Page 27 of Worth the Wait

"Westfield," I correct automatically. "And it's nothing that can't wait."

After we hang up, I sit motionless on my couch. Within minutes, my phone buzzes with a text from my mom.

Mom: He's worse than he's letting on. The new medication is expensive. Insurance only covers sixty percent. I don't want you to worry, but I thought you should know.

The message lands like a physical blow. Suddenly, the junior counsel position isn't just about professional ambition anymore—it's about the substantial salary increase that would allow me to help with my father's medical expenses without him having to swallow his pride.

I stare at my phone, at the text thread with Jackson still open beneath my mother's message. My professional advancement now carries personal stakes for my father's health care. The complication with Jackson could jeopardize everything—my career trajectory, my ability to help my family, my carefully constructed world.

I'm facing an impossible triangle: my career ambitions, my growing feelings for Jackson, and my family responsibilities. There seems to be no path forward that doesn't require sacrificing something essential.

The moonlight castsshadows across my living room as I sit in the darkness, mind racing with impossible choices. My father needs me to succeed professionally. Christine's warnings about office relationships echo in my head. Yet Jackson's texts burn on my phone screen, a temptation I can't seem to resist.

The sudden illumination of my phone cuts through the darkness—one final message from Jackson.

Jackson: Sweet dreams, Tarryn. I'll see you tomorrow.

The simple text carries a current of tender promise that makes my chest ache. There's nothing overtly romantic in his words, yet I feel the weight of everything unspoken behind them.

I place my phone on the nightstand, alongside Jackson's letter that I can't bring myself to put away. For the first time in years, I don't try to run from the complicated emotions it evokes. Instead, I let them wash over me, acknowledging their presence without fighting against the current.

Something has shifted inside me tonight—not resolution, but the first tentative steps toward acceptance. Some connections refuse to be denied, no matter how professionally inconvenient they might be. Some people leave an imprint that time and distance can't erase.

As I finally drift toward sleep, Jackson's words echo in my mind:I've waited eight years. I can wait a little longer.

The question that follows me into dreams is whether I'm willing to wait at all—or if I'm finally ready to stop running.

Chapter 8

Jackson

Inotice it immediately when I step into the office Monday morning—the slight shadows beneath Tarryn's eyes, the way her shoulders hunch forward just a fraction more than usual as she reviews the Westfield documents. She's pushing herself too hard, drinking God knows how many cups of coffee before noon, her hair pulled back in a tighter ponytail than normal, as if she's physically trying to hold herself together.

Christine hovers nearby, pretending to review files at the adjacent conference table while her eyes periodically flick between Tarryn and me. The woman's constant surveillance is becoming less subtle by the day.

She needs to get a fucking life.

"You look like you could use a break," I say casually, stopping by Tarryn's desk with the market analysis she requested.

She doesn't even look up. "I'm fine."

"That wasn't a question about your well-being. It was an observation about the fact that you've been here since six this morning."

This gets her attention. She glances up, eyes narrowing. "Have you been monitoring my arrival times?"

"The security guard mentioned it when I came in. He was impressed."

"Well, some of us have to work harder to prove our worth around here," she mutters, returning to her document.

I lean a hip against her desk, deliberately casual. "You have nothing to prove, Tarryn. Your work speaks for itself."

Something flickers in her expression, then her eyes soften and a small smile pulls at her lips. A second later, Christine clears her throat from across the room, and Tarryn's walls instantly rebuild.

"Was there something else you needed?" she asks, all business again.

"Just this." I slide the analysis across her desk, our fingers brushing momentarily. The brief contact sends electricity arcing up my arm, and I notice the slight catch in her breath. "Let me know if you need anything else." I throw her a wink just for good measure, not giving a fuck if Christine sees it.

Christine watches our exchange with predatory focus, her lips pursed in calculation. But the second she realizes I’m looking at her, she flashes me a huge grin before pretending to turn her attention back to the task in front of her.

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