Page 8 of Worth the Wait

But then why did I hear her laugh? Why did that fleeting glimpse of a woman ducking into an office send my heart into overdrive?

I lean back in my chair, memories flooding in despite my best efforts to dam them.

Tarryn in the daisy field, her hair catching the summer light. Tarryn on the phone our first month of college, her voice growing more distant with each call. Tarryn's email after our last argument, clinical and final.

I think we should embrace this new chapter in our lives fully. This long-distance relationship is holding us both back.

Six months. That's all we lasted after high school. Six increasingly strained months of missed calls and postponed visits, of growing silences and diminishing connection. By Christmas of freshman year, we were effectively strangers who shared a history neither of us knew how to honor or release.

A knock at my door pulls me from the memory. A young woman with a tablet stands in the doorway.

"Mr. Hayes? I'm Denise from HR. I have some paperwork for you to fill out, and then Mr. Ramirez asked me to escort you to the conference room for your team meeting."

I follow her through a maze of hallways, signing forms on the tablet as we walk. The conference room is at the end of a long corridor, its glass walls revealing several people already seated inside. Miguel stands at the head of the table, gesturing animatedly about something.

"Here we are," Denise says cheerfully. "Good luck on your first day!"

I thank her and push open the glass door, my heart rate accelerating with each step. Miguel smiles, gesturing me overwhere I take a seat and we begin our meeting. Once we get through the basics, he stands, buttoning his suit coat.

"There's one more person you need to meet—one of our most promising attorneys. She's been with us for two years and has an impressive track record with client contracts. She’s just down the hall.”

Miguel knocks on the doorframe of a corner office. "Tarryn, do you have a moment?"

My breath catches as she turns from her computer, and the world stops spinning. Her eyes widen in shock as they lock with mine, recognition hitting her like a physical blow. For a split second, I'm transported back to that final phone call—her voice increasingly distant as she explained why long distance wasn't working, how our paths were diverging, how she no longer wanted to feel like a burden. The email that followed a week later, clinical and final, severing the last threads between us.

Tarryn Wells. Eight years older but unmistakable. Her hair is shorter now, falling in sleek waves just past her shoulders instead of the long curls I used to wrap around my fingers. She's dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit that accentuates the elegant line of her neck, the curve of her waist. But it's her eyes that hit me hardest—those same deep brown eyes that used to look at me like I was everything.

Now they're wide with shock, fixed on me with an expression that cycles rapidly from disbelief to recognition to something close to panic.

"Tarryn, this is Jackson Hayes, our newest addition to the legal team," Miguel says, completely oblivious to the electric current of recognition passing between us. "Jackson, meet Tarryn Wells, who's been leading our contract work."

I swallow hard, forcing myself to act normal, to pretend I'm meeting her for the first time. Because clearly that's what shewants—her eyes are practically begging me to play along, to not reveal our shared history in front of her colleagues.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Wells," I say, extending my hand. My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, somehow maintaining a professional tone despite the earthquake happening inside me. "I've heard impressive things."

Her palm meets mine, and electricity jolts through me with such force I almost gasp. Eight years, and my body still remembers her touch like it was yesterday.

"Likewise, Mr. Hayes," she manages to say, her voice surprisingly steady despite the storm I can see brewing behind her eyes. "Welcome to Blake Financial."

Our hands remain connected a moment too long. A knowing gleam appears in her eyes, so familiar it hurts. Though Miguel doesn't explicitly mention competition, I connect the dots about the junior counsel position we're both clearly being considered for, creating immediate professional tension layered over our personal history.

Miguel takes us to the conference room, where more introductions follow. I contribute when appropriate, ask intelligent questions, make all the right impressions. But my awareness never strays far from her—the precise way she takes notes, the slight furrow between her brows when she concentrates, the nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear that she hasn't outgrown.

And there, just visible beneath the collar of her blouse, a delicate gold chain that disappears beneath her silk shell. I know what hangs on that chain—a small daisy pendant I gave her for our one-year anniversary. The fact that she still wears it knocks the air from my lungs.

The meeting ends, and people filter out of the conference room. I deliberately take my time gathering my materials, hoping for a moment alone with her. But she's efficient, slippingout with a colleague before I can manufacture a reason to speak to her.

I follow her down the hallway, catching up as she's about to enter her office. "Tarryn," I say quietly, making sure no one is within earshot.

"Not now, Jackson." Her voice is low, urgent. "Not here."

"We need to talk about this."

"No, we don't." She glances nervously over my shoulder. "There's nothing to talk about. We're colleagues now. That's it."

"Eight years without a word, and that's all you have to say to me?"

Something flickers across her face—regret? Anger? But before she can respond, a voice calls from down the hallway.

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