Page 77 of Worth the Wait

As if touching it summoned him, my phone buzzes with a text.

Jackson: Lunch today? Need to see your face.

After eight years apart, two months of professional pretense, and now a week of acknowledged love, I still haven't gotten used to the feeling of being wanted by him so openly, so honestly.

Me: Meet you in the lobby at twelve thirty.

I set my phone down and force myself to focus on the contract language, but my mind keeps circling back to the same question that's haunted me all week.

Can we really make a long-distance relationship work this time? Or are we setting ourselves up for another heartbreak?

Jackson sits across from me,sunlight from the window catching in his dark hair, illuminating flecks of gold I'd forgotten existed until recently rediscovering them with my fingertips.

"You're staring," he says, his mouth curving into that half smile that still makes my stomach flutter like I'm sixteen again.

"Just appreciating the view.”

His eyes darken slightly, gaze dropping to my lips before returning to meet mine. "How has your morning been, Junior Counsel Wells?"

"Distracted," I admit, my honesty surprising us both. "I can't stop thinking about?—"

"Us?" he finishes, reaching across the table to trace his fingertips over the back of my hand. "The impending geographic complication?"

I nod, turning my hand to capture his, our fingers intertwining in a simple, perfect connection. "I'm trying to be practical about this, to see the possibilities rather than the obstacles."

"I've been thinking about it constantly," Jackson says, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "It's not ideal, but we can make it work. I'll fly back every weekend. New York to Chicago is just a couple of hours."

"Every weekend?" I arch an eyebrow skeptically. "With a new division to build? International clients in different time zones? That's not sustainable, Jackson."

His grip tightens slightly. "Then we alternate. I come to you, you come to me. We make it nonnegotiable, build our schedules around it."

I sigh, wishing I could absorb his optimism. "You're being naive."

"And you're being a defeatist," he counters, though his voice remains gentle. "Is this your way of saying you can't do it? That you don't think we're worth the effort?"

The question hits like a physical blow. "No! God, no. That's not what I meant at all."

I lean forward, lowering my voice despite the privacy of our corner booth. "I believe we can do this. I'm willing to try—to fight for us this time. I just want us to be realistic about the challenges."

Relief washes across his features. "Then we'll be realistic together. Eyes wide open, no illusions, but also no surrender before we've even begun."

He lifts my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles that sends heat spiraling through me. "We're not those kids anymore, Tar. We have resources, agency, experience. Most importantly, we know what we're fighting for now."

"Which is?" I ask, needing to hear him say it.

His eyes meet mine, unwavering. "Everything. A future. Together."

The conviction in his voice settles something restless inside me. Maybe he's right. Maybe we can defy the statistics, the conventional wisdom, the ghost of our past failure. Maybe love really can be enough this time.

"Okay," I say finally. "We do this. Together. No matter what.”

“By the way, I’m leaving work a little early today so don’t wait for me. Just come over when you get off.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “What are you up to, Wells?”

“Don’t worry about it, Hayes.”

I movearound my kitchen with purpose, the rhythmic chopping of herbs a counterpoint to the jazz playing softly in the background. The scent of garlic and rosemary fills the air as I prepare Jackson's favorite meal—rib eye steak with herb butter, roasted potatoes, and asparagus. A proper homemade meal before New York steals him away.

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