Page 21 of Worth the Wait

The winking emoji sits at the end of her text like a trap. Something about Christine's sudden interest in my social life feels calculated. I set the phone down without responding, but it buzzes again almost immediately.

Christine: I apologize if I’m being too forward. I just want to make sure that you’re getting the proper Blake Financial welcome, although I’m sure Tarryn is doing a great job, lol.

My jaw tightens involuntarily. So that's her angle—fishing for confirmation of something between Tarryn and me. I power off my screen, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a response, but her message has already achieved its intended effect.

My mind fills with unwanted images of Tarryn sitting with Mark Daniels, laughing at his jokes, maybe letting him brush his fingers against hers across a candlelit table.

The jealousy that surges through me is as unexpected as it is powerful. I haven't felt this territorial over anyone since—well, since Tarryn herself, eight years ago.

Eight years. The weight of that time suddenly crashes over me, memories flooding back with such force I have to grip the edge of my desk.

I remember the exact moment it all fell apart. Spring break, her freshman year, my phone trembling in my hand as I stared at the email from Northwestern's financial aid office. The words blurred together, but their meaning was devastatingly clear. My scholarship had been revoked due to budget cuts. Without it, there was no way I could afford to transfer and join Tarryn the following year as we'd planned.

Pride and shamekept me from telling her the truth. At the time, naive as I was at eighteen, I thought it was easier to let her believe I was choosing my father's business—that I was making a noble sacrifice for family—than admit I'd failed to secure our future together.

I hated myself for it. For not being a better boyfriend. Hell, even a better friend. I took it out on her. I knew I was doing it at the time, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. Ourarguments became more frequent, more bitter, as she accused me of abandoning our plans while I doubled down on family obligation, too proud to admit the truth.

By the time she sent that final email—clinical and distant, severing what remained of us—I was too hurt, too stubborn to fight for her. I let her go, convincing myself it was for the best, that she deserved someone who could match her ambition step for step. And a few days later when her name flashed across my phone screen, I had been too ashamed to pick up.

What a fucking coward I'd been.

I swivel my chair toward the window, watching rain begin to speckle the glass.

Would things have been different if I'd been honest? If I'd swallowed my pride and told her about losing the scholarship?

Maybe we could have found another way forward together instead of apart. The regret sits heavy in my chest, a familiar ache I've carried for years.

My thoughts return to Christine, her strategic interference feeling increasingly personal. I turn back to my computer, curiosity and concern propelling me toward a search I should have conducted days ago.

Christine Blackwell's professional history appears impressive at first glance—University of Chicago, Yale Law, early partnership track at prestigious Miller & Walsh, then her somewhat unusual lateral move to Blake Financial three years ago. On paper, it reads like the career path of an ambitious attorney seeking new opportunities.

I dig a little deeper, checking industry forums and legal blogs, but nothing substantial emerges beyond office gossip and speculation. There's mention of a David Richards in connection with her departure from Miller & Walsh, but the details are vague at best. After a few frustrating minutes, I close the browser.

I have more important things to focus on than Christine's past. Like the fact that Tarryn is going on a date tomorrow night with some piece of shit prosecutor, while I'm sitting alone in my office obsessing over her like a lovesick teenager.

Okay, fine, I don’t know if he’s actually a piece of shit but for the sake of my guilt about being jealous, he’s a piece of shit.

The thought of Tarryn with Mark Daniels sends another surge of jealousy through me, hot and unwelcome. I try to push it aside, focusing instead on the Westfield contract, but my concentration is shot.

All I can think about is her—the way she looked at me in the parking garage, the electricity that sparked between us, the almost imperceptible softening in her eyes when I caught her staring. The memory of her is so close, yet impossibly distant. It consumes me, a constant undercurrent beneath my carefully constructed professional facade.

The next morning,I spot her in the break room. She’s on her tiptoes, her ass pressed out, her hand outstretched as she reaches for a particular mug. My eyes drop down to the tiny sliver of the exposed skin of her midriff. My body responds immediately, heart rate accelerating as if I'm still that lovesick teenager waiting for her after debate practice. Cock… alert.

I should offer to help her…

But I don’t. Instead, I allow myself an extra few seconds of guilty indulgence.

She finally reaches the mug, pulling it down and reaching for the carafe of freshly brewed coffee.

"Good morning," I say, stepping closer than strictly necessary, catching the subtle hint of vanilla that always seems to cling to her skin.

She startles, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her mug. "Jackson. I didn't hear you come in."

"Focused on the caffeine, I see." I smile, reaching past her for a mug, my arm brushing hers in a touch that shouldn't feel this electric. "Important meeting this morning?"

"Back-to-back-to-back client calls." Her eyes dart to my chest, then away, a flush creeping up her neck that she can't quite hide. "You know how it goes."

I pour my coffee, deliberately taking my time, aware of how she shifts her weight, the way her fingers tighten around her mug—small tells I still remember, still recognize with embarrassing clarity after all these years.

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