Page 19 of Worth the Wait

"I'll get some paper towels," he says, his voice rougher than usual, carrying an edge that sends an involuntary shiver racing down my spine.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and begin gathering the damaged documents with shaking hands. The professional part of my brain catalogs the damage—they'll need to be reprinted,not the end of the world—while another part, one I've tried desperately to silence, wonders what would have happened if he hadn't pulled away.

If his fingers had brushed my cheek, if he'd leaned just an inch closer, if I'd closed that final whisper of space between us…

Jackson returns with paper towels, and we clean up the mess in focused silence, both careful to maintain a radius of safety between us. But the air remains charged, molecules practically vibrating with unspoken possibility.

Less than twenty minutes later, the charged air explodes between us in an unnecessarily heated argument.

"That's completely contradictory to established precedent and you know it," I argue, jabbing my finger at Section 4.8 of the liability clause. "If we structure it this way, we're exposing the client to unnecessary risk."

"The precedent isn't as clear-cut as you're suggesting," Jackson counters, leaning across the table toward me. "Peterson v. Harggot established that when properly disclosed, this exact structure can actually provide additional protection."

I shake my head, frustration fueling my response. "Peterson was decided on very specific facts that don't apply here. You're cherry-picking case law to support an unnecessarily aggressive position."

Jackson's eyes flash with challenge, and he moves around the table until he's standing directly in front of me. Too close. Not close enough. The contradiction makes me dizzy.

"I'm looking at the bigger picture, Tarryn. Sometimes the safest route isn't the best one." His voice drops lower, resonating somewhere deep in my chest. "Sometimes you have to take a calculated risk to get what you really want."

The double meaning in his words isn't lost on me. My breath catches as he moves closer still, invading the carefully maintained buffer zone I've established. I back up a step, findingmyself against the whiteboard, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat building inside me.

"And what exactly do you think the client wants?" I challenge, tilting my chin up to maintain eye contact despite our height difference.

Jackson places one hand on the whiteboard beside my head, not touching me but effectively caging me in. "I think the client wants the same thing most people want"—his eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second—"the best possible outcome with the least amount of compromise."

I'm acutely aware of every inch of him—the breadth of his shoulders beneath his tailored shirt, the subtle scent of his cologne mingled with the slightest tinge of sweat, the gentle roughness in his voice that sends heat pooling low in my belly. We're arguing about contract law, for God's sake, but my body responds as if he's whispering indecent proposals against my skin.

"Sometimes compromise is necessary," I manage, hating how breathless I sound. "Especially when the alternative is too risky."

"Is it the risk you're afraid of?" Jackson leans incrementally closer, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak. "Or is it what happens if the risk pays off?"

We're so close now I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can see the pulse beating at the base of his throat, can almost taste the coffee on his breath. One small movement from either of us and we’ll be crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed.

Do it, whispers a reckless voice inside me.Just this once. Just to know if that spark is still there.

A shadow passes the conference room, the movement visible from the corner of my eye—a deliberate, unhurried walk that can only belong to one person. Christine.

I push against Jackson's chest, creating immediate distance between us. His expression shifts from intense focus to confusion, then understanding as he follows my gaze to where Christine has paused, pretending to review something on her tablet while clearly monitoring our interaction.

"We should go," I say, my voice steadier than I feel as I begin gathering my files. "It's late, and I don't trust her not to use any… observations… against us."

Jackson nods, his jaw tightening as he steps back. "You're right. We can finish this tomorrow."

The tension between us doesn't dissipate as we pack up; if anything, it intensifies in the silence. The electricity that's been building all day has nowhere to go, no release valve, just the maddening awareness of what almost happened—what part of me still desperately wants to happen.

“I’ll walk you out.” He interrupts my thoughts as we exit the conference room.

“Not necessary,” I counter a little too quickly.

“I wasn’t offering.” I stop and look at him, his tone clearly serious. “It’s late and you have no business walking down there alone. Do you do it often?” I shrug, not really providing an answer. “Get your things. I’ll meet you by the elevator.”

I nod, scurrying back to my office like I’ve just been scolded. Nervously, I gather my things, my legs still a touch shaky from the interaction moments ago.

The parking garage is eerily quiet at this hour, our footsteps echoing in the concrete expanse as we walk toward my car. We've barely spoken since leaving the conference room, the silence between us so charged I can almost see it shimmering in the air.

We reach my car, both of us stopping at the driver's side door. I fumble with my keys, suddenly unsure of the proper protocol for saying good night to the man who, less than tenminutes ago, had me backed against a whiteboard, his body a breath away from mine with a look that had my panties on the verge of melting and my thighs practically quivering.

Did I just use quivering?

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