4. Jackson
Jackson
T here's something mesmerizing about watching Tarryn Wells in her element.
From my position at the back of the conference room, I have a perfect view of her as she walks the Applebaum Holdings team through a particularly complex section of their acquisition agreement.
Every gesture is precise, every explanation clear and concise.
She's transformed the intimidating legal jargon into something almost elegant—a skill that can't be taught.
"As you can see here," she says, highlighting a clause on the projection screen, "we've restructured the indemnification language to provide you with three layers of protection against unknown liabilities."
One of the Applebaum executives—a silver-haired man with shrewd eyes who's been skeptical throughout the meeting—leans forward with sudden interest.
"What about subsidiaries operating in international markets? The previous language left us exposed in three jurisdictions."
Without missing a beat, Tarryn flips to page thirty-seven of the agreement. "If you'll look at Subsection C, we've specifically addressed cross-border operations with language that mirrors international standards while maintaining the protections of U.S. law."
The executive studies the document, nodding slowly. "I missed that. That's… impressive work, Ms. Wells."
The ghost of a smile touches Tarryn's lips, there and gone so quickly that I doubt anyone else notices.
But I do. I always noticed the small things about her—how she squares her shoulders slightly when she's proud but trying not to show it, how her left eyebrow raises a fraction when she's won a point.
This isn't the Tarryn I knew in high school—the creative, passionate girl who studied for exams at the last minute and kept her notes in chaotic, color-coded piles. This woman is methodical, precise, commanding. The scattered brilliance of her youth has been honed into something formidable.
It's intoxicating to watch.
And deeply troubling, because the more I observe her professional expertise, the more I understand why my presence threatens her.
She's built herself into this polished, respected attorney through sheer determination and meticulous work.
My arrival—with our shared history and Miguel's obvious interest in my negotiation approach—represents a challenge to everything she's established.
But I have no interest in competing with that, with her. I want her to thrive outside of who she used to be. But I also know that eight years ago, she made it clear she wanted to outrun our past… and I’ve just completely undone all of that by showing up here.
The meeting concludes with handshakes and promises of next steps.
Tarryn is immediately surrounded by colleagues and clients, fielding questions with practiced ease.
She doesn't look in my direction once, though I know she's aware of my presence.
The careful way she positions her body, at an angle away from me, speaks volumes.
I slip out of the conference room, needing space to process what I've just witnessed. The Tarryn Wells who exists in this steel and glass tower is a stranger to me in many ways, yet achingly familiar in others. The dichotomy is disorienting.
"Impressive performance, wasn't it?"
I turn to find Zoe—the paralegal from Tarryn's team—leaning against the wall outside the conference room, an amused expression on her face.
"Very," I agree neutrally.
"Tarryn's the best we have for detailed contract work," she says, studying me with barely concealed curiosity. "The partners call her 'The Microscope' because nothing escapes her notice."
"I can see why."
Zoe pushes off the wall, falling into step beside me as I walk toward my office. "You're wondering if she's always been like that."
The observation is uncomfortably perceptive. "What makes you say that?"
"The way you were watching her," Zoe says with a knowing smile. "Like you were trying to reconcile two different people."
I keep my expression carefully neutral. "I'm just getting to know my colleagues."
"Sure you are." Zoe's tone makes it clear she's not buying it. "Well, as Tarryn's friend, let me save you some time. She's brilliant, driven, and absolutely terrible at relationships."
This catches my attention despite my best intentions. "I don't see how that's relevant to our professional relationship."
Zoe laughs, the sound bright and knowing. "Of course not. But just in case you were curious—which you're not, obviously—she dates men she can keep at arm's length. The moment they want more, she's gone."
We reach my office, and I pause in the doorway, curiosity getting the better of me. "Speaking from observation or experience?"
"Both. I've watched her turn down perfectly good men when they get too close." Zoe leans in slightly, lowering her voice. "She even rejected a partner at another large firm who was crazy about her. Career suicide for most associates, but Tarryn somehow made it work in her favor."
The information shouldn't matter to me. Tarryn's personal life is none of my business—hasn't been for eight years. Yet I file away this insight like a piece of valuable evidence.
"Interesting gossip, but I assure you, Ms. Wells' dating habits aren't relevant to our work together," I say, my tone deliberately dismissive.
Zoe's smile widens. "Of course not. Just thought you might like to know what you're dealing with." She taps a manicured finger against my doorframe. "Welcome to Blake Financial, Jackson. It's going to be an interesting year."
She saunters away, leaving me with the distinct impression that I've just been assessed—and that Zoe suspects far more than she's letting on.
Then it hits me… a small flutter in my stomach sends a beacon of hope racing through me.
Maybe Zoe already knows who I am. Because maybe Tarryn has talked about me.
Inside my office, I turn my attention to the Westfield contract materials Tarryn prepared.
Her notes are comprehensive, meticulous, almost artistic in their precision.
I compare them to my own approach—broader strokes, focusing on leverage points and negotiation strategy rather than granular details.
Looking at our work side by side, the complementary nature is obvious. Her exactitude combined with my strategic vision would make for an unbeatable combination. In another universe, we'd be the perfect team.
But in this one, we're competitors for the same position, with eight years of unresolved history complicating every interaction.
I spend the afternoon reviewing her previous work on the Westfield account, grudgingly impressed by her thoroughness.
When six p.m. arrives, I'm still deep in analysis, comparing her approach to mine, looking for ways to demonstrate my value without undermining hers—a delicate balance I'm not sure is possible.
But there’s no use in staying here all night; I won’t be able to figure it out. So I pack up my things and grab my phone to head home to my empty apartment.
The elevator doors are closing when I hear her voice—"Hold, please!"—and my hand shoots out automatically to stop them. Tarryn hurries in, eyes on her phone, not realizing it's me until the doors close behind her.
"Oh," she says, the single syllable laden with surprise and wariness. "Thanks."
"No problem."
We stand in uncomfortable silence as the elevator begins its descent.
Tarryn keeps her eyes fixed on the changing floor numbers, her profile illuminated by the harsh overhead light.
She's changed since this morning—her hair now pulled back in a sleek ponytail, a tailored trench coat draped over her arm.
The scent of her perfume with subtle notes of vanilla and amber fills the confined space, stirring memories I've spent years trying to suppress.
The elevator lurches suddenly, lights flickering before stabilizing.
We both reach for the wall instinctively as the car grinds to a halt, and for one heart-stopping moment, her body is pressed against mine—warm, solid, achingly familiar despite the years between us.
I feel her sharp intake of breath, see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
"You've got to be kidding me," Tarryn mutters, pulling away as though burned, jabbing at the lobby button with unnecessary force.
Nothing happens. She tries the emergency call button, which connects to a bored-sounding security officer who promises to contact maintenance.
"They say it shouldn't take more than ten minutes," she reports after hanging up, smoothing her already perfect skirt. "Apparently, this has been happening with elevator three."
"Good to know," I say, leaning against the wall opposite her. "I'll take the stairs next time."
"Twenty-three flights might be a bit much, even for someone as fit as you," she says, then immediately looks as if she regrets the observation, a flush of color rising to her cheeks.
The implication that she's noticed my physical condition hangs between us, creating a new tension in the already charged space. Her eyes dart away, then back, as though she can't quite decide whether to acknowledge what she's just revealed.
"I could manage it," I say, holding her gaze. "I've always enjoyed a challenge."
A hint of the old fire flashes in her eyes. "Is that why you’re here, Hayes? A challenge?"
"I didn't say that." I fold my arms, studying her. "Though you've certainly gone out of your way to make working together as difficult as possible."
"Excuse me?" Her chin lifts in that defiant way I remember so well. "I've been nothing but professional."
"Professional, yes. Also distant, defensive, and determined to pretend we've never met before." I take a step closer, watching her carefully. "Tell me something, Tarryn. Do you still hate me, or is this just your default setting with everyone?"
"I never hated you." Her voice drops, carrying an undercurrent of emotion that makes my chest tighten. "That would have been easier."