Page 43 of Worth the Wait

"Some pleasures are worth it," he counters, still watching me through the mirror rather than turning to face me directly, as if the slight remove makes the intensity bearable.

The air feels charged, molecules practically vibrating between us. I'm acutely aware of every inch of my body—the way my silk blouse brushes against sensitized skin, how my pulse throbs visibly at my throat, the subtle clench of muscle low in my belly as heat pools between my thighs. Every breath draws his scent deeper into my lungs, making my head swim with desire.

The doors slide open on the lobby level, breaking the spell. A group of associates waits to enter, their chatter creating a wall of professional reality that crashes over me like ice water. Jackson steps out without another word, our conversation dangerously unfinished as the doors close between us, his eyes holding mine until the last possible second.

I lean back against the elevator wall, heart hammering against my ribs, the ghost of what almost happened lingeringin the small space like a physical presence. The subtle traces of his cologne remain, taunting me. As the elevator continues its descent to the parking level, all I can think about is the way he looked at me—like I'm essential, necessary, something he can't live without.

The thought is terrifying. And intoxicating.

"Another cappuccino?"Zoe offers, already signaling the waiter before I can respond. "You look like you need the caffeine boost."

I smile weakly, grateful for the distraction of our standing Thursday evening decaf coffee date. The small café across from Blake Financial offers welcome respite from the heightened tension of the office, though my thoughts refuse to stray far from Jackson and our unfinished elevator conversation.

"Thanks," I say, pushing my empty cup aside. "It's been a long week."

"Mmm, I bet." Zoe's perfectly arched eyebrow communicates volumes. "A little birdie told me you're all heading to Lake Geneva next weekend. Cozy cabins, crackling fireplaces, starlit evenings by the lake…"

I roll my eyes, though heat rises to my cheeks unbidden. "It's a business retreat, not a romantic getaway."

"Business with benefits, maybe?" She leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "The chemistry between you and Hayes is practically radioactive. How haven't you melted down the office yet?"

"There's nothing between us," I insist automatically, the lie bitter on my tongue.

Zoe's expression turns knowing, almost pitying. "Honey, I've seen nuclear reactors with less tension. You two practically set the conference room on fire during the Westfield presentation."

The fresh cappuccinos arrive, giving me momentary reprieve from her penetrating gaze. I focus intently on stirring in a packet of sugar, avoiding the conversation as long as possible.

"Even if there was… something," I finally concede, choosing my words carefully, "it would be professional suicide to act on it. Office relationships never end well, especially for women."

"True," Zoe acknowledges, sipping her drink thoughtfully. "Though I suppose it depends on the office. And the woman." She pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. "Speaking of office relationships with unpleasant endings—you know Christine was engaged to a guy at Miller & Walsh, right? David Richards? Total power couple until suddenly she transferred here and he made partner there."

I nearly choke on my cappuccino, the name triggering an immediate connection to the photograph I'd glimpsed in Christine's drawer—the one showing her looking genuinely happy with an attractive man in a law firm setting.

"David Richards?" I repeat, pieces clicking into place with disturbing clarity. "What happened?"

Zoe leans closer, clearly enjoying having information I don't. "Office gossip says they got caught in a compromising position by one of the senior partners. The firm kept him—fast-tracked him to partnership, actually—while Christine was quietly encouraged to seek opportunities elsewhere."

The revelation casts Christine's warnings about office relationships in an entirely new light. Not just competitive strategy, but personal trauma driving her interventions.

"That explains a lot," I murmur, thinking of Christine's persistent undermining, her warnings about keepingprofessional boundaries, her emphasis that women always suffer more consequences than men in workplace relationships.

"It was years ago," Zoe continues, "but apparently she's never really gotten over it. Word is she's made it her mission to prevent other female attorneys from making the same 'mistake.'" She makes air quotes around the final word, her expression darkening slightly.

"As if falling in love is a mistake," I say without thinking.

Zoe's eyes widen, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Love, huh? Is that what's happening with you and Hayes?"

"That's not— I didn't mean—" I stammer, horrified by my unconscious word choice. "It was a general statement."

"Mm-hmm," Zoe hums, clearly unconvinced. "Well, general statement or not, just be careful with Christine. She destroyed my friend Amanda's career with well-placed rumors and 'concerned mentorship.' She's not just competitive—she's vindictive."

The warning settles heavily in my chest, adding another layer of complication to an already impossible situation. As we finish our coffee and head back toward the office, my mind whirls with implications. Christine's behavior isn't merely professional jealousy—it's personal crusade born of genuine trauma.

Understanding her motives doesn't make her less dangerous, but it transforms her from cartoon villain to something more nuanced, more human. And somehow, that makes the threat she poses even more significant.

The evening air carries a hint of spring as I walk back to my car. But just as I round the corner toward my spot, movement across the street catches my attention. Through the windows of Marcello's—the upscale Italian restaurant favored by Blake Financial partners—I spot Christine and Miguel seated at a corner table, their expressions serious in the warm lighting.

I slow my pace, curiosity overriding my desire to escape to the sanctuary of my apartment. Christine leans forward, gesturing emphatically. Miguel's face is troubled, his normal confident posture replaced by something more hesitant as he shakes his head.

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