10. Jackson #2
"Bullshit." The word comes out harsher than intended, but I'm tired of this dance. "You've spent eight years pretending I don't exist, then you call my mother to check on me? What game are you playing, Tarryn?"
"It's not a game!" She stands abruptly, putting us chest to chest. "Do you think this is easy for me? Having you show up here, working with you every day, trying to pretend I don't notice the way you look at me? That I don't remember exactly how your hands feel on my skin?"
The raw honesty in her outburst stuns us both into momentary silence. She steps back, running trembling fingers through her hair.
"I built a career being twice as thorough, twice as prepared as everyone else," she continues, quieter now. "Do you know why?"
I shake my head, giving her space to continue.
"My first year in law school, I developed a comprehensive analysis for a major project. The senior classmate—a man, of course—presented it as his own work."
Anger flares in my chest at the thought of someone taking advantage of her. "What happened?"
"When I tried to address it, he claimed I was confused—that we'd merely discussed some concepts, but the work was his." Her laugh holds no humor. "No one believed me. I was just an ambitious young woman trying to get ahead by any means necessary."
She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly looking smaller.
"I tried to take it further, but my professor was untouchable and almost got me kicked out.
I nearly lost my career before it started.
The only reason I recovered is because I kept detailed documentation of my work.
Even then, it was my word against his, and guess whose carried more weight? "
Understanding dawns. "So you protect yourself. Keep everything professional. Never let personal feelings interfere with your work."
"I can't afford to," she says simply. "Especially not with someone I'm competing against for promotion."
I step closer, careful not to crowd her. "Except we're not just competitors anymore. Miguel made that clear today. We're partners on this. And whatever this is between us"—I gesture to the space between our bodies—"it's not going away because we ignore it."
Before she can respond, her phone chimes. She glances at the screen, frowning.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Christine. She's requesting the preliminary drafts we've been working on." She shows me the message. "But she's asking for them separately. Not together, like Miguel specified."
I move to look over her shoulder, instantly suspicious. "Let me see the section assignments she gave us again."
Tarryn retrieves the document from her folder. We spread both papers on the conference table, comparing them side by side.
"There." I point to a discrepancy in the subsidiary section. "She omitted the cross-border liability clause from your assignment sheet."
"And the international acquisition framework from yours," Tarryn notes, her frown deepening. "If we submitted these separately, without comparing notes?—"
"—the final presentation would have major gaps," I finish. "Gaps that Christine could point out to Miguel."
"Making us both look incompetent," Tarryn says slowly, "while she steps in with the complete picture."
Our eyes meet.
"What the fuck? Is she trying to sabotage us?" Tarryn says, anger coloring her tone.
“Honestly, I want to say no because this all just seems so insane, but I don’t know how else to explain it.”
Tarryn's eyes narrow. “Yeah, well, she picked the wrong attorneys to mess with."
I can't help but smile at her fierce expression. This is the Tarryn I remember—brilliant, determined, unstoppable when she sets her mind to something.
“Let’s just focus on knocking this out of the park for now. If she’s actually trying to get us in trouble or fired or whatever, we’ll just address it with Miguel.”
We work for another hour, closely comparing our sections and identifying all the places where Christine's "guidance" would have led us astray. The shared mission creates a new energy between us—collaborative, focused, exhilarating.
When we finally finish, the office is completely deserted. The night security guard's rounds won't bring him to our floor for another thirty minutes. We're utterly alone.
Tarryn stands to gather her things but pauses when she notices me watching her. "What?"
"Nothing," I say, though it's everything. "Just… it's good, working with you like this. Really working together."
Her smile—genuine, unguarded—takes my breath away. "It is, isn't it? Feels like old times. Remember when we prepped for that debate tournament senior year?"
"State champions," I recall, smiling at the memory. "We were unstoppable together."
"We were," she agrees softly.
Something shifts in the atmosphere—the professional camaraderie giving way to a deeper current of connection. Eight years fall away in an instant, leaving only Tarryn and me, alone in a quiet room, drawn together by a force neither of us has ever fully escaped.
I step closer, unable to resist the pull between us. "Tarryn…"
She doesn't back away. Her eyes, wide and dark in the dim light, track my approach. I see her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, her breath quickening as I close the distance between us.
"Tell me to stop," I whisper, giving her one last chance to maintain the boundaries we've both been clinging to.
Instead of answering, she reaches up, her fingers tentatively touching my cheek. The contact is featherlight. I remain perfectly still, letting her explore, letting her set the pace of whatever is happening between us.
Her fingertips trace the line of my jaw, the curve of my lower lip. Each touch is a spark igniting something primal and urgent beneath my carefully maintained control. When her thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, I can't suppress the soft groan that escapes me.
The sound breaks something loose in her. With a swiftness that takes me by surprise, Tarryn closes the last inches between us, her mouth finding mine in a kiss that obliterates eight years of separation in an instant.
Nothing—not memory, not fantasy, not dream—could have prepared me for the reality of kissing Tarryn Wells again.
Her lips are soft but insistent, her body pressed against mine with an urgency that matches the desperate need surging through my veins.
I back her against the conference room wall, one hand threading through her hair, the other gripping her hip, pulling her closer.
She makes a small, needy sound against my mouth that sends blood rushing south so fast I feel lightheaded. My tongue traces the seam of her lips, seeking entry she eagerly grants. The taste of her lips is intoxicating, familiar yet new, like coming home to a place I never thought I'd see again.
Her hands aren't idle—they roam my back, my shoulders, finally settling at my nape where her fingers tangle in my hair.
She tugs slightly, angling my head to deepen the kiss, and the assertiveness of the gesture nearly undoes me.
This isn't the hesitant high school girl I remember; this is a woman who knows exactly what she wants and how to take it.
I press her harder against the wall, one thigh slipping between hers.
Her warmth settles against my leg and I press a little harder.
The moan that vibrates from her throat into my mouth is the most erotic sound I've ever heard.
Her hips roll against my thigh, seeking friction, and I'm suddenly aware of how quickly this could escalate beyond the point of no return.
My lips leave hers to trace a burning path along her jaw, down the column of her throat. Her head falls back against the wall, giving me better access to the sensitive skin beneath her ear. When I nip lightly at her pulse point, her entire body shudders against mine.
"Jackson," she gasps, my name a broken prayer on her lips.
I return to her mouth, unable to get enough of her taste, her touch, the small desperate sounds she makes when I pull her lower lip between my teeth. One of my hands finds the curve of her ass, squeezing possessively, pulling her against the hard ridge of my erection straining against my slacks.
The contact seems to snap her back to reality. She tears her mouth from mine, eyes wide, lips swollen from our kisses. For a moment, we simply stare at each other, chests heaving, bodies still pressed together from chest to thigh.
"That shouldn't have happened," she whispers, but her hands still clutch my shoulders.
Before I can respond—before I can tell her that nothing has ever felt more right—she slips from between me and the wall, putting distance between us. Her expression is a complex mix of desire, confusion, and something that looks dangerously like regret.
"Tarryn," I start, reaching for her.
She takes another step back, shaking her head. "I can't— We can't—" She gestures vaguely between us. "This complicates everything."
"It's already complicated," I point out, my voice rougher than intended. "It has been since the moment I walked into this firm."
She touches her lips, as if still feeling the pressure of my kiss. "I need time to think," she says finally. “And at work? I’m not thinking clearly. Clearly!”
"You're right," I concede, though it kills me. "We should be more careful."
Relief flashes across her features, followed by something that looks almost like disappointment. "I should go," she says, gathering her things with trembling hands.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. If I open my mouth, I might beg her to stay, to finish what we started against that wall. Instead, I watch as she slips out the door, her composure visibly fragile.
For a long moment, I remain motionless, the ghost of her taste still on my lips, my body aching with unfulfilled desire. Then movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention—a shadow shifting in the darkened office across the hall.
Christine's office.
I move to the conference room door, peering out into the dimly lit hallway. Through the glass walls of her office, I can make out Christine's silhouette, standing motionless in the darkness. Watching. Waiting.
If I had to guess, judging on how much I can see of her… She saw us. Saw everything.
The question isn't whether she'll use this against us, but when—and how devastating the fallout will be when she does.