Page 30 of Worth the Wait

"The one and only."

"Jesus Christ." He exhales sharply. "Wait, you said almost. What stopped you?"

I take another sip of whiskey, considering the question. "Self-preservation, maybe. Professional ethics, definitely."

"Since when have ethics ever stopped you from getting what you want?" There's a smile in his voice that makes me grimace.

"Since what I want could potentially derail both our careers."

Marcus is quiet for a moment, then asks more seriously, "Are you sure working with her is a good idea? Remember how it was after she ended things? You didn't get out of bed for three days, man."

The memory makes me wince. Those dark days after our final conversation, when the loss of her felt like a physical amputation—a vital part of myself suddenly, irrevocably gone.

"It's not like I have much choice now," I say, staring into my whiskey. "We're both at Blake Financial, both assigned to the Westfield account."

"There are other firms in Chicago," Marcus points out.

"It's not that simple."

"Because you still have feelings for her," he concludes, not a question but a statement of fact.

I don't answer immediately, the truth too raw to voice aloud. Finally, I sigh. "It's complicated."

"It always is with you two." He yawns. "Look, just be careful. Chemistry is one thing, but you and Tarryn were always like gasoline and matches. Great when it works, catastrophic when it doesn't."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"That's what friends are for—brutal honesty at two in the morning." His tone softens. "Seriously, though, whatever you decide, I've got your back."

After we hang up, I remain on the couch, whiskey forgotten as I replay the evening in my mind. The almost-physical pull I felt toward her in the cab. The way her eyes darkened when I told her why coming upstairs was a bad idea. The visible pulse at the base of her throat that I wanted desperately to taste.

Eight years, and she still affects me like no one else ever has. Eight years, and I still know exactly how she'd feel beneath me, around me, against me. Eight years, and the mere thought of her creates a fantasy in my head—how she'd moan if I pinned her wrists above her head, how she'd arch when I took her nipple between my teeth, how she'd clench around my fingers when I finally touched her where she needed it most.

My cock throbs painfully against my zipper at the mental images. I should take a cold shower, try to sleep, put professional distance between us like any rational adult would do.

Instead, I find myself remembering the exact shade of her flushed cheeks under the building lights, wondering if she's lying awake too, thinking of everything we didn't do tonight.

Chapter 9

Tarryn

The morning light slants through my blinds, casting golden stripes across my desk as I stare at Jackson's letter for the tenth time since arriving at the office. My fingertips trace the creases worn into the paper from years of being folded and unfolded—by him, not me. Each word feels like a knife twisting in my chest.

Dad's in the ICU. They're not sure if he'll make it through the night.

I close my eyes, the guilt washing over me in relentless waves. Eight years ago, I blocked his number during our worst fight, convinced I was protecting myself from more heartache. I never imagined he was reaching for me across the distance, desperate for comfort while his world collapsed.

I need your voice, Tar. I need your steady calm when everything's falling apart.

My throat tightens around unshed tears. Nobody knew me like he did. Just Jackson, who saw the softness beneath my prickly exterior, who knew exactly which pieces of me were most vulnerable.

I touch the small gold daisy pendant that nestles in the hollow of my neck. I've worn it every day since he gave it to meon our first anniversary. Through college, through law school, through countless dates with men whose names I can barely remember now. I told myself it was just a piece of jewelry that happened to match everything.

The lie seems pathetic in retrospect.

A knock at my door forces me to quickly fold the letter, tucking it into my desk drawer beneath a stack of legal briefs.

"Come in," I call, smoothing my expression into professional neutrality.

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