Page 44 of Worth the Wait

Whatever she's saying, he doesn't seem convinced—but he's listening. The observation sends a chill down my spine despite the mild evening. Christine is making her move, positioning herself with the decision-makers, likely undermining Jackson and me in the process.

I force myself to continue walking, unlocking my car with trembling fingers. This is getting complicated fast—Christine's personal vendetta, the Lake Geneva retreat, the undeniable pull between Jackson and me that threatens everything I've worked for. My carefully constructed professional life suddenly feels like a house of cards, vulnerable to the slightest breeze.

The drive home passes in a blur of scattered thoughts and tangled emotions. By the time I close my apartment door behind me, I'm exhausted in a way that transcends physical fatigue. I kick off my heels, dropping my bag by the door in uncharacteristic disregard for order, and head straight for the wine rack.

The cabernet is rich and smooth, warming me from the inside as I curl up on my sofa. I should review the Lake Geneva agenda, should prepare counter-strategies for whatever Christine is planning, should do anything other than what I'm considering.

My phone sits on the coffee table, innocent and tempting. It's nearly midnight—far too late for a professional call, inappropriate for anything else. Yet my fingers itch to dial his number, to hear his voice, to continue the conversation the elevator doors cut short.

"This is insane," I mutter to myself, taking another sip of wine. "You are not a lovesick teenager. You are a professional adult woman who makes rational decisions."

But rationality feels distant, overshadowed by the memory of his mouth on mine, his hand on my thigh, the way he looks at me when he thinks I don't notice—like I contain universes he's desperate to explore.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and dial.

He answers on the third ring, his voice deep and slightly rough, as if I've woken him. "Tarryn?"

Just my name in that tone sends heat spiraling through me. "Hi. I'm sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't." The rustle of fabric suggests he's shifting position, and my mind unhelpfully conjures an image of him in bed, sheets tangled around his waist. "Everything okay?"

"Yes. No." I laugh softly, the sound edged with nervous energy. "I don't know. I just… wanted to hear your voice."

The admission costs me something—another brick removed from the wall I've built between us—but the relief of honesty outweighs the fear.

Silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but weighted. "I've been thinking about this morning," I continue when he doesn't immediately respond. "In the elevator."

His breath catches audibly. "What about it?"

I sink onto my couch, cradling the phone against my ear like it's a lifeline. "I can't stop thinking about what would have happened if the elevator hadn't stopped. If other people hadn't been waiting. If we'd had just five more minutes alone."

"Tarryn," he says, my name emerging as both warning and caress. "This isn't a conversation we should have over the phone at midnight."

"I know." I close my eyes, gathering courage. "That's why I'm asking if you want to meet tomorrow night. Not at the office.Not at a public diner. Somewhere we can talk without worrying about who might be watching."

The sharp intake of breath tells me he understands exactly what I'm suggesting—a deliberate step toward exploring what's growing between us, away from Christine's calculating gaze.

"Are you sure?" he asks, voice dropping to that register that makes heat pool between my thighs. "Because if we do this—if we cross that line—there's no going back to pretending."

"I don't want to pretend anymore," I confess, the words emerging more vulnerable than I intended. "I'm tired of fighting this. Fighting us."

His groan is nearly silent but resonates through me like a physical touch. "After the trip."

I want to protest but I think I know what he’s doing, giving me time to think it through before jumping back into something that might end up repeating history.

For the first time since seeing Jackson in that conference room, I've made a deliberate choice to move toward him rather than away. The realization is terrifying, exhilarating, and strangely liberating—like stepping off a cliff only to discover I might actually know how to fly.

Christine was right about one thing: office relationships are dangerous, complicated, potentially devastating to carefully constructed careers. But as I slide beneath my covers, I acknowledge what has been true since the moment I recognized Jackson across that conference room.

Whatever exists between us refuses to be denied any longer.

Chapter 12

Jackson

The perfectly pressed shirt slips from my fingers, landing in a crumpled heap atop my otherwise meticulously packed suitcase. I've folded it three times already, each attempt more distracted than the last. Concentration eludes me, my thoughts circling relentlessly back to Tarryn's midnight confession.

I can't stop thinking about what would have happened if the elevator hadn't stopped.

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