3. Tarryn #2
"I'm going to grab more coffee," I announce abruptly, standing so quickly my chair rolls backward as I turn away from him. "Do you want anything?"
"Tarryn."
Just my name, spoken softly, but it stops me cold. I know that tone—intimate, intent, impossible to ignore.
"This isn't the time or place," I say without turning around.
"Then when?" His voice drops lower. "Because we need to talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about." The words come out sharper than I intended.
"Nothing?" I hear him stand, feel him moving closer, and every nerve ending in my body goes on high alert. "You really believe that?"
I turn to face him then, keeping the table between us like a shield. "What I believe is that we're colleagues now, and anything else is irrelevant to our professional relationship."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Is that what Miguel would say if he knew about our history?"
The question lands like a slap. "Are you threatening me?"
"Jesus, Tarryn, no." He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "I'm trying to figure out the rules here. Am I supposed to pretend I don't know you? That we didn't grow up together? That I don't remember exactly how you like your coffee or the sound you make when?—"
"Stop," I cut him off, heart hammering against my ribs. "Just stop."
A tense silence falls between us. Outside the glass walls of our conference room, the office has come to life—colleagues walking past, phones ringing, the normal hum of a workday beginning. None of them aware of the emotional minefield inside our little glass cube.
“Come on, you can’t seriously expect us to ignore the elephant in the room forever. I mean shit, it’s been eight years.” I stare at him, curious what that is supposed to mean.
Eight years so it doesn’t matter? Eight years so I should get over it? Eight years ago and we were just silly little kids and had no real concept of love?
“Can’t we at least laugh at the fact that we both somehow ended up working at the same firm?”
“Yeah, somehow, huh?” I say before turning away and walking out of the room, uninterested in whatever story he’s about to tell next to explain how he ended up working here.
The break room is empty when I finally escape there, my hands shaking slightly as I pour coffee I don't need. I take a deep breath, then another, trying to center myself before returning to the conference room.
"Hiding out?"
I nearly drop the coffee pot. Jackson stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.
"Did you follow me?" I demand, embarrassingly aware of how juvenile the question sounds.
"We weren't finished talking."
"Yes, we were." I set the pot down with careful precision, the ceramic making a too-loud click against the counter. "And this isn't appropriate workplace behavior."
"Cut the HR bullshit, Tarryn." His voice drops lower, the familiar cadence sending an unwelcome ripple of awareness down my spine. He steps closer—too close, close enough that the subtle notes of his cologne bypass my conscious mind and target something primitive instead.
Cedar. Bergamot. Jackson.
My traitorous body recognizes the scent before my brain can mount a defense. Heat blooms across my chest, crawling upward to stain my cheeks. The break room suddenly feels airless, oxygen molecules seemingly repelled by the charged particles between us.
"Did you know I was coming to Blake?" His question pulls me back to reality, but his proximity makes focusing nearly impossible. The counter edge digs into my lower back as I instinctively retreat, solid surface meeting unyielding flesh.
I'm cornered. Trapped between cool marble and the radiating warmth of his body.
"What?"
"Simple question. Did you know I was interviewing here?" His eyes—those damnable blue eyes that haunted my dreams long after I'd convinced myself I'd forgotten them—pin me in place. "Were you hoping to blindside me, or was this just a cosmic joke at my expense?"
I stare at him, momentarily speechless. The fluorescent lights catch the faint stubble along his jaw, highlighting how it's sharper now, more defined than the boy I once knew.
The change should make him a stranger. Instead, it only emphasizes how thoroughly I still know the geography of his face—and how desperately my fingertips suddenly itch to relearn it.
The thought sends a jolt of panic through me. I force my hands to remain at my sides rather than curl into fists or, worse, reach for him.
"You narcissistic ass," I hiss, stepping closer despite myself, drawn into his orbit against every screaming instinct for self-preservation.
His heat envelops me like a physical caress, my skin prickling with awareness beneath my silk blouse.
"You think I manipulated a major law firm's hiring decisions to what—get revenge? Sabotage your career?"
I'm close enough now to see his pupils dilate, black expanding to swallow blue. Close enough to count each individual eyelash. Close enough to feel his exhalation against my upturned face, warm and coffee-scented.
"News flash, Jackson. Until yesterday, I hadn't given you a second thought in years."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but the flash of hurt in his eyes gives me a twisted satisfaction that immediately curdles into shame. This close, I can see the pulse thrumming at the base of his throat, the slight flare of his nostrils as he inhales sharply.
"Well, that makes one of us," he says quietly.
His words land like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs more effectively than any courtroom defeat.
Before I can process their implications, his expression shifts to something harder, more distant—yet his body remains mere inches from mine, a proximity that scrambles my synapses and makes coherent thought nearly impossible.
The space between us vibrates with potential energy that mirrors the confusion wreaking havoc on my internal equilibrium.
I become hyperaware of every sensation—the brush of silk against my oversensitized skin, the slight tremor in my fingers, the way my body unconsciously sways toward his like a flower seeking sunlight.
Most disturbing of all is the realization burning through my professional armor: despite eight years, despite everything I've built, despite every wall I've constructed—I still remember exactly how his lips feel against mine.
Before I can process this admission, his expression shifts to something harder, more distant. "For the record, I had no idea you worked here. If I had, I might have reconsidered the offer."
The words sting more than they should. "Well, I'm sorry to have complicated your career plans," I say, ice crystallizing around each syllable. "But I was here first, and I've worked too hard to let your presence affect my shot at junior counsel."
"That's what this is about? You think we're competing for the same position?"
"Aren't we? Miguel mentioned 'leadership pipeline' and 'fresh perspective' often enough during your interview process."
Jackson laughs, the sound lacking any humor. "So that's why you're so determined to keep our history under wraps. You're afraid it'll undermine your professional standing."
"It has nothing to do with?—"
"Doesn't it?" He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne, the same brand he wore in college. Close enough that his warm chest brushes against me, testing my resolve. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're terrified that someone might think we know each other."
The observation hits too close to home, slicing through my defenses with surgical precision. Because he's right—of course he's right. He always could see through me, even when I didn't want him to.
"You don't know anything about me anymore," I say, the words coming out more vulnerable than I intend.
"I know you still wear the necklace I gave you," he says softly, his eyes dropping to the collar of my blouse where the chain is just visible. "Eight years, and you still wear it."
My hand flies to my neck automatically, fingers closing around the delicate pendant beneath the fabric. I'd put it on this morning just like I do every morning, without thinking, a habit so ingrained I hardly notice anymore.
"It matches my outfits," I say weakly.
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. "Keep telling yourself that, Tarryn."
Before I can formulate a response, the break room door swings open and Zoe walks in, her eyes widening slightly at the scene before her—Jackson and I standing too close, tension crackling between us like a live wire.
"Oops! Sorry to interrupt," she says, her tone making it clear she's not sorry at all. "Just needed caffeine."
I step back immediately, professional mask sliding into place. "You're not interrupting. Mr. Hayes and I were just discussing the Westfield contract."
"In the break room?" Zoe raises an eyebrow, not bothering to hide her amusement.
"Ms. Wells was just giving me a tour," Jackson says smoothly, with an ease that would be impressive if it weren't so infuriating. "Still learning my way around."
Zoe's gaze darts between us, clearly sensing the undercurrent but unable to name it. "Well, don't let me stop you. Though, if you're looking for the good coffee, the executive lounge on twenty-five has an actual espresso machine. Miguel's assistant can get you access, Jackson."
"I'll keep that in mind, thank you." Jackson's smile is so unnecessarily charming I almost gag.
When Zoe leaves, coffee in hand and curiosity visibly piqued, the fragile moment between us has shattered. Jackson steps back, creating professional distance once more.
"We should finish the revisions," he says, all business now. "Miguel will be expecting our report."
I nod, relieved. "Lead the way."
We return to Conference Room C, where Jackson gestures to a figure standing outside his new office. "I think your colleague wants to give me the official tour," he says. "Christine Blackwell, right?"
I follow his gaze to see Christine watching us with undisguised interest, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
A chill runs down my spine. If there's anyone at Blake Financial I'd want to keep in the dark about my history with Jackson, it's Christine.
Her reputation for using personal information as professional leverage is legendary.
"Be careful with her," I say before I can stop myself. "Christine plays the long game."
Jackson looks at me curiously. "Concerned about my welfare, Counselor?"
"Professional courtesy," I correct, gathering the revised documents into a neat stack. "I'll finalize these and send them to Miguel."
He nods, hesitating for a moment as if there's more he wants to say. Instead, he simply flashes me that same smile—a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache—and walks away to meet Christine.
I watch him go, the weight of our unfinished conversation settling heavily on my shoulders. In the space of twenty-four hours, Jackson Hayes has managed to destabilize years of carefully constructed equilibrium, forcing me to confront questions I've spent eight years avoiding.
Chief among them… Why, after all this time, does he still feel like home? And why, for God's sake, can’t I seem to get rid of the memory of the way he made me feel?
I push the thought away fiercely. I've worked too hard to build my career, my identity separate from Maple Ridge and high school sweethearts and roads not taken. I'm not about to let Jackson Hayes derail everything now, no matter how good he looks in a suit or how effortlessly he still reads me.
But as I watch Christine lead him down the hallway, her hand touching his arm with calculated precision, I feel something dangerously close to possessiveness flare in my chest.
This is going to be a problem.
By the time I get back to my office, there’s already a flagged email from HR in my inbox.
From: Human Resources
Subject: Inter-office relationships and conduct seminar
The email is phrased as just a friendly reminder about appropriate inter-office boundaries and professionalism . Standard boilerplate, sure. But someone had to trigger it.
I don’t need a damn microscope to see Christine’s fingerprints all over this. She didn’t just see Jackson. She saw an opportunity.