Page 38 of Worth the Wait

Her skin is soft against mine, her pulse visible at her wrist. Time stretches between us, laden with eight years of unspoken words and unfulfilled desire. I carefully turn my hand, allowing my fingers to trace the delicate veins at her wrist, feeling her pulse jump at my touch.

"Jackson," she whispers, my name a question and warning combined.

Before I can respond, a knock at the door breaks the moment. We spring apart as the night receptionist enters with a bag from the Thai place down the street.

"Food delivery for you two," she says, smiling knowingly as she sets it on the table. "You've been at it for hours. Thought you might need sustenance."

"Thank you, Patrice," Tarryn says, her voice slightly higher than normal. "That was thoughtful."

"No problem. You two make such a good team—always burning the midnight oil together." She winks before heading out. "Don't work too hard."

The door closes behind her, leaving us in charged silence. Tarryn's face has flushed a deeper shade of pink, her embarrassment palpable.

"Why does that bother you so much?" I ask quietly.

"What?" She busies herself with unpacking the food, avoiding my gaze.

"People acknowledging that we work well together or are friends."

Her movements still. "You know why."

"Actually, I don't," I press, standing to move around the table. "Is it my presence that bothers you or the fact that you still feel something for me?"

She looks up sharply. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" I stop beside her chair, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. "You texted me last night, Tarryn. You admitted you still feel something. What exactly are we doing here?"

"Working," she insists, but the slight tremor in her voice betrays her.

"That's not all we're doing, and you know it." I take a calculated risk, playing the card I've been holding close. "You've been keeping tabs on me for years—through mutual friends, social media. You secretly called my mother on my birthday last year."

Her eyes widen in shock. "How did you?—"

"Mom told me," I say simply.

“Hey, she was sworn to secrecy!”

"She was surprised to hear from you after all this time. Said you asked about my health, my job. Whether I was seeing anyone."

She looks away, her profile outlined in the soft glow of the desk lamp. "I was just being polite."

"Bullshit." The word comes out harsher than intended, but I'm tired of this dance. "You've spent eight years pretending I don't exist, then you call my mother to check on me? What game are you playing, Tarryn?"

"It's not a game!" She stands abruptly, putting us chest to chest. "Do you think this is easy for me? Having you show up here, working with you every day, trying to pretend I don't notice the way you look at me? That I don't remember exactly how your hands feel on my skin?"

The raw honesty in her outburst stuns us both into momentary silence. She steps back, running trembling fingers through her hair.

"I built a career being twice as thorough, twice as prepared as everyone else," she continues, quieter now. "Do you know why?"

I shake my head, giving her space to continue.

"My first year in law school, I developed a comprehensive analysis for a major project. The senior classmate—a man, of course—presented it as his own work."

Anger flares in my chest at the thought of someone taking advantage of her. "What happened?"

"When I tried to address it, he claimed I was confused—that we'd merely discussed some concepts, but the work was his." Her laugh holds no humor. "No one believed me. I was just an ambitious young woman trying to get ahead by any means necessary."

She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly looking smaller. "I tried to take it further, but my professor was untouchable and almost got me kicked out. I nearly lost my career before it started. The only reason I recovered is because I kept detailed documentation of my work. Even then, it was my word against his, and guess whose carried more weight?"

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