Page 24 of Worth the Wait

I'm still staring at the cup when my phone chimes with an email notification.

From:[email protected]

Subject:Career Advancement Lunch?

Tarryn, I'd love to discuss some advancement strategies over lunch today. My treat. Let me know if one p.m. works.

My eyebrows rise involuntarily. Christine Blackwell wants to have lunch with me? We've barely exchanged more than professional pleasantries in the two years I've been at Blake Financial. Something about the timing makes my stomach tighten with caution.

I take another sip of coffee, contemplating the invitation. Christine isn't one for social niceties—everything she does serves a purpose. What could she possibly want from me?

Despite the warning bells ringing in my head, I find myself typing a reply.

Perfect timing. One p.m. works great. Looking forward to it.

-Tarryn

As I hit send, another email notification slides onto my screen—a reminder about my date tonight with Mark, the prosecutor Zoe introduced me to last week. I'd almost forgotten about it with everything happening with Jackson.

My finger hovers over the daisy pendant hidden beneath my blouse, an unconscious gesture that's become a tell I can't seem to shake. Whatever Christine wants, this lunch might be an opportunity to better understand the woman who's been watching Jackson and me with such calculated interest.

I set down the coffee and turn to my computer. I have work to do—preparation that doesn't involve thinking about Jackson Hayes and the way his thoughtful gift has already claimed my day.

"The sea bass is excellent here,"Christine says, not bothering to look at the menu as we settle into our seats at an upscalebistro. Her perfectly manicured nail traces the rim of her water glass in a gesture that seems almost casual, but nothing about Christine is ever truly casual.

“I bet,” I say enthusiastically although I have no intention of ordering it. A few silent moments later, the waiter returns, taking our order and once again leaving us sitting in another awkward silence.

"So, Tarryn," she begins, her voice carrying a warmth I've never heard from her before. "You've made quite an impression in your two years with us. Miguel speaks highly of your attention to detail."

"That's gratifying to hear," I reply, keeping my guard up despite her friendly tone.

"The Westfield contract is a significant opportunity," she continues, swirling her water glass with calculated precision. "Career-defining, potentially."

"I'm aware of its importance."

"And your… partnership with Hayes is progressing well?" The way she infuses the word "partnership" with innuendo makes heat rise to my cheeks.

"We have complementary professional approaches," I say carefully. "Jackson's strategic vision balances my attention to detail."

"I'm sure that's not all that's being balanced," she murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it.

Before I can respond, she leans forward, her expression shifting to something almost sisterly. "This can be a girlfriends’ lunch, you know. We don't always have to be in competition."

The sudden shift in her demeanor throws me off-balance. Christine Blackwell doesn't do "girlfriends’ lunches." She does strategic networking and calculated advancement.

"I understand you both grew up in the same small town," she continues, her gaze never leaving my face. "What a fortunate coincidence that he chose our firm, of all places."

My pulse quickens. How could she possibly know that? "We're from the same general area," I acknowledge, keeping my voice neutral. "But we didn't reconnect until Blake Financial."

"How fortunate," she repeats, her smile sharpening. "You know, I've seen many promising careers derailed by office romances.” Christine swirls the last of her tea with the tiny silver spoon, watching me with a vaguely amused expression. “You remind me a little of Amanda Chen.”

I blink. “The woman you mentioned the other day?”

“Mm-hmm, the very same. You should remember her,” she says lightly, then lifts her eyes to meet mine. “She really was just brilliant, Georgetown Law Review, clerked for Vitner.”

Right. The cautionary tale she delivered outside Jackson’s office—sharp edges wrapped in perfume and concern.

“I remember,” I say, keeping my tone neutral with a slight smile.

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