Page 17 of Worth the Wait

Christine stands in my doorway, the cut of her designer suit emphasizing the predatory elegance she wears like a second skin. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I swear every time her shadow comes over my desk, her presence alone shifts the atmosphere, turning the air cold and brittle.

"Preparing for your session with our newest legal star?" she asks, her voice carrying a silky undercurrent that raises the hair on my arms.

I straighten instinctively, smoothing a few stray wrinkles from my skirt. "Just reviewing the subsidiary agreements," I respond, my voice deliberately neutral. "The liability language needs refinement."

Christine perches on the edge of my desk, uninvited. Her Louboutins catch the fluorescent light as she crosses her ankles. There's something almost friendly in her posture despite the predatory gleam in her eyes.

"You know, I see myself in you, Tarryn," she says, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. "Ambitious. Meticulous. Determined."

She runs a perfectly manicured finger along the edge of my case files, the gesture somehow both casual and deliberate.

"That's why I feel compelled to warn you." Her eyes flick toward Jackson's office, where his silhouette moves behind frosted glass. "Amanda Chen was brilliant—Georgetown Law Review, clerkship with Justice Vitner. She was on track for partnership until she made the mistake of falling for David over in Mergers."

Christine leans closer, her perfume—expensive, subtle—enveloping me in a cloud of false intimacy.

"It all seemed great at first but when shit hit the fan… The partners forgave him within weeks like nothing even happened," she continues, her voice hardening imperceptibly. "She never recovered. Last I heard, she was drafting prenups at a suburban strip mall firm."

Something in the way her mouth tightens tells me there's more to this story than professional concern. For a moment, I glimpse something raw beneath Christine's polished exterior like a flash of old pain quickly concealed.

"The men who run this firm"—she gestures toward the corner offices with their mahogany doors—"they claim they're progressive, but when scandal hits, they protect their own. And their own has never included women like us."

Her hand brushes my shoulder, the touch lingering just long enough to feel like both a caress and a warning. "Just something to consider while you're… strategizing your future."

I swallow the instinctive denial that rises to my lips. "I appreciate your… concern," I say instead, careful to keep my voice steady. "But I assure you, my focus remains entirely on the contract work."

Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Of course it does." She stands, straightening an invisible wrinkle from her impeccable suit. "I'll let you prepare for your meeting. Mr. Hayes seems very… eager to collaborate with you."

The emphasis she places on "collaborate" turns the word obscene, and I feel heat crawl up my neck despite my determination to reveal nothing.

After she leaves, I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my skin still crawling from the encounter. The warning hangs in the air just like her cloyingly sweet perfume—subtle but impossible to ignore.

I push away from my desk, needing to move, to clear my head before I’m stuck back in an impossibly small space with Jackson. Christine's warning replays through my mind with each step down the hallway.The partners forgave him within weeks. She never recovered.

I've spent years building my reputation, ensuring everyone sees me as the meticulous, detail-oriented attorney who catches every potential risk before it materializes.

Through the glass walls, I see the office gradually emptying as the evening approaches. The soft glow of sunset paints the skyscrapers in gold and amber as most associates head home, leaving behind the whisper-quiet of an office after hours. My heart quickens as Jackson appears in the doorway, his suit jacket draped over his arm, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with subtle muscle.

The sight sends an unwelcome surge of heat through me. Even under the impossibly unflattering lights of an office, he looks like he belongs on a magazine cover. Between thedeliciously tempting way he stares at me and his strong jaw, he’s a study in masculine perfection that makes my belly flip-flop.

"Ready for a long night?" he asks, his voice carrying that hint of roughness that still manages to resonate through me like a physical touch.

I gesture to the spread of documents on the conference table. "As ready as one can be for combing through five hundred pages of contract minutiae."

He smiles—that particular half smile that appears with his genuine amusement and my traitorous body responds again with a flutter low in my belly. I turn away quickly, busying myself with organizing documents I've already arranged three times.

"I brought sustenance," he says, setting down a bag that smells tantalizingly of Thai food. "I remember how you get when you work through meals."

The casual reference to our shared past—to how well he knows me—sends a ripple of something dangerous through my chest. I keep my face carefully neutral as I accept the container he offers.

"Thank you," I say, our fingers brushing momentarily in the exchange. The brief contact sends electricity arcing up my arm, and I pull back too quickly, almost spilling sauce onto the contracts.

We work in relative silence for the first hour, the scratch of pens and rustle of paper the only sounds between us. But even without speaking, his presence fills the room like a current, my awareness of him never diminishing. I catch myself tracking his movements from the corner of my eye—the way he taps his index finger when considering a point, how he runs his hand through his hair when concentrating.

Every time we reach for the same document, I feel the air compress between us, charged with unspoken history andunwanted awareness. By the third time our hands brush, the contact no longer feels accidental. His fingers linger against mine a heartbeat too long, and when I look up, his eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my pulse skitter wildly.

"You've flagged all the liability triggers," he observes, leaning closer to examine my notations. His proximity brings with it the scent of his cologne again. I have to fight my eyelids from fluttering at the way it makes me swoon. "But have you considered using these as negotiation leverage?"

I force myself to focus on his question rather than the warmth radiating from his body, so close I can feel it against my skin. "The client's priority is protection, not negotiation advantage."

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