10. Jackson
Jackson
M y lungs burn as I push through mile five, feet pounding the lakefront path in rhythm with my racing thoughts. The early morning sun glints off Lake Michigan, casting diamond-bright reflections that would normally calm me. Not today. Not after last night's texts.
I still feel it too. And that terrifies me more than anything.
Tarryn's words have replayed in my mind since two a.m. when I finally gave up on sleep. I increase my pace, as if I could somehow outrun the hope spreading through my chest.
Eight years. Eight years of convincing myself I was over her. Eight years of first dates that never led to seconds because they weren't her. Eight years of building a life without the one person who made me feel truly seen.
And now she's back, admitting she still feels something for me, and I'm terrified of believing it.
My phone vibrates against my arm. I slow to check it, half expecting—hoping—it's her. Instead, Miguel's name flashes across the screen.
"Hayes," I answer, trying to mask my labored breathing.
"I need you and Wells in my office at nine. I'm restructuring the Westfield approach."
A pit forms in my stomach. "Restructuring how?"
"Nine o'clock, Hayes."
The line goes dead, leaving me standing on the path, sweat cooling on my skin as joggers stream past. Is he splitting us up? Has Christine been whispering in his ear? Or worse—did Tarryn request the change after our text exchange?
I turn back toward my apartment, the remaining miles forgotten. Whatever Miguel has planned, I need to be prepared. But how do you prepare for facing the woman who's haunted your dreams for eight years—the woman who just admitted she's as terrified of this connection as you are?
The elevator ride to Miguel's office is excruciating. Tarryn stands beside me, her perfume already going straight to my head. She hasn't looked at me once since we stepped inside, her attention fixed on her portfolio as if it contains the secrets of the universe.
"About last night," I begin, my voice lower than intended.
"Not now," she whispers urgently, eyes darting to the security camera in the corner.
Just those two words in that breathy tone send a jolt of electricity straight to my cock. I shift my stance, grateful for my suit jacket's concealing length.
Jesus fucking Christ, man, you have got to jerk off more or get a grip.
"Later, then," I concede, just as the doors slide open.
Miguel gestures us into his office without looking up from the documents spread across his desk. Christine sits in one of the visitor chairs, her expression carefully neutral—though I don't miss the calculating assessment in her eyes as they track our entrance.
"Sit," Miguel commands, finally glancing up.
We take the remaining chairs, positioned close enough that Tarryn's knee brushes mine as she crosses her legs. The brief contact sends another surge of heat through me. I resist the urge to shift away—or worse, to move closer.
"I've been reviewing your work on the Westfield contract," Miguel begins, tapping a stack of papers. "Impressive individually. Even more impressive together."
Relief floods through me. He's not splitting us up.
"Thank you," Tarryn says, her professional mask firmly in place. "We've been working to integrate our approaches."
Miguel nods, leaning back in his chair. "That's precisely what I want to formalize. I'm restructuring your approach to the project."
He slides a document across the desk. "I want each of you to develop your own framework for specific sections—not competing presentations but complementary approaches showing different strengths."
I scan the document, noting how he's divided the contract elements between us based on our individual strengths. It's actually brilliant—Tarryn handling the granular liability language, me tackling the negotiation strategy.
"This makes sense," I say, genuinely impressed.
"Of course it does,” Miguel replies dryly. "But there's one more element."
He gestures to Christine, who straightens almost imperceptibly.
"Christine will coordinate your efforts, ensuring cohesion between your sections and providing senior oversight."
The relief I felt moments ago evaporates. Christine's smile doesn't reach her eyes as she nods in acknowledgment.
"I'm happy to guide this process," she says smoothly. "I see tremendous potential in your… partnership."
The emphasis she places on the last word makes its double meaning unmistakable. Beside me, Tarryn stiffens slightly.
"We welcome your input," she says, her tone perfectly professional despite the tension I can feel radiating from her.
Miguel stands, signaling the meeting's end. "I want preliminary frameworks by Friday. Work together but showcase your individual strengths. The client needs to see why Blake Financial assigns complementary skill sets to complex projects."
As we leave Miguel's office, Christine falls into step beside us. "I've reserved Conference Room C for your continued work sessions," she says. "I'll drop by to check on your progress, make sure we are staying on schedule."
Her tone makes it clear she'll be checking on more than just our work. I fight back the urge to tell her to back off, to stop inserting herself into whatever is developing between Tarryn and me.
"That won't be necessary," Tarryn replies coolly. "We'll keep you updated via email."
Christine's smile turns predatory. "Oh, but it will be.” She smiles that sickly-sweet grin that isn’t fooling anyone. “As Miguel outlined in our meeting, I prefer a much more hands-on approach to mentorship. See you at four." She walks away, heels clicking a precise rhythm on the marble floor.
Once she's out of earshot, I turn to Tarryn. "She's going to be a problem."
"She already is," Tarryn mutters, then glances up at me, her professional demeanor slipping for just a moment. "We should get to work."
It's nearly ten p.m. when I look up from the acquisition strategy section I've been drafting. The conference room feels both too small and impossibly vast—just Tarryn and me, surrounded by stacks of papers and empty coffee cups, the rest of the office long since dark and quiet.
We've been working in relative silence for hours, our earlier awkwardness gradually giving way to focused productivity.
But I'm acutely aware of her presence across the table—the way she absently twists a strand of hair when concentrating, how she bites her lower lip when puzzling through complex language.
And I've noticed something else: she watches me when she thinks I'm not looking.
Her glances are quick, stolen moments when she believes my attention is elsewhere. But I feel each one like a physical touch—heat spreading across my skin, my body responding to her interest in ways that make focusing on contract language increasingly difficult.
Now, as I stretch out the kink in my neck, I catch her gaze lingering on the column of my throat, then dropping to where my shirt stretches across my chest. When she realizes I've noticed, a delicate blush spreads across her cheeks.
"See something interesting?" I ask, keeping my tone light despite the sudden thickness in my throat.
"Just thinking we should probably call it a night," she deflects, shuffling papers unnecessarily. "It's getting late."
"One more section," I counter, reaching for the subsidiary disclosure agreement just as she does the same.
Our fingers collide, then linger. The contact sends electricity arcing between us. I should pull away. She should pull away. Neither of us does.
Her skin is soft against mine, her pulse visible at her wrist. Time stretches between us, laden with eight years of unspoken words and unfulfilled desire. I carefully turn my hand, allowing my fingers to trace the delicate veins at her wrist, feeling her pulse jump at my touch.
"Jackson," she whispers, my name a question and warning combined.
Before I can respond, a knock at the door breaks the moment. We spring apart as the night receptionist enters with a bag from the Thai place down the street.
"Food delivery for you two," she says, smiling knowingly as she sets it on the table. "You've been at it for hours. Thought you might need sustenance."
"Thank you, Patrice," Tarryn says, her voice slightly higher than normal. "That was thoughtful."
"No problem. You two make such a good team—always burning the midnight oil together." She winks before heading out. "Don't work too hard."
The door closes behind her, leaving us in charged silence. Tarryn's face has flushed a deeper shade of pink, her embarrassment palpable.
"Why does that bother you so much?" I ask quietly.
"What?" She busies herself with unpacking the food, avoiding my gaze.
"People acknowledging that we work well together or are friends."
Her movements still. "You know why."
"Actually, I don't," I press, standing to move around the table. "Is it my presence that bothers you or the fact that you still feel something for me?"
She looks up sharply. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" I stop beside her chair, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. "You texted me last night, Tarryn. You admitted you still feel something. What exactly are we doing here?"
"Working," she insists, but the slight tremor in her voice betrays her.
"That's not all we're doing, and you know it." I take a calculated risk, playing the card I've been holding close. "You've been keeping tabs on me for years—through mutual friends, social media. You secretly called my mother on my birthday last year."
Her eyes widen in shock. "How did you?—"
"Mom told me," I say simply.
“Hey, she was sworn to secrecy!”
"She was surprised to hear from you after all this time. Said you asked about my health, my job. Whether I was seeing anyone."
She looks away, her profile outlined in the soft glow of the desk lamp. "I was just being polite."