9. Tarryn
Tarryn
T he morning light slants through my blinds, casting golden stripes across my desk as I stare at Jackson's letter for the tenth time since arriving at the office.
My fingertips trace the creases worn into the paper from years of being folded and unfolded—by him, not me.
Each word feels like a knife twisting in my chest.
Dad's in the ICU. They're not sure if he'll make it through the night.
I close my eyes, the guilt washing over me in relentless waves. Eight years ago, I blocked his number during our worst fight, convinced I was protecting myself from more heartache. I never imagined he was reaching for me across the distance, desperate for comfort while his world collapsed.
I need your voice, Tar. I need your steady calm when everything's falling apart.
My throat tightens around unshed tears. Nobody knew me like he did. Just Jackson, who saw the softness beneath my prickly exterior, who knew exactly which pieces of me were most vulnerable.
I touch the small gold daisy pendant that nestles in the hollow of my neck.
I've worn it every day since he gave it to me on our first anniversary.
Through college, through law school, through countless dates with men whose names I can barely remember now.
I told myself it was just a piece of jewelry that happened to match everything.
The lie seems pathetic in retrospect.
A knock at my door forces me to quickly fold the letter, tucking it into my desk drawer beneath a stack of legal briefs.
"Come in," I call, smoothing my expression into professional neutrality.
Christine appears, immaculate as always in a tailored charcoal suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent.
"The Westfield team is gathering in Conference Room A," she says, her gaze sweeping over my desk with calculated precision. "Miguel wants to review the subsidiary liability framework before the client call."
"I'll be right there," I reply, gathering my materials.
Her eyes linger on my neck, where my fingers still absently play with the daisy pendant. Something flickers across her expression but before I can decipher it, she turns and leaves. I push the thoughts aside, chalking it up to my paranoia, and make my way to the elevator.
When the doors slide open with a soft ping, they reveal Jackson already inside, alone.
For a heartbeat, I consider waiting for the next car.
Eight floors is a long time to be trapped in a metal box with a man whose letter I've been obsessing over all morning.
A man I was about to ask up to my apartment last night.
But Christine is waiting, and appearing unprofessional isn't an option.
I step inside, positioning myself at the opposite wall. The doors close with quiet finality, sealing us in together.
"Good morning," Jackson says, his voice carrying that slight morning roughness that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.
"Morning," I manage, staring determinedly at the floor numbers as they light up in sequence.
The air between us vibrates with unspoken words. I can feel his gaze on me and it’s like a tangible weight against my skin. When I finally risk a glance, the intensity in his eyes steals my breath—like he's trying to see through my carefully constructed walls straight to the woman beneath.
"You look tired," he observes quietly.
I exhale a short laugh. "Thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear."
"That's not—" he starts, then sighs. "I meant you seem like you didn't sleep well."
He's right. I spent half the night rereading his letter, imagining him in that hospital waiting room, desperate and alone because I was too stubborn, too afraid to answer his calls.
"I'm fine," I lie, clutching my portfolio tighter against my chest.
The elevator stops at the nineteenth floor, the doors opening to reveal Christine who somehow finds a way to worm her way into any and every interaction between Jackson and me.
Her eyebrows arch slightly as she takes in our positions—me pressed against one wall, Jackson against the other, tension thick enough to slice with a letter opener.
"Well, isn't this cozy," she murmurs as she steps inside, positioning herself strategically between us. “I just had to grab a few important documents for this meeting that Miguel forgot.” She flips her hair over her shoulder, her obsession with being his favorite a little too on the nose.
The already confined space suddenly feels claustrophobic. Christine's expensive perfume fills the air, cloyingly sweet.
We stand in awkward silence as the elevator continues its ascent. Christine checks her watch, then her phone. But I don't miss how her gaze flickers between us, cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle shift.
Just as the tension becomes unbearable, I feel it—the whisper-soft brush of knuckles against the small of my back. Jackson has moved, positioning himself just close enough that his hand can graze the silk of my blouse, unseen by Christine.
The contact, though barely there, sends heat spiraling through me.
His fingers linger longer than professionally appropriate, tracing a small, deliberate circle that causes my breath to hitch.
My cheeks flush traitorously, and I shift my weight, unsure whether I'm trying to move closer to or farther from his touch.
Christine's head turns, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "Warm in here, isn't it?" she observes, her tone deceptively casual as she takes in my flushed cheeks.
"The building management is working on the air-conditioning system," Jackson replies smoothly, his hand dropping away, leaving a burning imprint on my skin through the thin fabric.
The knowing look in Christine's eyes tells me she's not convinced.
"I'm sure they'll resolve it quickly," she says, lips curving into something adjacent to a smile. "We wouldn't want anyone to become… uncomfortable."
When the elevator finally reaches our floor, I practically bolt from the confined space, desperate for air that isn't saturated with Jackson's presence or Christine's calculated observation.
Later that afternoon, I make my way to Christine's office, a stack of documents tucked under my arm. Miguel has requested her review of our progress so far before our next client meeting, and I've drawn the short straw of delivery duty.
I knock lightly on her open door, but there's no response. Her laptop is open on the desk, screen still active, suggesting she's stepped away momentarily. I hesitate, then step inside, planning to leave the documents in her inbox.
As I round her desk, my hip bumps against a partially open drawer, causing it to slide farther out. I move to close it, but a flash of color catches my eye—a photograph, partially concealed beneath a stack of legal pads.
I should walk away. I should absolutely not invade my senior colleague's privacy by looking at personal items in her desk. But something about the glimpse of genuine joy in that split-second view pulls at me.
Glancing over my shoulder to ensure I'm still alone, I carefully shift the legal pads aside.
The photograph shows a younger Christine—maybe five or six years ago—with her arms wrapped around a handsome man in an expensive suit.
They're standing in what appears to be a law firm lobby, a sign reading Miller & Walsh visible in the background.
But it's Christine's expression that stops me cold.
She's radiant. Her smile transforms her face completely, erasing the cold calculation I've come to associate with her. Her eyes crinkle at the corners with genuine happiness as she gazes up at the man who has his arm wrapped possessively around her waist.
On her left hand, barely visible but unmistakable, is an engagement ring.
The stark contrast between this joyful woman and the ice queen who stalks Blake Financial's hallways is jarring. I've never seen Christine look at anything or anyone with such unguarded affection—not even close.
I hear footsteps approaching and quickly replace the photograph, closing the drawer and moving to the other side of her desk just as Christine appears in the doorway.
"Ms. Wells," she says, her voice carrying a hint of suspicion. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I just arrived," I lie, holding up the documents. "Miguel asked me to deliver these for your review."
She takes the folder, her gaze searching my face for any sign of deception. "Thank you. Was there anything else?"
"No, that's all." I turn to leave, then pause, curiosity overriding my better judgment. "Actually, I was wondering if you ever worked at Miller & Walsh? I have a friend interviewing there next week."
Something flashes across Christine's face—pain, quickly masked by that professional blankness she wears so well. "Briefly," she says, her tone clipped. "It wasn't a good fit."
"I see." I offer a neutral smile. "Thanks anyway."
As I walk back to my office, I find myself wondering about the man in the photograph, about what happened to transform the radiant, loving woman in that image into the calculating predator who seems determined to drive a wedge between Jackson and me.
What changed? Who was he? And why does she keep his photograph hidden but not discarded?
The mysteries of Christine Blackwell will have to wait, though, because when I turn the corner toward my office, I spot a familiar figure waiting outside my door.
Ellie.
My sister stands with her back to me, her chestnut hair—a shade darker than mine—falling in loose waves past her shoulders. She's dressed in casual jeans and an oversized sweater that makes her look more like a college student than the accomplished pediatric nurse she is.
"Ellie?" I call, surprise and delight mingling in my voice.
She spins around, her face lighting up. "Surprise!" she squeals, throwing her arms around me in a fierce hug that makes me instantly homesick for a place I've spent years trying to forget.