Page 63 of Worth the Wait

Something shifts in her expression, vulnerability giving way to resolution. "This is more than an arrangement to me too," she admits quietly. "It has been from the start, even if I tried to pretend otherwise."

"So what now?" she asks.

I brush my lips against hers, a gentle affirmation rather than renewed passion. "Now we face whatever comes next. Together."

The word hangs between us, a commitment that transcends our carefully negotiated arrangement, and acknowledges the truth we've both been circling: what exists between us has never been merely physical, merely convenient, merely temporary.

It's always been everything.

Chapter 15

Tarryn

Ifeel Christine's eyes on me again.

This time she's standing near the conference room door, pretending to review documents with a paralegal. But her gaze keeps flickering toward me and Jackson as we discuss the Westfield contract revisions. It's become a constant—her watchful presence whenever we're together.

"Did you review that clause?" Jackson asks, voice professionally neutral even as his fingers brush mine when passing the document.

The brief contact sends electricity racing up my arm, but I keep my expression impassive. I'm getting good at this particular performance—the careful dance of maintaining exact professional distance while my body hums with awareness of him.

"I did." I slide my notes across the table, making sure our hands don't touch again. "I've highlighted the sections that need tightening."

Christine drifts closer, her movement deliberately casual. The surveillance is becoming suffocating.

"Don't look now," Jackson murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear, "but our watchdog is circling again."

I don't need to look. I can feel her presence like a physical weight against my skin. "Third time today," I reply, keeping my eyes on the contract. "She was outside my office when you dropped off the Harding files this morning."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Anyone else would miss it, but I've spent months cataloging his micro-expressions, learning to read the tension in his shoulders, the slight flare of his nostrils when he's frustrated.

"We should wrap this up," I say, gathering my papers. "I have a client call in fifteen minutes."

Jackson nods, his hand retreating to his side of the table as Christine glides into the conference room, her timing too perfect to be coincidental.

"How's the revision coming along?" she asks, smiling. "Miguel mentioned he'd like an update by end of day."

"We're on schedule,"Jackson replies smoothly.

Christine's gaze flicks between us. "Wonderful teamwork.”

The way she lingers on the word makes my skin crawl. I stand, clutching my portfolio against my chest like armor. "If you'll excuse me," I say, "I have a call with Westfield's CFO."

As I walk past her, Christine's perfectly manicured hand brushes my arm, a gesture that appears friendly but feels like a threat. "We should grab coffee soon, Tarryn."

I force a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "I'll check my calendar."

The office has mostly emptiedby nine p.m., the hallways dim and silent as I review contract language for tomorrow's client meeting. I've started working later, partly to avoid rush hour butmostly to minimize my time around Christine. The quiet after-hours atmosphere has become a sanctuary of sorts.

I stretch, rolling my neck to release the tension that's settled there after hours of hunching over documents. The sound of voices drifts through my partially open door—Christine and someone else, their conversation carrying in the empty hallway.

"…might seem exciting, but they're professional suicide—especially for women."

Christine's voice is clear, deliberately pitched to carry. I freeze, pen suspended above the page.

"Look at what happened to Rebecca in tax law," she continues. "One office romance later, and she's been passed over for partnership twice while her former lover was promoted."

"That seems unfair," replies a younger female voice—Sarah, I think, one of the new associates.

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