18. Jackson
Jackson
T he early morning light filters through half-drawn blinds, painting golden stripes across Tarryn's bare back as she sleeps beside me.
I've been awake for nearly an hour, content to simply watch her—this rare, unguarded version of the woman who has reclaimed territory in my heart with terrifying efficiency.
Her chestnut hair fans across my pillow in wild disarray.
One arm is tucked beneath her cheek, the other draped possessively across my chest even in sleep.
The sheet has slipped to her waist, revealing the elegant curve of her spine, the soft swell of her breast pressed against my side, the constellation of freckles across her shoulder that I rediscovered last night with reverent attention.
In sleep, all her careful defenses have dissolved.
Last night changed us. Her jealousy, so raw and unexpected, tore through the last of our pretenses.
The memory of her eyes flashing with possessiveness, her body responding to mine with uninhibited hunger, the way she claimed me as fiercely as I claimed her—it all replays in my mind, sending renewed heat through my veins despite our exhaustive night.
My fingertips trace the delicate curve of her shoulder, unable to resist touching her even in sleep. She stirs, making a soft sound of contentment that pulls at something primal within me. Her eyes flutter open, momentarily disoriented before focusing on my face with sleepy recognition.
"Hey," she murmurs, voice husky with sleep and lingering satisfaction.
"Hey yourself," I reply, watching warmth bloom across her features, just Tarryn looking at me with unfiltered affection that makes my heart stutter against my ribs.
She stretches languidly against me, her naked body sliding against mine in a way that immediately awakens my desire. "What time is it?"
"Just after seven," I tell her, turning to gather her closer, my hand spanning the small of her back. "We have time."
Her smile turns knowing as she feels my body's response pressing insistently against her thigh. "Time for what, exactly?"
Instead of answering, I capture her mouth with mine, morning breath be damned.
She responds immediately, melting against me with none of yesterday's desperate urgency but with something deeper, more deliberate.
My hand slides lower, cupping the perfect curve of her ass, pulling her closer as our kiss deepens.
Her leg hooks over my hip, creating delicious friction that draws a groan from deep in my chest. I roll her beneath me, settling between her thighs with practiced ease, my mouth never leaving hers.
When I finally push inside her, the sensation is exquisite—her body welcoming me home, still slightly swollen from last night's activities but wet and ready.
Our movements are unhurried this morning, a stark contrast to yesterday's frantic fucking.
We rock together slowly, her hands mapping my back, my shoulders, tangling in my hair as I build her pleasure with each measured thrust. Her eyes remain open, locked with mine in startling intimacy that feels almost more exposing than our physical connection.
When she comes, it's with a soft gasp of my name, her body tightening around mine in pulsing waves that push me over the edge into my own release. I collapse against her, burying my face in the curve of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin.
For long moments, we lie tangled together, heartbeats gradually slowing, my weight partially supported on my forearms to avoid crushing her. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my back, her expression thoughtful as she gazes up at me.
"What?" I ask, curious about the slight furrow between her brows.
"This terrifies me," she admits, voice barely above a whisper. "How much I want this. Want you." I brush a strand of hair from her face, allowing my fingertips to linger against her cheek.
"I know," I tell her, understanding the courage it takes for her to acknowledge this vulnerability. "Me too."
Her surprise is evident. "You're scared?"
"Terrified," I confirm, shifting to lie beside her, our bodies still pressed together from shoulder to ankle. "I've spent eight years building a life without you, Tarryn. Convincing myself I was over you, that what we had was just young love, beautiful but ultimately meant to end."
Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "And now?"
"Now I know that was a lie I told myself because the truth was too painful." I bring our joined hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "The truth is I never stopped loving you. Not really."
Before she can respond, my phone erupts in shrill demand from the nightstand, shattering our intimate bubble. Miguel's name flashes on the screen, unusual for a Saturday morning. Concern immediately replaces the ease of moments before. I answer.
"Hayes."
"Jackson." Miguel's voice carries a strain I rarely hear from our usually composed managing partner. "I need to see you and Tarryn in my office as soon as possible. Something's come up with the Christine situation."
Beside me, Tarryn stiffens, obviously hearing enough to understand the subject. Her hand tightens in mine as I respond.
"Of course. When would you like us there?"
"Can you make it by nine?" The urgency in his tone is unmistakable.
I glance at Tarryn, who nods immediately. "We'll be there."
After hanging up, Tarryn is already sliding from bed. "What did he say exactly?" she asks, gathering scattered clothing from my bedroom floor.
"Just that something's come up with Christine and he needs to see us both immediately." I join her, locating my boxers tangled in the sheets. "It didn't sound dire but definitely urgent."
Worry creases her forehead as she slips into her lace underwear, the movement momentarily distracting me despite the circumstances. "I thought everything was resolved. He said he'd handle it."
I step closer, stilling her hands as she fumbles with her bra clasp. "Hey." I wait until she meets my eyes. "Whatever happens, we face it together, remember."
"Okay," she agrees quietly, leaning into me for a moment before resuming our rushed preparations.
Forty minutes later, we stride through Blake Financial's eerily quiet Saturday morning lobby. The elevator ride is silent, her hand finding mine for a brief, reassuring squeeze before the doors open on our floor. Miguel is waiting in his office, expression unreadable as we enter.
"Tarryn, Jackson," he greets us with a nod, gesturing to the chairs across from his desk. "Thank you for coming in on a Saturday."
"Of course," Tarryn replies, sliding into her seat. "You mentioned something about Christine?"
Miguel leans back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Yes. After our conversation the other day, I received some interesting information. So, like a good lawyer, I conducted some additional investigation into Christine's past."
My stomach tightens, unsure where this is heading. Beside me, Tarryn sits perfectly still, only the slight whitening of her knuckles against the chair arm revealing her tension.
"What I found was concerning," Miguel continues. “Beyond some pretty damning lies that were swept under the rug by her former firm, which I plan to address with them later, apparently she’s had some blackmail accusations made against her.”
"That matches our experience," I confirm, careful to keep accusation from my tone.
Miguel nods. "I confronted Christine with this evidence last night. After a lengthy discussion, I not only fired her, but I reported her to the bar and filed a complaint against Miller & Walsh.”
“Holy shit,” Tarryn blurts out, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. She glances over at me and I shake my head as if to say, it wasn’t me who said anything.
“Yeah, exactly.” He exhales loudly. “I feel like an idiot for not seeing it sooner, but the fact her firm covered up her affair with a managing partner really fucking threw me off.”
“I—wow,” is all I can say.
“For the sake of gossip,” Miguel adds, running his hand down his sleep-deprived face, “let’s just keep this all between us okay? If anyone asks about her, direct them to me. Understood?”
“Understood,” we say simultaneously, nodding our heads.
“There's something else I want to discuss with both of you. I hadn’t planned to yet, but in light of everything…”
Tarryn straightens slightly beside me, professional alertness replacing relief. "Oh?"
Miguel's expression shifts to something more positive as he reaches for two folders on his desk. "The partners met last night to discuss the junior counsel position, along with several other strategic appointments."
My pulse quickens. This is it. I find myself reaching for Tarryn's hand without conscious thought, offering silent support for whatever comes next.
"Tarryn," Miguel says, sliding one folder toward her. "The partners have unanimously approved your appointment as junior counsel for the Chicago office, effective immediately."
Her intake of breath is sharp, genuine surprise lighting her features. "Thank you,” is all she can manage.
"Your work on the Westfield contract has been exemplary," Miguel continues.
Pride swells in my chest as I squeeze her hand. She deserves this recognition. She has worked tirelessly for it since long before I arrived at Blake Financial. Her accomplishment feels like my own, any competitive instinct completely dissolved in the face of her well-earned success.
"Jackson." Miguel turns to me, sliding the second folder across his desk. "The partners are creating a new division focused specifically on international clients, building on the framework you and Tarryn developed for Westfield's global expansion."
I accept the folder, curiosity mixing with anticipation. "A new division?"
"With you as division lead," Miguel confirms. "Initially operating from Chicago, but with eventual relocation to our New York office as the practice expands. We need someone with your strategic vision and negotiation skills to build something substantial."
The opportunity is extraordinary—career-defining in ways I couldn't have anticipated. A leadership position with international focus, the chance to build something from the ground up.
Yet even as excitement builds, reality intrudes. New York. Relocation. Away from Chicago. Away from Tarryn, just when we've found our way back to each other.
Miguel must read my hesitation. "The timeline is flexible," he adds. "We'd anticipate the full transition happening within twelve to eighteen months, allowing adequate time for establishing foundations here before building the New York presence."
I nod, mind racing through implications, possibilities, complications. "This is an incredible opportunity, Miguel. Thank you."
"You've both earned these advancements," he says simply. "The partners and I have complete confidence in your abilities to excel in these roles."
As we leave his office, I notice Tarryn's expression has shifted from initial excitement to something more troubled.
In the elevator, safely alone, I turn to her. "What's wrong? This is everything you've worked for."
"It's not me I'm worried about. It's you."
"Me?" I frown in confusion. "What about me?"
"The New York position. It's perfect for you," she says, voice softening. “International focus, leadership role, building something from the foundation up—it's everything you excel at."
"But?" I prompt, sensing the unspoken reservation.
She takes a deep breath. "I'm worried you'll decline it because of me. That you'll limit your career potential to stay in Chicago." Her eyes meet mine. "I don't want to be the reason you compromise your future—not again."
Understanding dawns, sharp and poignant. She's thinking of my decision eight years ago—choosing my father's business over joining her at Northwestern. The sacrifice that ultimately tore us apart.
"Tarryn," I say softly, cupping her face between my palms. "That was different. I was nineteen, torn between family obligation and personal dreams. We're adults now, making choices with full awareness of what really matters."
Her hands come up to wrap around my wrists, not pulling away but holding on. "And what really matters to you?"
"You," I answer without hesitation. "Us. I don't want to lose you again, not when we've just found our way back to each other."
"I don't want to lose you either. But I also don't want you sacrificing professional advancement for personal reasons. Not after how hard you've worked to get here."
The elevator doors open and we step out into the empty lobby, continuing our conversation.
"There's something else you should know," I say, ushering her into a coffee shop. “I’ve established a medical trust for my father."
Her eyebrows rise in surprise. "A medical trust?"
"Using most of my savings. The specialized procedure his doctor recommended isn't fully covered by insurance, but with the signing bonus from the New York position, I can fund the trust completely. He'll have access to any treatment he needs."
Her hand reaches across the table to cover mine. "Jackson, that's wonderful. And all the more reason you should take the New York position without hesitation."
"But what about us?" I ask directly. "Long-distance relationships don't exactly have a stellar success rate. Especially not for us, historically speaking."
Pain flashes briefly in her eyes, acknowledgment of our previous failure. "We're different people now," she says softly. "Older, hopefully wiser. With better communication skills and more established priorities."
"All true," I agree. "But still challenging. Still a risk."
"When did you become the cautious one?" she teases gently, though the question holds genuine curiosity.
I laugh softly. "Maybe you've rubbed off on me over the years."
Her eyes suddenly glisten. “My father's health has been concerning too," she confesses, voice catching. "The junior counsel position would help with his medical expenses. That's partly why I wanted it so badly."
The revelation hits me with surprising force, how similar our motivations are, how both of us are striving to support the parents who sacrificed for us. I move around the table to sit beside her, pulling her into my arms without concern for public setting.
"We'll make it work," I promise against her hair, feeling her body melt against mine. "Whatever it takes. Both our fathers getting the care they need, both our careers advancing. Us, together. All of it."