Page 9 of Worth the Wait

"Tarryn! Miguel needs the Westfield briefs right away."

She steps back immediately, professional mask sliding seamlessly into place. "I'll have them on his desk in five minutes," she calls back, then fixes me with a look that is equal parts warning and plea. "Welcome to Blake Financial, Mr. Hayes."

She walks away, her heels echoing against the marble floor, leaving me standing alone in a hallway that suddenly feels too bright, too cold, too real.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief as I watch her disappear.

Back in myapartment that evening, I finally locate the box I've been looking for—not labeled, just marked with a simple X in black Sharpie. Inside, beneath law school textbooks and old case briefs, is a battered journal. I haven't opened it in years, but I know exactly what's inside.

There, pressed between pages filled with the angry scrawl of my nineteen-year-old self, is a single dried daisy. The petals have long since turned brown, fragile as tissue paper, but intact. A tangible reminder of promises made by children who had no idea how complicated life would become.

Beside the journal is an envelope, yellowed with age, addressed to Tarryn Wells in my careful handwriting. Returned unopened, the red stamp RETURN TO SENDER faded but still legible. My first attempt to reach out after our breakup, when my father had his heart attack during my sophomore year and I needed someone—needed her—to help me make sense of a world that was falling apart.

I trace my finger over her name on the envelope, remembering how it felt to write it, to hope she might read the words inside. Words about forgiveness and second chances and the possibility that maybe we weren't finished after all.

Words she never saw.

Now, eight years later, she's back in my life through some cosmic joke or curse or blessing—I'm not sure which. All I know is that tomorrow I'll walk into that gleaming office building and she'll be there, pretending we're strangers when the truth is we know each other in ways that go bone deep.

The question is, what am I going to do about it?

Chapter 3

Tarryn

Sleep eludes me.

At two a.m., I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, laptop balanced precariously on my knees, scrolling through search results for "Jackson Hayes attorney Indianapolis." The blue light casts ghostly shadows across my bedroom walls as I consume every scrap of information I can find.

My fingers fly over the keyboard as I give myself permission for the first time in forever to research the boy who broke my heart. After I ended things, I did what I had to do to survive it all. I blocked him… on everything. Looking back, it was dramatic, but I knew at the time that if I didn’t, I’d drown in a sea of hope.

I poked around here and there, asking my sisters and a random mutual acquaintance over the years if there were any details or rumors swirling around Jackson Hayes. But most of the information was just stuff you could find online, like that he eventually went to Indiana State and then got into Harvard.

A pang of jealousy hits my ribs. Of course he got into Harvard. I roll my eyes at the thought. Jackson Hayes was good at everything he did and most of the time, he didn’t even have to try. I turn my attention back to my computer, pushing memories of childhood out of my head.

There's more information than I expected. Articles from theIndianapolis Business Journalpraising his innovative negotiation tactics. A profile inLegal Quarterlyhighlighting his transformation of Wallace & Palmer's corporate division. Photos of him accepting awards, looking impossibly handsome in tailored suits, his smile professional but with that hint of mischief I remember all too well.

God, even his corporate headshot is unfairly attractive.

"This is strictly research," I tell my empty apartment. "Professional due diligence."

Even I don't believe the lie.

My fingers hover over an image of him shaking hands with the mayor of Indianapolis after negotiating a complex development deal. His hair is shorter than it was yesterday, his shoulders broader. The boy I knew is still there in the shape of his mouth, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, but this man—this polished, successful attorney—is a stranger.

A stranger who looked at me yesterday like he could see straight through eight years of carefully constructed defenses.

I close the laptop with more force than necessary, plunging my bedroom into darkness. This is ridiculous. I'm a professional—a respected attorney on track for junior counsel. I've worked too hard to let Jackson Hayes waltz in and disrupt everything I've built.

Tomorrow, I'll be calm, collected, and completely indifferent to his presence.

But first, I need to sleep… Which doesn't happen.

By the time my alarm blares at five thirty a.m., I've managed maybe two hours of restless dozing. I drag myself through my morning routine on autopilot—run, shower, coffee, outfit selection that takes three times longer than usual because suddenly everything in my closet seems wrong.

I settle on a navy suit that projects authority without trying too hard, pair it with heels that add three crucial inches to my height, and arm myself with an extra-large coffee from the shop two blocks from the office. If I'm going to face Jackson Hayes today, I need all the help I can get.

My strategy is simple: arrive early, barricade myself in my office, and avoid all unnecessary interaction. I've executed plans like this before when dealing with difficult colleagues. It's just professional distance. Completely normal.

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