Page 58 of Worth the Wait

She studies me, eyes narrowing like she senses more beneath the surface.

She's always seen through me quicker than anyone else.

"And I needed to stop looking for you in everyone I met.”

That makes her go still. Not flinching. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that leaves me nervous.

"Did it work?" she asks.

"For a while." I let the truth land. "But the second I saw you again”—I shake my head and smile—“it was like someone flipped all the switches back on.”

She doesn’t speak. Just watches me, lips parted slightly, like she’s not sure how to breathe around the weight of what I’ve just given her.

"Your turn," I say, voice quieter now. "Tell me something real.”

She traces the rim of her glass. For a second, I think she might dodge the question.

"I almost got married.”

Everything inside me pulls taut but I don't let it show.

"What happened?”

Her voice flattens, detached like she’s telling me someone else's story. "He was perfect. On paper. Harvard Law, junior partner, rich family, all of it. He proposed with a three-carat diamond in front of a hundred people.”

“And?”

"I said yes." Her eyes finally meet mine. "Then I spent months convincing myself that love would come later. That intimacy was a learned thing. I even went to therapy thinking I was the problem.”

I lean in. “But?"

Her voice dips low. Vulnerable. Raw. "But he wasn’t you. And I always knew that.”

The air between us tightens like a rubber band pulled taut. I reach across the table and take her hand, not to comfort her, not to make a move, but to anchor us to this moment that feels impossibly real.

“Tarryn.”

She looks at me like she wants to believe this could still be something. That maybe fate has finally brought us back together to fix that cruel twist of timing that I thought had wrecked us completely.

"Hayes? Jackson Hayes? I'll be damned!”

I look up, and just like that, the bubble bursts. Because Robert Callahan, senior counsel for Netcom Industries and one of Westfield's most important clients, is approaching our table. I release Tarryn’s hand, but not fast enough. Callahan’s eyes sparkle with mischief. His presence here—in this deliberately chosen, out-of-the-way location—feels like cosmic mockery of our attempt at privacy.

"Robert." I rise, handshake automatic while my mind races through implications. "What brings you here?"

"Monthly poker game in the back room." His attention shifts to Tarryn, curiosity evident in his expression. "And who is this lovely companion?"

Professional necessity overrides personal desire. "This is Tarryn Wells, one of Blake Financial's finest attorneys. We're discussing the Westfield contract revisions."

Understanding dawns in Robert's eyes, followed by something knowing that makes my jaw tighten. "Over craft cocktails in Chicago's most romantic speakeasy?” He winks at me knowingly. “That's dedication to client service."

Robert's amusement is poorly concealed. "Well, I won't keep you from your… professional discussions. Oh!" He snaps his fingers as if suddenly remembering something. "I'm hosting theBulls game in my box next Friday. You should both come—perfect opportunity for informal relationship building."

When he's gone, Tarryn exhales slowly, tension vibrating through her body. "So much for keeping this away from professional circles."

"He doesn't know anything," I assure her, though the words ring hollow even to my ears. "We're colleagues having drinks. It happens every day."

"In hidden speakeasies where the lighting makes everyone look like they're having an affair?" She shakes her head, the movement sending dark waves cascading over her shoulder in a way that makes my fingers itch to tangle through them. "We're not fooling anyone, least of all ourselves."

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