Page 23 of Worth the Wait

The moment shatters, reality intruding with jarring efficiency. She clears her throat, shifting the conversation back to safer territory. "The Westfield presentation is coming together nicely. Miguel seemed impressed with our combined approach."

I allow the deflection, recognizing when a door is closing. We finish our lunch in strained politeness, split the check with careful precision, and head back toward the office in silence that feels heavier than before.

The spring air carries a hint of impending rain, dark clouds gathering in the distance. As we cross an intersection, Tarryn's heel catches on an uneven segment of sidewalk. She pitches forward, her arms darting out to catch herself.

“Oof!”

I reach for her instinctively, arms encircling her waist to steady her. For one suspended moment, we're pressed together, her body against mine, her breath warm against my neck. Time seems to slow, stretch, condense to this single point of contact.

"Jackson," she whispers my name.

I can't help myself—I raise my hand to cup her cheek, thumb brushing along her jawline, making her eyes flutter closed. We stand frozen in this moment, her lips just inches from mine.

Then she steps back, breaking the connection with visible effort. "We can't do this," she says, voice strained. "We work together. I've moved on. We both have."

The last part sounds like she's trying to convince herself more than me, but I don't call her on it. Instead, I watch as she straightens her jacket, rebuilding her professional armor piece by piece.

"I should get back," she says, not meeting my eyes. "I have that client call to prepare for."

She walks away, her heels clicking a precise rhythm against the pavement, leaving me standing alone with the ghost of her touch still burning against my skin. After a moment, I follow, maintaining a careful distance that feels both necessary and excruciating.

My apartment feels emptierthan usual tonight, the silence pressing in from all sides as I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and sink onto the couch. The amber liquid catches the light, throwing golden reflections against the wall as I twist the glass, watching the slow dance of shadows.

I set the whiskey aside, reaching instead for the shoebox I keep in my closet. Inside, beneath old concert tickets and faded photographs, lies a letter—edges worn from handling, the envelope bearing a red RETURN TO SENDER stamp that has faded with time.

I trace my finger over her name in my scrawled handwriting: Tarryn Wells, written with a hope that aches even now, years later.

I'd written it during those dark days in the hospital, pouring out everything I couldn't say over the phone—my fear of losing my father, my regret over our arguments, my desperate need to have her by my side through the worst moments of my life.

She never read it. Never knew.

My phone feels heavy in my hand as I debate texting her. What would I even say?

I still think about you.

I never stopped.

Today in the break room, on the sidewalk, every moment in between—I've been fighting the urge to pull you close, to finish what we started eight years ago.

No. Too much, too soon. Maybe ever.

Instead, I carefully refold the letter but instead of hiding it away back in the shoebox, I place it on my nightstand. Tomorrow, I'll leave it on her desk when she's in a meeting. No pressure, no expectations—just the truth I tried to share years ago, finally reaching its intended recipient.

Whether she chooses to read it, to respond, to acknowledge what still smolders between us—that will be entirely her choice. I've spent eight years wondering what might have been. I can wait a little longer to find out what might still be.

I take a sip of whiskey, the burn matching the ache in my chest. Tomorrow, I'll give her the truth. Tonight, I'll allow myself to remember the way she felt in my arms today, solid and warm and so achingly familiar—like something precious I'd forgotten I'd lost until it was briefly, tantalizing, within reach once more.

Chapter 7

Tarryn

The scent reaches me before I even see it—vanilla and cinnamon mingling in a heavenly cloud that stops me in my tracks. The coffee cup sits innocently on my desk, steam rising in delicate curls that seem to beckon me closer. I glance around the empty office, but there's no one here at seven fifteen a.m. to take credit for the delivery.

No note accompanies it, but none is needed. Only one person knows my ridiculously complicated coffee order—vanilla latte, extra shot, half pump of caramel, almond milk, with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Only one person would leave it here as a silent claim on my morning routine.

Jackson.

I pick up the cup, the warmth seeping through the cardboard and into my palms. The first sip confirms it—perfectly made, exactly how I like it. Something flutters in my chest, a dangerous warmth that has nothing to do with the beverage's temperature.

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