Page 6 of Worth the Wait

She replies quickly.

Mom: More stable than last month, meds adjusted. Tell Miguel he’s keeping you too busy to call.

I smile at her joke but the guilt tugs at my chest. I send a smiley face, then Venmo her a hundred bucks for his copay. It’s not much, but it helps. I exhale slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little. I won’t say it out loud, but getting this promotion? It’s not just for me. It’s for them.

I spend the next three hours methodically preparing. I review my recent cases, noting specific wins and innovative approaches. Then I spend time mentally cataloging my contributions to the firm, crafting the perfect blend of confidence and collegiality to impress whoever this newcomer might be.

By the time I head to Miguel's office, I'm as prepared as humanly possible. This is just another negotiation, and I never enter those without knowing exactly what I want and how to get it.

Walking through the office to head to my meeting with Miguel, I hear a laugh that stops me in my tracks. Deep, warm, with that distinctive cadence I'd know anywhere. My heart pounds as I follow the sound toward the main conference room.

Through the glass walls, I see Miguel giving an office tour to a tall man whose back is turned to me. Something about his posture—broad shoulders, slight weight on his left foot—tugs at my subconscious before conscious recognition kicks in.

The world tilts sideways.

A high-pitched ringing floods my ears as he turns slightly to examine something on the wall. The oxygen seems to vanish from the hallway. My body recognizes him before my mind processes the information—goosebumps erupting across my skin, heart seizing mid-beat before thundering into a gallop.

Jackson Hayes. Here. In my firm.

My portfolio slips from suddenly nerveless fingers, papers scattering across the polished floor. I don't notice. Can't move to retrieve them. My legs have transformed to marble, heavy and immobile. The floor beneath me seems to undulate, reality warping around this impossible apparition from my past.

My mouth goes desert-dry, tongue sticking to the roof as I try to swallow. The taste of copper floods my mouth—I've bitten my cheek without realizing it. The sharp pain is the only thinganchoring me to reality as memories cascade through my mind with such force I nearly gasp aloud.

Jackson laughing in the daisy field. Jackson's fingers tangled in my hair. Jackson's voice, rough with emotion: "Wait for me."

A rush of heat floods my face, followed immediately by an arctic chill that leaves me shivering in the temperature-controlled hallway. My vision tunnels, periphery darkening until Jackson is the only clear point in a suddenly blurry world.

I force myself to breathe—one shallow inhalation that doesn't provide nearly enough oxygen. My hand flies to my neck, fingers instinctively finding the small daisy pendant hidden beneath my blouse. The metal burns against my skin like an accusation.

When I finally manage to move, it's to duck into a nearby empty office after picking up my files, legs finally giving way as I collapse into someone else's chair, the room spinning around me.

"Impossible," I whisper to the empty air, but the violent trembling of my hands betrays the truth my mind refuses to accept.

It can't be coincidence. There’s no way the small-town boy who broke my heart and then ended up going to a different college and law school than me after our plans fell through, somehow ended up at my exact firm.

Through the cracked door of the empty office, I watch Miguel lead him down the hallway, pointing out different departments. Jackson nods at appropriate intervals, the perfect picture of professional attentiveness. He’s no longer that tall, awkwardly thin boy who almost hides behind his own shadow. He’s almost unrecognizable now, but I know those shoulders, that gait, the way his head tilts slightly when he's absorbing new information. Eight years haven't erased my body's cellular memory of him.

He looks good. Devastatingly good, if I'm being honest with myself. The gangly boy I'd loved has matured into a man whowears his tailored suit like he was born in it. Success suits him—there's a quiet confidence in his posture that makes something twist painfully in my chest.

Did he flourish after I left? Was I holding him back with my own dreams?

The question sends an uncomfortable mix of emotions through me—pride and regret and something dangerously close to longing.

I watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from view. My pulse gradually slows from its panicked gallop, reason reasserting itself over the emotional ambush of seeing him again.

This is a professional situation, and I will handle it professionally. Jackson Hayes may have once known every secret corner of my heart, but that was a lifetime ago. We're different people now—accomplished attorneys, professionals. Whatever we once were to each other has no place in these hallways of power.

My fingers tighten around the files I'm carrying, knuckles white with pressure. I make the decision in an instant, turning on my heel and heading back to my office with quick, measured steps.

I'll gather myself and wait a few moments so that I can properly prepare my game face when I inevitably come face-to-face with him in a few moments. Because if there's one thing Tarryn Wells never does, it's enter a battle unprepared.

Chapter 2

Jackson

Morning light filters through half-unpacked boxes in my Chicago apartment, casting geometric shadows across the hardwood floors. I run my fingers along the spine of my law school diploma, still nestled in its protective cardboard. The sensation triggers a cascade of memories—the acrid scent of sawdust mingling with my father's Old Spice aftershave in the cramped construction office where I spent two years that should have been spent at college.

Two years that changed everything.

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