Page 31 of Worth the Wait

Christine appears, immaculate as always in a tailored charcoal suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent.

"The Westfield team is gathering in Conference Room A," she says, her gaze sweeping over my desk with calculated precision. "Miguel wants to review the subsidiary liability framework before the client call."

"I'll be right there," I reply, gathering my materials.

Her eyes linger on my neck, where my fingers still absently play with the daisy pendant. Something flickers across her expression but before I can decipher it, she turns and leaves. I push the thoughts aside, chalking it up to my paranoia, and make my way to the elevator.

When the doors slide open with a soft ping, they reveal Jackson already inside, alone. For a heartbeat, I consider waiting for the next car. Eight floors is a long time to be trapped in a metal box with a man whose letter I've been obsessing over all morning. A man I was about to ask up to my apartment last night. But Christine is waiting, and appearing unprofessional isn't an option.

I step inside, positioning myself at the opposite wall. The doors close with quiet finality, sealing us in together.

"Good morning," Jackson says, his voice carrying that slight morning roughness that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.

"Morning," I manage, staring determinedly at the floor numbers as they light up in sequence.

The air between us vibrates with unspoken words. I can feel his gaze on me and it’s like a tangible weight against my skin. When I finally risk a glance, the intensity in his eyes steals my breath—like he's trying to see through my carefully constructed walls straight to the woman beneath.

"You look tired," he observes quietly.

I exhale a short laugh. "Thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear."

"That's not—" he starts, then sighs. "I meant you seem like you didn't sleep well."

He's right. I spent half the night rereading his letter, imagining him in that hospital waiting room, desperate and alone because I was too stubborn, too afraid to answer his calls.

"I'm fine," I lie, clutching my portfolio tighter against my chest.

The elevator stops at the nineteenth floor, the doors opening to reveal Christine who somehow finds a way to worm her way into any and every interaction between Jackson and me. Her eyebrows arch slightly as she takes in our positions—me pressed against one wall, Jackson against the other, tension thick enough to slice with a letter opener.

"Well, isn't this cozy," she murmurs as she steps inside, positioning herself strategically between us. “I just had to grab a few important documents for this meeting that Miguel forgot.” She flips her hair over her shoulder, her obsession with being his favorite a little too on the nose.

The already confined space suddenly feels claustrophobic. Christine's expensive perfume fills the air, cloyingly sweet.

We stand in awkward silence as the elevator continues its ascent. Christine checks her watch, then her phone. But I don'tmiss how her gaze flickers between us, cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle shift.

Just as the tension becomes unbearable, I feel it—the whisper-soft brush of knuckles against the small of my back. Jackson has moved, positioning himself just close enough that his hand can graze the silk of my blouse, unseen by Christine.

The contact, though barely there, sends heat spiraling through me. His fingers linger longer than professionally appropriate, tracing a small, deliberate circle that causes my breath to hitch. My cheeks flush traitorously, and I shift my weight, unsure whether I'm trying to move closer to or farther from his touch.

Christine's head turns, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "Warm in here, isn't it?" she observes, her tone deceptively casual as she takes in my flushed cheeks.

"The building management is working on the air-conditioning system," Jackson replies smoothly, his hand dropping away, leaving a burning imprint on my skin through the thin fabric.

The knowing look in Christine's eyes tells me she's not convinced.

"I'm sure they'll resolve it quickly," she says, lips curving into something adjacent to a smile. "We wouldn't want anyone to become… uncomfortable."

When the elevator finally reaches our floor, I practically bolt from the confined space, desperate for air that isn't saturated with Jackson's presence or Christine's calculated observation.

Later that afternoon,I make my way to Christine's office, a stack of documents tucked under my arm. Miguel has requestedher review of our progress so far before our next client meeting, and I've drawn the short straw of delivery duty.

I knock lightly on her open door, but there's no response. Her laptop is open on the desk, screen still active, suggesting she's stepped away momentarily. I hesitate, then step inside, planning to leave the documents in her inbox.

As I round her desk, my hip bumps against a partially open drawer, causing it to slide farther out. I move to close it, but a flash of color catches my eye—a photograph, partially concealed beneath a stack of legal pads.

I should walk away. I should absolutely not invade my senior colleague's privacy by looking at personal items in her desk. But something about the glimpse of genuine joy in that split-second view pulls at me.

Glancing over my shoulder to ensure I'm still alone, I carefully shift the legal pads aside. The photograph shows a younger Christine—maybe five or six years ago—with her arms wrapped around a handsome man in an expensive suit. They're standing in what appears to be a law firm lobby, a sign reading Miller & Walsh visible in the background. But it's Christine's expression that stops me cold.

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