5. Tarryn #2
"Would it have changed anything if you had?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us fully articulates. Would I have warned Miguel about our history? Would I have left before he arrived? Would I have prepared better defenses against this unwanted attraction that still hums beneath my skin?
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "It's irrelevant now."
His eyes hold mine, the blue darkening to midnight. "Is it?"
I open my mouth to say something that will pull at this thread between us but then decide against it. “We should really get back to focusing on the contract.”
“Right,” he agrees, his eyes dropping down to refocus his attention back on his food.
I reach for my coffee without looking, my eyes fixed on the clause in the Westfield contract that's been bothering me for the past hour.
My fingers connect with the ceramic mug just as Jackson shifts a stack of papers, and suddenly everything moves in slow motion—the coffee tilting, the dark liquid arcing through the air, the splash as it lands across three separate documents representing countless hours of meticulous work.
"Shit!" I grab for the nearest document, as if plucking it from the spreading stain might somehow undo the damage. Jackson reaches at the same exact moment, our hands colliding in the rush.
"Let me—" he starts, just as my "I've got it—" creates a verbal collision to match our physical one.
And then we're frozen, suspended in a moment that suddenly has nothing to do with spilled coffee or ruined contracts.
Jackson hovers above me, his body half-stretched across the conference table, his face mere inches from mine.
I can count each individual freckle on his nose, see the tiny flecks of darker blue in his irises, feel the warmth of his breath against my lips.
Time stretches between us like pulled taffy, sweet and impossibly thin.
My heart hammers against my ribs with such force I'm certain he must hear it.
A strand of hair falls across my face, and Jackson's hand rises slowly, deliberately, as if to brush it away.
His fingers hover near my cheek, not quite touching but close enough that my skin tingles with the phantom caress.
His cologne—that maddening blend of cedar and bergamot that's haunted my dreams for eight years—mingles with the rich aroma of the spilled coffee, creating a heady scent that seems to belong uniquely to this moment.
Something both bitter and sweet, like the history between us.
The conference room lights buzz overhead, but all I can hear is the shallow cadence of our synchronized breathing.
Jackson's eyes darken, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of blue remains. The sensation of being drawn toward him is so powerful I have to grip the edge of the table to resist it. We're not touching, not really, but every cell in my body is screaming for contact.
His throat works as he swallows, his gaze dropping briefly to my mouth before he catches himself. The moment stretches between us, taut as a wire about to snap. I'm not breathing, can't remember how breathing works, can only focus on the magnetic pull between us.
Then, as if waking from a trance, Jackson pulls back, his hand dropping to his side as he straightens. The loss of his proximity leaves me oddly cold, despite the flush I can feel spreading across my cheeks.
"I'll get some paper towels," he says, his voice rougher than usual, carrying an edge that sends an involuntary shiver racing down my spine.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and begin gathering the damaged documents with shaking hands.
The professional part of my brain catalogs the damage—they'll need to be reprinted, not the end of the world—while another part, one I've tried desperately to silence, wonders what would have happened if he hadn't pulled away.
If his fingers had brushed my cheek, if he'd leaned just an inch closer, if I'd closed that final whisper of space between us …
Jackson returns with paper towels, and we clean up the mess in focused silence, both careful to maintain a radius of safety between us. But the air remains charged, molecules practically vibrating with unspoken possibility.
Less than twenty minutes later, the charged air explodes between us in an unnecessarily heated argument.
"That's completely contradictory to established precedent and you know it," I argue, jabbing my finger at Section 4.8 of the liability clause. "If we structure it this way, we're exposing the client to unnecessary risk."
"The precedent isn't as clear-cut as you're suggesting," Jackson counters, leaning across the table toward me. "Peterson v. Harggot established that when properly disclosed, this exact structure can actually provide additional protection."
I shake my head, frustration fueling my response. "Peterson was decided on very specific facts that don't apply here. You're cherry-picking case law to support an unnecessarily aggressive position."
Jackson's eyes flash with challenge, and he moves around the table until he's standing directly in front of me. Too close. Not close enough. The contradiction makes me dizzy.
"I'm looking at the bigger picture, Tarryn. Sometimes the safest route isn't the best one." His voice drops lower, resonating somewhere deep in my chest. "Sometimes you have to take a calculated risk to get what you really want."
The double meaning in his words isn't lost on me. My breath catches as he moves closer still, invading the carefully maintained buffer zone I've established. I back up a step, finding myself against the whiteboard, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat building inside me.
"And what exactly do you think the client wants?" I challenge, tilting my chin up to maintain eye contact despite our height difference.
Jackson places one hand on the whiteboard beside my head, not touching me but effectively caging me in. "I think the client wants the same thing most people want"—his eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second—"the best possible outcome with the least amount of compromise."
I'm acutely aware of every inch of him—the breadth of his shoulders beneath his tailored shirt, the subtle scent of his cologne mingled with the slightest tinge of sweat, the gentle roughness in his voice that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
We're arguing about contract law, for God's sake, but my body responds as if he's whispering indecent proposals against my skin.
"Sometimes compromise is necessary," I manage, hating how breathless I sound. "Especially when the alternative is too risky."
"Is it the risk you're afraid of?" Jackson leans incrementally closer, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak. "Or is it what happens if the risk pays off?"
We're so close now I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can see the pulse beating at the base of his throat, can almost taste the coffee on his breath. One small movement from either of us and we’ll be crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed.
Do it , whispers a reckless voice inside me. Just this once. Just to know if that spark is still there.
A shadow passes the conference room, the movement visible from the corner of my eye—a deliberate, unhurried walk that can only belong to one person. Christine.
I push against Jackson's chest, creating immediate distance between us. His expression shifts from intense focus to confusion, then understanding as he follows my gaze to where Christine has paused, pretending to review something on her tablet while clearly monitoring our interaction.
"We should go," I say, my voice steadier than I feel as I begin gathering my files. "It's late, and I don't trust her not to use any… observations… against us."
Jackson nods, his jaw tightening as he steps back. "You're right. We can finish this tomorrow."
The tension between us doesn't dissipate as we pack up; if anything, it intensifies in the silence. The electricity that's been building all day has nowhere to go, no release valve, just the maddening awareness of what almost happened—what part of me still desperately wants to happen.
“I’ll walk you out.” He interrupts my thoughts as we exit the conference room.
“Not necessary,” I counter a little too quickly.
“I wasn’t offering.” I stop and look at him, his tone clearly serious. “It’s late and you have no business walking down there alone. Do you do it often?” I shrug, not really providing an answer. “Get your things. I’ll meet you by the elevator.”
I nod, scurrying back to my office like I’ve just been scolded. Nervously, I gather my things, my legs still a touch shaky from the interaction moments ago.
The parking garage is eerily quiet at this hour, our footsteps echoing in the concrete expanse as we walk toward my car. We've barely spoken since leaving the conference room, the silence between us so charged I can almost see it shimmering in the air.
We reach my car, both of us stopping at the driver's side door.
I fumble with my keys, suddenly unsure of the proper protocol for saying good night to the man who, less than ten minutes ago, had me backed against a whiteboard, his body a breath away from mine with a look that had my panties on the verge of melting and my thighs practically quivering.
Did I just use quivering?
I look up to find Jackson watching me, his expression unreadable in the dim fluorescent lighting of the garage.
Neither of us speaks. The silence stretches between us and my eyes drop down to his exposed forearms. I swallow at the sight.
Thick, farm-strong arms corded with muscles and veins straining against his tan skin.
"Tarryn," he finally murmurs, my name on his lips sounding like a caress.
Before I can respond, before I can erect the necessary defenses, he steps closer.
This time, there's no hesitation. His hand reaches up, smoothing my hair behind my ear in a gesture so achingly gentle it makes my breath catch.
His fingertips linger, brushing against my cheek with exquisite tenderness, leaving trails of heat where they touch.
His eyes hold mine, dark with an emotion I'm too afraid to name. The garage disappears—there's only Jackson, the warmth of his touch, the scent of him enveloping me, the invisible cord pulling me toward him with inexorable force.
"I have a date."
The words burst from me like a defense mechanism, sharp and sudden in the intimate silence. I immediately want to take them back, but they hang in the air between us, impossible to reclaim.
Jackson's hand stills against my cheek. Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, followed by a quick succession of emotions too complex to decipher. His fingers slowly withdraw, leaving my skin cold in their absence.
"A date," he repeats, taking half a step back, his expression carefully rearranging itself into something neutral. "With who?"
"Mark Daniels." The name comes automatically, though the prosecutor is more acquaintance than potential romantic interest. "He's with the DA's office. Zoe set it up—financial crimes division. She thought we'd have a lot in common. I’m pretty excited about it." I don’t know why I add that last part. It couldn’t be further from the truth.
A sharp, unexpected laugh escapes Jackson. It's brief, almost involuntary, tinged with something that might be irony.
"What?" I ask, suddenly defensive.
He shakes his head, that muscle in his jaw flexing again. "Nothing. Just… nothing."
The moment has fractured, the delicate thread of possibility between us snapping under the weight of my declaration. Jackson takes another step back, hands sliding into his pockets as if he doesn't trust what they might do otherwise.
"I hope you have a good time," he says, his tone perfectly calibrated to sound sincere without revealing anything deeper.
"Thanks." The word feels inadequate, hollow. "You heading out too?"
Jackson glances back toward the elevator. "Think I'll go back up. Finish reviewing those Australian compliance regulations for a different client."
I nod, sliding into the driver's seat before I can say something I'll regret, before I can call back the lie about how excited I am for this date, before I can admit that no one—certainly not Mark Daniels—makes my heart race and my skin burn the way Jackson does with nothing more than a look.
"Good night, Tarryn," he says, stepping back from my car.
"Good night, Jackson."
As I drive away, I catch a glimpse of him in my rearview mirror, still standing where I left him, watching my departure.
The image burns itself into my consciousness—the straight line of his shoulders, the intensity of his gaze following me—and I know with sudden, painful clarity that whatever I'm running from will still be waiting when I return.
The question is whether I'll finally have the courage to face it.
And yet, as I pull out into the empty street, I can't deny the truth that terrifies me most: some part of me wants those walls to come down.
Some treacherous, reckless part wants to discover if his lips still fit perfectly against mine, if his hands still know the geography of my body, if what we once shared could possibly be rekindled from the ashes of eight years of silence.
That possibility is more dangerous than any professional scandal Christine might engineer.
Because I know with bone-deep certainty: if I fall for Jackson Hayes again, recovering isn't an option.