanging over it all is Miguel's explicit statement that whoever handles this best will get the junior counsel promotion.

Competition and collaboration, professional and personal—the lines are already blurring in ways that make the situation precarious for us both.

As I finish my drink, I think back to Tarryn’s warning about Christine Blackwell earlier today. At the way she warned me about her and I can’t help but wonder if part of it was territorial.

Another complication in an already complicated situation.

My phone buzzes again—this time with a text from an Indianapolis friend I haven't spoken to since I moved.

Malcolm: Heard you made the move to Chicago safely. Blake Financial is lucky to have you. Drinks soon to catch up?

Malcolm Vice, my mentor at Wallace & Palmer, the man who taught me every negotiation trick I know. His sudden interest in my new position feels suspiciously well timed, especially given his connections to Miguel Ramirez.

I set the phone down without responding, suddenly exhausted by the chess game my professional life has become. Eight years ago, things were simpler. Eight years ago, I knew exactly what I wanted: Tarryn Wells, a successful career, a life where ambition and love weren't competing forces.

Now I'm not sure any of that is possible. But watching Tarryn today—her competence, her precision, the fleeting glimpses ofthe woman beneath the professional veneer—I can't help but wonder what might be possible if we could find a way past the wreckage of our shared history.

The Westfield contract means working closely together for weeks, possibly months. Unavoidable proximity. Forced collaboration. And from how things are starting off between us, it’s either going to be a recipe for disaster or a chance at redemption.

The question is whether either of us is brave enough to find out which.

Chapter 5

Tarryn

The morning light spills through my office window, catching on the edge of my silver pen as I twist it between my fingers. I've spent twenty minutes reviewing the same paragraph of the Westfield contract, my concentration fractured by the anticipation of today's extended work session with Jackson.

I carefully reapply my lip balm, a useless gesture of preparation for something I should be actively avoiding. I'm giving myself a silent pep talk about maintaining boundaries when a shadow falls across my desk.

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