Page 20 of Worth the Wait

I look up to find Jackson watching me, his expression unreadable in the dim fluorescent lighting of the garage. Neither of us speaks. The silence stretches between us and my eyes drop down to his exposed forearms. I swallow at the sight. Thick, farm-strong arms corded with muscles and veins straining against his tan skin.

"Tarryn," he finally murmurs, my name on his lips sounding like a caress.

Before I can respond, before I can erect the necessary defenses, he steps closer. This time, there's no hesitation. His hand reaches up, smoothing my hair behind my ear in a gesture so achingly gentle it makes my breath catch. His fingertips linger, brushing against my cheek with exquisite tenderness, leaving trails of heat where they touch.

His eyes hold mine, dark with an emotion I'm too afraid to name. The garage disappears—there's only Jackson, the warmth of his touch, the scent of him enveloping me, the invisible cord pulling me toward him with inexorable force.

"I have a date."

The words burst from me like a defense mechanism, sharp and sudden in the intimate silence. I immediately want to take them back, but they hang in the air between us, impossible to reclaim.

Jackson's hand stills against my cheek. Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, followed by a quick succession of emotions too complex to decipher. His fingers slowly withdraw, leaving my skin cold in their absence.

"A date," he repeats, taking half a step back, his expression carefully rearranging itself into something neutral. "With who?"

"Mark Daniels." The name comes automatically, though the prosecutor is more acquaintance than potential romantic interest. "He's with the DA's office. Zoe set it up—financial crimes division. She thought we'd have a lot in common. I’m pretty excited about it." I don’t know why I add that last part. It couldn’t be further from the truth.

A sharp, unexpected laugh escapes Jackson. It's brief, almost involuntary, tinged with something that might be irony.

"What?" I ask, suddenly defensive.

He shakes his head, that muscle in his jaw flexing again. "Nothing. Just… nothing."

The moment has fractured, the delicate thread of possibility between us snapping under the weight of my declaration. Jackson takes another step back, hands sliding into his pockets as if he doesn't trust what they might do otherwise.

"I hope you have a good time," he says, his tone perfectly calibrated to sound sincere without revealing anything deeper.

"Thanks." The word feels inadequate, hollow. "You heading out too?"

Jackson glances back toward the elevator. "Think I'll go back up. Finish reviewing those Australian compliance regulations for a different client."

I nod, sliding into the driver's seat before I can say something I'll regret, before I can call back the lie about how excited I am for this date, before I can admit that no one—certainly not Mark Daniels—makes my heart race and my skin burn the way Jackson does with nothing more than a look.

"Good night, Tarryn," he says, stepping back from my car.

"Good night, Jackson."

As I drive away, I catch a glimpse of him in my rearview mirror, still standing where I left him, watching my departure. The image burns itself into my consciousness—the straight line of his shoulders, the intensity of his gaze following me—andI know with sudden, painful clarity that whatever I'm running from will still be waiting when I return.

The question is whether I'll finally have the courage to face it.

And yet, as I pull out into the empty street, I can't deny the truth that terrifies me most: some part of me wants those walls to come down. Some treacherous, reckless part wants to discover if his lips still fit perfectly against mine, if his hands still know the geography of my body, if what we once shared could possibly be rekindled from the ashes of eight years of silence.

That possibility is more dangerous than any professional scandal Christine might engineer.

Because I know with bone-deep certainty: if I fall for Jackson Hayes again, recovering isn't an option.

Chapter 6

Jackson

Ireturn to my office, still feeling the imprint of her absence in the parking garage. The image of Tarryn's taillights disappearing into the night burns in my retinas like an afterimage—present even when I close my eyes. My skin still tingles where her body pressed against mine, the phantom sensation of her warmth lingering like a ghost.

The office is nearly deserted at this hour, but as I approach my desk, I notice Christine lingering near the conference room. She doesn't bother pretending she wasn't watching, merely offering a thin smile before disappearing around the corner.

My phone buzzes against my thigh as I settle into my chair.

Unknown: If you need recommendations for Chicago's finer dining establishments, I'd be happy to provide a list. I know ALL the best intimate spots. ;) It’s Christine btw. Got your number from the directory.

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