Page 36 of Worth the Wait

Jackson: Me too, beautiful. More than you know.

I set my phone down, drawing my knees to my chest as I gaze out my window at the Chicago skyline.

For eight years, I've been playing it safe. Protecting myself from hurt, from vulnerability, from the messy, complicated business of truly connecting with another person. I've been so focused on becoming the strong, independent woman I thought I needed to be that I forgot the strength it takes to open myself to possibility, to potential pain, to love.

Tomorrow, I'll see Jackson in the hallways of Blake Financial. We'll discuss the Westfield contract, exchange professional pleasantries, pretend that we haven't just cracked open the door to something that terrifies and thrills us both.

But tonight, alone in my apartment with the ghost of his words illuminating my phone screen, I allow myself to consider a radical possibility: that the greatest act of courage isn't walking away to protect myself but taking a chance on the one person who has always seen me clearly, even when I couldn't see myself.

My phone chimes with one last message.

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

Chapter 10

Jackson

My lungs burn as I push through mile five, feet pounding the lakefront path in rhythm with my racing thoughts. The early morning sun glints off Lake Michigan, casting diamond-bright reflections that would normally calm me. Not today. Not after last night's texts.

I still feel it too. And that terrifies me more than anything.

Tarryn's words have replayed in my mind since two a.m. when I finally gave up on sleep. I increase my pace, as if I could somehow outrun the hope spreading through my chest.

Eight years. Eight years of convincing myself I was over her. Eight years of first dates that never led to seconds because they weren't her. Eight years of building a life without the one person who made me feel truly seen.

And now she's back, admitting she still feels something for me, and I'm terrified of believing it.

My phone vibrates against my arm. I slow to check it, half expecting—hoping—it's her. Instead, Miguel's name flashes across the screen.

"Hayes," I answer, trying to mask my labored breathing.

"I need you and Wells in my office at nine. I'm restructuring the Westfield approach."

A pit forms in my stomach. "Restructuring how?"

"Nine o'clock, Hayes."

The line goes dead, leaving me standing on the path, sweat cooling on my skin as joggers stream past. Is he splitting us up? Has Christine been whispering in his ear? Or worse—did Tarryn request the change after our text exchange?

I turn back toward my apartment, the remaining miles forgotten. Whatever Miguel has planned, I need to be prepared. But how do you prepare for facing the woman who's haunted your dreams for eight years—the woman who just admitted she's as terrified of this connection as you are?

The elevator rideto Miguel's office is excruciating. Tarryn stands beside me, her perfume already going straight to my head. She hasn't looked at me once since we stepped inside, her attention fixed on her portfolio as if it contains the secrets of the universe.

"About last night," I begin, my voice lower than intended.

"Not now," she whispers urgently, eyes darting to the security camera in the corner.

Just those two words in that breathy tone send a jolt of electricity straight to my cock. I shift my stance, grateful for my suit jacket's concealing length.

Jesus fucking Christ, man, you have got to jerk off more or get a grip.

"Later, then," I concede, just as the doors slide open.

Miguel gestures us into his office without looking up from the documents spread across his desk. Christine sits in one of the visitor chairs, her expression carefully neutral—though I don'tmiss the calculating assessment in her eyes as they track our entrance.

"Sit," Miguel commands, finally glancing up.

We take the remaining chairs, positioned close enough that Tarryn's knee brushes mine as she crosses her legs. The brief contact sends another surge of heat through me. I resist the urge to shift away—or worse, to move closer.

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