Page 46 of Worth the Wait

I accept my key card with a polite nod, hyperaware of Tarryn beside me.

"You'll be in adjacent rooms 212 and 214," he continues, gesturing toward the hallway. "They feature a connecting door, which we can leave locked if you prefer."

Tarryn's sharp intake of breath is audible only to me. Adjacent rooms. A connecting door. The possibilities unfold in my mind like a detailed fantasy.

"The connecting door won't be necessary," Tarryn says quickly, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her hands as she accepts her key. "We're colleagues."

"Of course." The manager nods. "I've made a note to ensure it remains locked."

"I apologize for the inconvenience with the room locations," he adds, checking his tablet. "We had to place you on the same floor due to the conference occupying most of the west wing."

"It's no problem," I assure him, though the idea of Tarryn sleeping just a locked door away from me feels like the universe's idea of exquisite torture.

As we turn toward the elevator, Christine appears at the front desk, her timing so perfect it can only be deliberate. "Checking in?" she asks, her voice carrying just the right note of casual interest.

"Just finished," Tarryn replies, maintaining professional composure despite the color lingering in her cheeks. "You're across the hall, I believe."

Christine's smile sharpens. "Room 213. How perfect. We can coordinate before sessions."

The elevator ride to the second floor passes in excruciating silence, the three of us standing at carefully measured distances like bombs that might detonate with the slightest contact. When the doors open, Christine pauses, gesturing for us to exit first.

"After you," she says, her eyes never leaving our faces. "I'm sure you're both eager to settle in."

The weight of her insinuation hangs in the air as we move down the hallway. When we reach our doors, Tarryn fumbles slightly with her key card, her usual grace momentarily absent.

"See you both at the welcome reception," Christine calls, disappearing into her room with one last penetrating glance.

Once she's gone, Tarryn turns to me, her expression a complicated mixture of humor and apprehension. "She knows," she whispers, voice barely audible in the quiet hallway.

"She suspects," I correct, keeping my distance despite every cell in my body urging me closer. "But she doesn't have proof. Besides.” I wriggle my eyebrows at her. “It makes it all that much more exciting knowing it’s forbidden.” I take my time, really enunciating the last word as I drag my eyes over her. “The question is, Tarryn, are you willing to break the rules a little?”

The question hangs between us: how far is she willing to go?

“Don’t,” she says tersely, glancing cautiously over her shoulder.

"I'll see you at the team building session," I say with a chuckle, realizing just how fun this retreat might actually be.

She nods, disappointment flashing across her features before professional composure reclaims them. "One hour in the main lodge."

As I enter my room and the door closes behind me, I lean against it, releasing a breath I feel like I've been holding since we left Chicago. Adjacent rooms. A connecting door. Christine watching our every move.

This weekend just became exponentially more complicated. And a lot more fucking exciting.

"The goal,"explains the overly enthusiastic facilitator, "is to navigate the obstacle course while verbally guiding your blindfolded partner through the challenges."

I suppress a groan, watching as teams are paired off for the resort's idea of "team building." When Tarryn is assigned as my partner, I feel Christine's eyes on us immediately.

"I'll wear the blindfold," Tarryn volunteers.

The obstacle course isn't particularly complex—foam shapes to navigate around, small platforms to step over, a zigzag path to follow—but it requires precise communication and absolute trust. As Tarryn dons the blindfold, her fingers brushing mine during the handoff, electricity sparks between us.

"Ready?" I ask, my voice pitched low, just at her ear.

She nods, squaring her shoulders beneath her casual blouse. "Lead the way, Hayes."

"Three steps forward," I instruct, watching her confident movement. "Then slight turn to your right—that's it. Perfect."

She follows my directions with remarkable precision, each movement graceful despite her temporary blindness. We develop a rhythm almost instantly, her body responding to my voice.

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