Worth the Wait (Flirting with Forever #3)

Prologue

Tarryn-Eight years earlier…

T he daisy field stretches before me like a blanket of stars fallen to earth, white petals catching the golden afternoon sunlight in a way that makes everything feel unreal—like we're suspended in some perfect moment between youth and whatever comes next.

I twist the slender stems between my fingers, weaving crown after crown while Jackson lies beside me, one arm tucked behind his head, watching me with those dark eyes that still make my stomach flutter with wild wings of desire even after three years of being together.

When he looks at me like that—like I'm the only thing worth seeing in a world full of wonders—I feel simultaneously powerful and utterly vulnerable, my skin humming with awareness of his proximity.

"You're staring," I say, not looking up from my work, though I can feel heat blooming beneath my cheeks, spreading downward in a flush that seems to liquify my core.

"Can't help it," he murmurs, reaching out to twist a strand of my hair around his finger.

The gentle tug against my scalp sends electricity cascading down my spine, igniting nerve endings I didn't know existed until Jackson first touched me.

"You get this little crease right here—" His thumb brushes between my brows, his touch so achingly tender it makes my breath catch in my throat. "When you're concentrating."

I fight the urge to lean into his touch, to abandon the daisies altogether and lose myself in the heat of his body against mine. Instead, I focus on the delicate task, using it as an anchor against the overwhelming current of soon and leaving and separation that threatens to pull me under.

"I was thinking," I say, my voice steadier than I feel, "about what Mr. Harmon said about constitutional law last semester.

About representing people who can't advocate for themselves.

" My fingers move more rapidly now, matching the sudden quickening of my thoughts.

"That's what I want to do, Jack. Like what my father needed when Henderson Industries crushed him in court. "

Jackson props himself up on one elbow, his gaze intensifying.

The shift in his position brings his face closer to mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek, smell the intoxicating blend of cedar and sun-warmed skin that is uniquely him.

He knows how rarely I talk about this—about watching my father transform from a proud business owner into a hollowed-out shell after losing everything in that lawsuit.

How our family home shrank from a sprawling farmhouse to a two-bedroom apartment overnight.

"You'd be brilliant at it," he says with such certainty that I almost believe it myself. "The way you construct arguments—like building something beautiful and unshakable brick by brick. You’re a natural, Tar."

I finish the crown with a final twist, holding it up to the sunlight. "You're biased."

"Damn right I am." His grin flashes, quicksilver bright, before softening into something more serious, something that makes my heart constrict painfully in my chest. "But I'm also right."

He sits up fully now, taking the daisy crown from my hands.

The air between us feels charged, electric with unspoken promises and the bittersweet ache of impending change.

Tomorrow, I leave for Northwestern, and he's supposed to follow in just a few weeks.

Our carefully plotted future stretches before us—me settling in first, him joining soon after, and then four years of building our lives together while pursuing our degrees.

Jackson places the crown on my head with a gentleness that makes my throat tight.

His palms linger against my temples, cradling my face as if I'm something precious, something he's afraid might dissolve beneath his touch.

His thumbs trace the curve of my cheekbones in a caress so tender it borders on reverence.

"My queen," he whispers, the lightness in his voice belied by the intensity in his eyes—eyes that seem to burn into mine with an unspoken hunger that makes me tremble.

"Forever?" I ask, hating the thread of insecurity that weaves through the word.

His mouth curves into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Forever," he echoes, but something flickers across his expression—a shadow I can't quite interpret.

I should have recognized it then—that infinitesimal hesitation, that fractional darkening of his gaze. But I was eighteen and drunk on first love, on the certainty that wanting something badly enough could make it indestructible.

His lips brush against mine, featherlight at first, then with growing urgency.

I taste the mint of his toothpaste. His hands slide into my hair, careful not to disturb the crown as he pulls me closer, his body radiating a heat that makes my own feel molten from the inside out.

The familiar pressure of his mouth against mine sends waves of desire pulsing through me, a sweetly painful ache blooming low in my belly.

When we break apart, breathless, he rests his forehead against mine.

The air between us feels charged, intimate, as if we're sharing the same pocket of oxygen.

"I can't wait to see your face every day on campus," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion.

"To study together in the library, to bring you coffee when you're up late writing papers. "

"And getting that tiny apartment junior year," I add, tracing the outline of his jaw with my fingertip, memorizing the slight stubble that scratches pleasantly against my skin. "The one with the bay window where I can read while you cook."

"You've got it all planned out," he says, and again that shadow passes over his features, so quickly I almost think I've imagined it.

It happens so fast, the shattering of everything we've planned. One moment we're entwined in the daisies, mapping our future together in whispered promises and trailing touches, and the next?—

"But… I'm not going to Northwestern. Not yet."

His words hang between us, incomprehensible at first, like he's suddenly speaking a language I don't understand. The summer air seems to crystallize around us, suspending this moment in time.

"What?" I pull back, searching his face for signs of a joke I'm not getting. My skin, moments ago flushed with desire, now feels suddenly cold.

Jackson sits up straighter, his fingers trembling slightly as he cups my face. There's a new tension in his jaw, a tightness around his eyes that sends alarm skittering down my spine like ice water.

"Dad's company is on the brink, Tar. The Henderson lawsuit, them coming after other businesses was just the beginning. Dad’s business is struggling—bad, they've lost three major contracts since then.

" He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I'm going to help him here in Indiana. Just for a couple of years—enough time to stabilize things before I join you at Northwestern. "

Each word falls like a stone, heavy and unyielding. The perfect afternoon curdles around us, the daisies suddenly seeming garish rather than magical.

"Two years?" My voice sounds strange, distant, as if it belongs to someone else. The space between heartbeats stretches impossibly long. "Jack, that's—that's half of college."

"I know." His thumbs brush over my cheekbones, catching tears I hadn't realized were falling.

The pad of his thumb comes away wet, glistening in the afternoon light.

"But we'll make it work. We'll call every day, visit whenever we can.

And then I'll come to Northwestern, and we'll get that apartment together, just a little later than we planned. "

"You never said it was that bad with your dad's business," I whisper, mentally cataloging our conversations. There had been mentions of "tough times" and "restructuring," but nothing that suggested crisis, nothing that threatened the carefully constructed blueprint of our future.

"He didn't want anyone to know. His pride…" Jackson shakes his head, a muscle working in his jaw. "He wouldn't even tell me how serious it was until last week. If I don't help, thirty-seven people will lose their jobs. My dad will lose everything he's built."

Like my father did , I think but don't say. Instead, I ask, "Two years of long distance? That's the new plan?" The words taste bitter on my tongue, like ashes.

"I'll drive up as often as I can." His eyes plead for understanding, dark pools I could drown in if I let myself. "We'll make it work, Tar. I promise."

Two years. The words echo in my head, distorting into something unrecognizable.

Two years of what? Occasional visits squeezed between his sixty-hour workweeks and my full course load?

Daily calls that gradually become less frequent as our lives diverge?

Me, alone at Northwestern without the one person I thought would be by my side?

"I thought we made these decisions together," I say, hating how small my voice sounds, how it threatens to break on each syllable.

"This wasn't a decision, Tar. It's an obligation." The slight edge in his tone ignites something defensive in me, a spark of anger that cuts through the numbness of shock.

"An obligation you kept secret until practically right before we—I leave?" I stand up abruptly, the daisy crown tilting precariously. "Were you ever going to tell me if you hadn't been backed into a corner?"

"That's not fair." He rises too, his height suddenly intimidating rather than comforting. The sun catches in his dark hair, highlighting strands of gold I've traced with my fingers a thousand times. "I've been trying to find another solution for days. I thought— I hoped?—"

"You hoped what? That your father's failing business would magically recover? That you could avoid having this conversation entirely?" The hurt morphs into anger, protective and sharp. I know I’m being selfish but I can’t seem to stop myself from lashing out at him.