7. Tarryn
Tarryn
T he scent reaches me before I even see it—vanilla and cinnamon mingling in a heavenly cloud that stops me in my tracks.
The coffee cup sits innocently on my desk, steam rising in delicate curls that seem to beckon me closer.
I glance around the empty office, but there's no one here at seven fifteen a.m. to take credit for the delivery.
No note accompanies it, but none is needed. Only one person knows my ridiculously complicated coffee order—vanilla latte, extra shot, half pump of caramel, almond milk, with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Only one person would leave it here as a silent claim on my morning routine.
Jackson.
I pick up the cup, the warmth seeping through the cardboard and into my palms. The first sip confirms it—perfectly made, exactly how I like it. Something flutters in my chest, a dangerous warmth that has nothing to do with the beverage's temperature.
I'm still staring at the cup when my phone chimes with an email notification.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Career Advancement Lunch?
Tarryn, I'd love to discuss some advancement strategies over lunch today. My treat. Let me know if one p.m. works.
My eyebrows rise involuntarily. Christine Blackwell wants to have lunch with me? We've barely exchanged more than professional pleasantries in the two years I've been at Blake Financial. Something about the timing makes my stomach tighten with caution.
I take another sip of coffee, contemplating the invitation. Christine isn't one for social niceties—everything she does serves a purpose. What could she possibly want from me?
Despite the warning bells ringing in my head, I find myself typing a reply.
Perfect timing. One p.m. works great. Looking forward to it.
-Tarryn
As I hit send, another email notification slides onto my screen—a reminder about my date tonight with Mark, the prosecutor Zoe introduced me to last week. I'd almost forgotten about it with everything happening with Jackson.
My finger hovers over the daisy pendant hidden beneath my blouse, an unconscious gesture that's become a tell I can't seem to shake. Whatever Christine wants, this lunch might be an opportunity to better understand the woman who's been watching Jackson and me with such calculated interest.
I set down the coffee and turn to my computer. I have work to do—preparation that doesn't involve thinking about Jackson Hayes and the way his thoughtful gift has already claimed my day.
"The sea bass is excellent here," Christine says, not bothering to look at the menu as we settle into our seats at an upscale bistro. Her perfectly manicured nail traces the rim of her water glass in a gesture that seems almost casual, but nothing about Christine is ever truly casual.
“I bet,” I say enthusiastically although I have no intention of ordering it. A few silent moments later, the waiter returns, taking our order and once again leaving us sitting in another awkward silence.
"So, Tarryn," she begins, her voice carrying a warmth I've never heard from her before. "You've made quite an impression in your two years with us. Miguel speaks highly of your attention to detail."
"That's gratifying to hear," I reply, keeping my guard up despite her friendly tone.
"The Westfield contract is a significant opportunity," she continues, swirling her water glass with calculated precision. "Career-defining, potentially."
"I'm aware of its importance."
"And your… partnership with Hayes is progressing well?" The way she infuses the word "partnership" with innuendo makes heat rise to my cheeks.
"We have complementary professional approaches," I say carefully. "Jackson's strategic vision balances my attention to detail."
"I'm sure that's not all that's being balanced," she murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it.
Before I can respond, she leans forward, her expression shifting to something almost sisterly. "This can be a girlfriends’ lunch, you know. We don't always have to be in competition."
The sudden shift in her demeanor throws me off-balance. Christine Blackwell doesn't do "girlfriends’ lunches." She does strategic networking and calculated advancement.
"I understand you both grew up in the same small town," she continues, her gaze never leaving my face. "What a fortunate coincidence that he chose our firm, of all places."
My pulse quickens. How could she possibly know that? "We're from the same general area," I acknowledge, keeping my voice neutral. "But we didn't reconnect until Blake Financial."
"How fortunate," she repeats, her smile sharpening. "You know, I've seen many promising careers derailed by office romances.” Christine swirls the last of her tea with the tiny silver spoon, watching me with a vaguely amused expression. “You remind me a little of Amanda Chen.”
I blink. “The woman you mentioned the other day?”
“Mm-hmm, the very same. You should remember her,” she says lightly, then lifts her eyes to meet mine. “She really was just brilliant, Georgetown Law Review, clerked for Vitner.”
Right. The cautionary tale she delivered outside Jackson’s office—sharp edges wrapped in perfume and concern.
“I remember,” I say, keeping my tone neutral with a slight smile.
Christine tilts her head. “Good. I’m bringing her up again because I want to make sure it gets through.”
There’s a long pause as I fold my napkin, the air between us growing heavier than it should over lemon vinaigrette and corporate gossip.
The message beneath her friendly tone is unmistakable: she knows something is happening between Jackson and me, and she's warning me that I'll be the one to pay the professional price if it comes to light.
Amanda Chen.
I’d brushed it off at the time. Told myself Christine was just being catty, performative. But twice now? There’s intent behind the repetition, and it lands with a weight I don’t want to acknowledge.
She doesn’t know anything. Not really… but still, that uncomfortable feeling sits low in my belly.
The way she insinuates things, the way she lingers when Jackson and I are talking or collaborating a little too close.
I’d like to think that Christine is extremely intuitive, but I know better.
He and I are clearly doing a shit job of pretending there’s nothing going on.
And history doesn’t tend to favor women in these positions.
I reach for my water, throat suddenly tight. “Like I said before, I’m completely focused on making sure our clients’ needs are met and my own career.”
By the time lunch ends, my stomach is tied in knots. Christine's warnings have hit their mark, reopening all the fears I've been trying to suppress about what's developing between Jackson and me.
"So, you're a prosecutor with the DA's office? That must be fascinating."
My voice sounds hollow to my own ears as I smile at Mark across the candlelit table.
He's objectively handsome—strong jawline, intelligent eyes, impeccable suit—and his résumé reads like a recruitment brochure.
On paper, he's perfect. In reality, I can't stop comparing every word, every gesture to Jackson.
"Mostly, it's paperwork." He laughs, the sound pleasant but lacking the rich warmth that makes Jackson's laugh vibrate through my chest. "But occasionally we get to play the hero and put away someone who truly deserves it."
I nod, taking another sip of wine that tastes oddly flat.
He's talking about a money laundering case now, something that should professionally interest me, but my mind keeps drifting back to Blake Financial's conference room and the way Jackson's fingers brushed mine when passing documents earlier today.
"And what about you?" Mark asks. "Finance law must have its own challenges."
"It does," I agree, forcing myself to focus. "Our current project involves international compliance across multiple jurisdictions. It's complex but satisfying when all the pieces fit together."
I want to add that Jackson found a brilliant workaround for the Australian regulations but catch myself. Why am I constantly bringing him into conversations where he doesn't belong?
"You seem distracted," Mark observes, his perception catching me off guard. "Bad day at the office?"
"No, not at all," I say quickly. "Just… a lot on my mind."
He studies me across the table, a knowing look settling in his eyes. "I hope I'm not overstepping, but… is there someone else in the picture?"
The directness of his question knocks the air from my lungs. "What? No, I?—"
"It's okay," he interrupts gently. "I know what it looks like when someone's heart is already taken."
Heat floods my face. Am I really that transparent? "I'm sorry," I say, embarrassment and guilt washing through me. "This isn't fair to you."
"Life rarely is," he replies with a kind smile. "For what it's worth, whoever he is, he's lucky."
The rest of dinner passes in awkward pleasantries before we mercifully agree to end the evening early. As I leave the restaurant, my mind isn't on Mark or our failed date, but on a certain blue-eyed attorney and the contract revisions waiting in my inbox.
My apartment feels emptier than usual when I finally get home, the silence pressing in from all sides. I kick off my heels and drop my bag by the door, exhaustion weighing on my limbs after the emotional drain of the day.
I pour myself a glass of wine and open my laptop, unsurprised to find Jackson's email waiting for me. The contract analysis is impeccable—detailed, strategic, with notes tailored specifically to complement my own approach.
But it's not the professional content that makes my heart race. It's the personal touches hidden within the formal language.
Your attention to Section 4.3 was brilliant, as usual. The way you think through these complications continues to impress me, Tarryn. Such brains to go with such… absolute beauty.
And later: