Worth the Wait Sneak Peek

Prologue-Tarryn

Eight years earlier…

The daisy field stretches before me like a blanket of stars fallen to earth, white petals catching the golden afternoon sunlight in a way that makes everything feel unreal—like we're suspended in some perfect moment between youth and whatever comes next.

I twist the slender stems between my fingers, weaving crown after crown while Jackson lies beside me, one arm tucked behind his head, watching me with those dark eyes that still make my stomach flutter with wild wings of desire even after three years of being together. When he looks at me like that—like I'm the only thing worth seeing in a world full of wonders—I feel simultaneously powerful and utterly vulnerable, my skin humming with awareness of his proximity.

"You're staring," I say, not looking up from my work, though I can feel heat blooming beneath my cheeks, spreading downward in a flush that seems to liquify my core.

"Can't help it," he murmurs, reaching out to twist a strand of my hair around his finger. The gentle tug against my scalp sends electricity cascading down my spine, igniting nerve endings I didn't know existed until Jackson first touched me. "You get this little crease right here—" His thumb brushes between my brows, his touch so achingly tender it makes my breath catch in my throat. "When you're concentrating."

I fight the urge to lean into his touch, to abandon the daisies altogether and lose myself in the heat of his body against mine. Instead, I focus on the delicate task, using it as an anchor against the overwhelming current of soon and leaving and separation that threatens to pull me under.

"I was thinking," I say, my voice steadier than I feel, "about what Mr. Harmon said about constitutional law last semester. About representing people who can't advocate for themselves." My fingers move more rapidly now, matching the sudden quickening of my thoughts. "That's what I want to do, Jack. Like what my father needed when Henderson Industries crushed him in court."

Jackson props himself up on one elbow, his gaze intensifying. The shift in his position brings his face closer to mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek, smell the intoxicating blend of cedar and sun-warmed skin that is uniquely him. He knows how rarely I talk about this—about watching my father transform from a proud business owner into a hollowed-out shell after losing everything in that lawsuit. How our family home shrank from a sprawling farmhouse to a two-bedroom apartment overnight.

"You'd be brilliant at it," he says with such certainty that I almost believe it myself. "The way you construct arguments—like building something beautiful and unshakable brick by brick. You’re a natural, Tar."

I finish the crown with a final twist, holding it up to the sunlight. "You're biased."

"Damn right I am." His grin flashes, quicksilver bright, before softening into something more serious, something that makes my heart constrict painfully in my chest. "But I'm also right."

He sits up fully now, taking the daisy crown from my hands. The air between us feels charged, electric with unspoken promises and the bittersweet ache of impending change. Tomorrow, I leave for Northwestern, and he's supposed to follow in just a few weeks. Our carefully plotted future stretches before us—me settling in first, him joining soon after, and then four years of building our lives together while pursuing our degrees.

Jackson places the crown on my head with a gentleness that makes my throat tight. His palms linger against my temples, cradling my face as if I'm something precious, something he's afraid might dissolve beneath his touch. His thumbs trace the curve of my cheekbones in a caress so tender it borders on reverence.

"My queen," he whispers, the lightness in his voice belied by the intensity in his eyes—eyes that seem to burn into mine with an unspoken hunger that makes me tremble.

"Forever?" I ask, hating the thread of insecurity that weaves through the word.

His mouth curves into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Forever," he echoes, but something flickers across his expression—a shadow I can't quite interpret.

I should have recognized it then—that infinitesimal hesitation, that fractional darkening of his gaze. But I was eighteen and drunk on first love, on the certainty that wanting something badly enough could make it indestructible.

His lips brush against mine, featherlight at first, then with growing urgency. I taste the mint of his toothpaste. His hands slide into my hair, careful not to disturb the crown as he pulls me closer, his body radiating a heat that makes my own feel molten from the inside out. The familiar pressure of his mouth against mine sends waves of desire pulsing through me, a sweetly painful ache blooming low in my belly.

When we break apart, breathless, he rests his forehead against mine. The air between us feels charged, intimate, as if we're sharing the same pocket of oxygen. "I can't wait to see your face every day on campus," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. "To study together in the library, to bring you coffee when you're up late writing papers."

"And getting that tiny apartment junior year," I add, tracing the outline of his jaw with my fingertip, memorizing the slight stubble that scratches pleasantly against my skin. "The one with the bay window where I can read while you cook."

"You've got it all planned out," he says, and again that shadow passes over his features, so quickly I almost think I've imagined it.

It happens so fast, the shattering of everything we've planned. One moment we're entwined in the daisies, mapping our future together in whispered promises and trailing touches, and the next—

"But… I'm not going to Northwestern. Not yet."

His words hang between us, incomprehensible at first, like he's suddenly speaking a language I don't understand. The summer air seems to crystallize around us, suspending this moment in time.

"What?" I pull back, searching his face for signs of a joke I'm not getting. My skin, moments ago flushed with desire, now feels suddenly cold.

Jackson sits up straighter, his fingers trembling slightly as he cups my face. There's a new tension in his jaw, a tightness around his eyes that sends alarm skittering down my spine like ice water.

"Dad's company is on the brink, Tar. The Henderson lawsuit, them coming after other businesses was just the beginning. Dad’s business is struggling—bad, they've lost three major contracts since then." He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I'm going to help him here in Indiana. Just for a couple of years—enough time to stabilize things before I join you at Northwestern."

Each word falls like a stone, heavy and unyielding. The perfect afternoon curdles around us, the daisies suddenly seeming garish rather than magical.

"Two years?" My voice sounds strange, distant, as if it belongs to someone else. The space between heartbeats stretches impossibly long. "Jack, that's—that's half of college."

"I know." His thumbs brush over my cheekbones, catching tears I hadn't realized were falling. The pad of his thumb comes away wet, glistening in the afternoon light. "But we'll make it work. We'll call every day, visit whenever we can. And then I'll come to Northwestern, and we'll get that apartment together, just a little later than we planned."

"You never said it was that bad with your dad's business," I whisper, mentally cataloging our conversations. There had been mentions of "tough times" and "restructuring," but nothing that suggested crisis, nothing that threatened the carefully constructed blueprint of our future.

"He didn't want anyone to know. His pride…" Jackson shakes his head, a muscle working in his jaw. "He wouldn't even tell me how serious it was until last week. If I don't help, thirty-seven people will lose their jobs. My dad will lose everything he's built."

Like my father did, I think but don't say. Instead, I ask, "Two years of long distance? That's the new plan?" The words taste bitter on my tongue, like ashes.

"I'll drive up as often as I can." His eyes plead for understanding, dark pools I could drown in if I let myself. "We'll make it work, Tar. I promise."

Two years. The words echo in my head, distorting into something unrecognizable. Two years of what? Occasional visits squeezed between his sixty-hour workweeks and my full course load? Daily calls that gradually become less frequent as our lives diverge? Me, alone at Northwestern without the one person I thought would be by my side?

"I thought we made these decisions together," I say, hating how small my voice sounds, how it threatens to break on each syllable.

"This wasn't a decision, Tar. It's an obligation." The slight edge in his tone ignites something defensive in me, a spark of anger that cuts through the numbness of shock.

"An obligation you kept secret until practically right before we—I leave?" I stand up abruptly, the daisy crown tilting precariously. "Were you ever going to tell me if you hadn't been backed into a corner?"

"That's not fair." He rises too, his height suddenly intimidating rather than comforting. The sun catches in his dark hair, highlighting strands of gold I've traced with my fingers a thousand times. "I've been trying to find another solution for days. I thought— I hoped—"

"You hoped what? That your father's failing business would magically recover? That you could avoid having this conversation entirely?" The hurt morphs into anger, protective and sharp. I know I’m being selfish but I can’t seem to stop myself from lashing out at him.

"I hoped I wouldn't have to choose!" The words burst from him with unexpected force. "Between the future I want and the family who needs me."

The implication hangs in the air between us—that I'm asking him to choose me over his family's welfare, over thirty-seven livelihoods. Guilt and resentment twist together in my chest, an impossible knot that tightens with each breath.

"I'll be starting college alone," I say finally, the fight draining from me like water through cupped hands. "Everything we planned—"

"Changes," he interrupts softly, reaching for me again, his touch gentler now, almost tentative. "But not the most important parts. Not how I feel about you. Not our future together."

But even as he says it, I can see the uncertainty in his eyes, feel it in the slight tremor of his fingers against my skin. We both know how easily distance can erode connection, how quickly "every day" can become "when we can" and then "when we remember."

I think of my own father's defeat—the slow collapse of his spirit as he lost everything. I imagine Jackson watching his father follow the same path, bearing the weight of that guilt forever.

"Okay," I whisper, though everything in me rebels against this sudden deviation from our careful plans. "We'll figure it out."

Relief floods his expression, followed quickly by a desperate kind of love that makes my chest ache. His kiss is urgent now, tinged with the salt of tears I hadn't realized I was shedding. His hands move across my body with newfound intensity, as if trying to memorize the feel of me, store it up against the coming absence.

The daisy crown falls unnoticed to the ground as he lowers me onto the blanket, his body covering mine in a familiar weight that suddenly feels impermanent. Every touch is heightened by the knowledge that soon, time will divide us—not just by me leaving for school as we'd planned, but by diverging paths neither of us foresaw.

His mouth at my neck is more desperate than I've ever felt it, teeth grazing the sensitive skin where my pulse hammers wildly. His hands trace paths across my ribs, my waist, fingers pressing slightly harder than usual, as if trying to leave impressions of himself on my skin that will last through our separation. I arch into his touch, suddenly hungry for the connection, needing the physical affirmation of what we're promising to preserve across distance and time.

Later, as the sunset paints the sky in impossible shades of orange and pink, we dress in silence heavy with things unsaid. The daisy crown lies forgotten in the grass, petals already beginning to wilt in the evening heat.

I leave it there deliberately, this symbol of promises that already feel less certain than they did this morning. Something in me knows that whatever we are to each other after this, we will never again be the teenagers who wove flower crowns and planned forever with the casual certainty of those who have never lost anything that mattered.

As I walk away, I hear him behind me, the soft sound of petals and stems being gathered. When I glance back, Jackson is carefully pressing a single daisy between the pages of the leather journal I gave him last Christmas. His expression is so nakedly vulnerable that I almost turn back, almost run to him and promise that nothing will change, that we'll weather this unexpected storm.

But the truth hangs between us, unspoken yet undeniable: everything has already changed. And neither of us knows if what we have—this first, fierce love—will be strong enough to survive it.

***

The morning of my departure dawns with a cruel perfection—cloudless blue skies and golden sunlight that seem to mock the leaden weight in my chest. My suitcases stand by the door, neat and organized, everything I'll need for my new life carefully packed away. Everything except the one thing I want most: the certainty that Jackson will be there with me.

He arrives early, helped by my parents to load the car, his movements efficient but his eyes constantly seeking mine across the driveway, across the living room, across every space that suddenly seems too large and too small all at once. The air between us vibrates with unspoken words, with promises we're both desperately hoping we can keep.

"I think that's everything," my father says, closing the trunk with a sound that seems to echo with finality. He and my mother exchange a look before tactfully retreating inside, leaving Jackson and me alone in the driveway, standing in the shadow of imminent separation.

"You're going to be amazing," Jackson says, his voice rough with emotion. He steps closer, his hands finding my waist with the easy familiarity of someone who knows exactly how my body fits against his. The warmth of his palms seeps through my thin cotton dress, a brand against my skin I wish I could preserve.

"Without you," I whisper, the words catching on the jagged edges of my throat.

"Not forever," he insists, his forehead coming to rest against mine. "Just for now."

His breath mingles with mine, warm and intimate in the space between us. I memorize this—the precise pressure of his hands at my waist, the subtle woodsy scent that clings to his skin, the exact shade of his eyes in morning light. These are the details I will hoard in the coming months, retrieving them during lonely dorm room nights when his voice on the phone isn't enough.

"I had it all planned," I confess, my fingers curling into the soft fabric of his t-shirt. "How we'd decorate our dorm rooms with the same photos. How we'd meet between classes at that coffee shop we found during orientation. How you'd help me navigate campus when I inevitably got lost."

His laugh is soft but pained. "I'll still help you. Just via FaceTime." His thumbs trace small circles against my hip bones, a gentle caress that makes my breath hitch despite the heaviness in my chest. "And I'm going to drive up as often as I can. Every few weekends. And you'll come home for breaks."

"It won't be the same," I say, voicing the fear that's been gnawing at me since that day in the daisy field. "We won't be the same."

"No," he agrees, surprising me with his honesty. "We'll be better. Stronger." His hands slide up to frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones with a tenderness that threatens to shatter me. "Distance doesn't change how I feel about you, Tarryn. Nothing could."

His kiss is devastating in its gentleness, a slow exploration rather than the desperate claiming of our recent encounters. He tastes of coffee and promises and heartache, his lips moving against mine with a reverence that makes tears prick behind my closed eyelids. His hands hold me as if I'm something precious, something irreplaceable, and I press closer, trying to absorb the feel of him into my very cells.

When we part, I'm shocked to see moisture glistening in his eyes—Jackson Hayes, who remained stoic when he broke his arm in three places during junior year football, who didn't flinch when he got stitches that left a small scar above his eyebrow, is fighting tears.

"I hate that I'm not going with you," he whispers, his voice cracking on the confession. "I hate that I won't see your face every day, that I won't be there for all your firsts."

"I know." I brush my thumb across his lower lip, committing its fullness to memory. "But you'll be saving your dad's company. Those thirty-seven people. That matters too."

He catches my hand, pressing my palm against his cheek in a gesture so tender it makes my heart contract painfully. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been the brains of this operation," I tease, attempting lightness despite the heaviness pressing against my ribs.

His smile is fleeting but real. "True." He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across his expression. "Tarryn, I need you to know, if there was any other way—"

"I know," I interrupt, unable to bear his guilt on top of my own pain. "I know, Jack."

My parents emerge from the house, their expressions carefully neutral but eyes full of understanding. It's time to go. The realization hits me with physical force, making my knees weak and my lungs constrict.

Jackson pulls me into one last fierce embrace, his arms bands of steel around my waist, his face buried in my hair. I feel his chest expand with a deep inhale, as if he too is trying to capture my scent, preserve it against the coming absence.

"Tarryn," he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending shivers cascading down my spine despite the sorrow pressing against my ribs. "Wait for me?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with more meaning than its simple words suggest. Wait for me to join you. Wait for me to fulfill my family obligation. Wait for our real life to begin.

I pull back just enough to look into his eyes—those eyes I've gazed into since we were fifteen, that I know better than my own. "Always," I promise, the word both a vow and a prayer.

He kisses me one last time, a kiss that tastes of goodbye and promise and something dangerously close to desperation. Then he's helping me into the passenger seat of my parents' car, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounds like the period at the end of a chapter.

As we pull away, I watch him through the rear window, standing in the middle of the driveway with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as if bearing an invisible weight. He grows smaller with each passing second, diminishing in my vision even as the ache of his absence expands within my chest.

I keep watching until he's nothing but a speck, then nothing at all—swallowed by distance in a cruel preview of what the next two years might hold. Only then do I allow the tears to fall freely, silent rivulets tracing paths down my cheeks as familiar streets give way to highway, to the first steps toward Northwestern, toward a future suddenly bereft of its most essential component.

In my lap, I clutch the single daisy he pressed into my hand before closing the car door—not part of the crown that symbolized our broken promises, but a fresh bloom, picked this morning. A physical reminder of his words: Not forever. Just for now.

I press it between the pages of my journal, wondering if promises, like flowers, can be preserved against the ravages of time and distance. Wondering if, when he finally joins me at Northwestern two years from now, we'll recognize the people we've become in the absence of each other.

***

Six months… it’s been six agonizing months of waiting on the edge of my seat night after night, praying… hoping he calls. But he doesn’t. 

My lip trembles, my chin starting to quiver as I replay our last phone call, of the email I sent him just days ago saying I can’t do this anymore. 

I sit in my darkened bedroom, phone clutched in my trembling hand. The blue glow illuminates the tear tracks I can feel cooling on my cheeks as I scroll to Jackson's name one last time.

My thumb hovers over the call button, a war raging inside me. Pride battles longing, fear wrestles with hope. Outside my window, lightning splits the sky—a perfect match to the fracturing I feel in my chest.

"One last time," I whisper, my voice breaking on the final syllable. "Just to hear his voice."

I press call, each ring resonating through my body like physical pain. One. Two. Three. My breath suspends, lungs burning with the air I can't seem to release.

His voicemail clicks in. That familiar voice, somehow already sounding distant, as if he's fading from me, even in this recording.

"It's Jackson. Leave a message."

The simple words pierce me like shards of glass. What could I possibly say to bridge the chasm already forming between us? How could words repair what circumstance seems determined to break?

My lips part, but the sound that escapes isn't words—just a single, broken exhale that carries the weight of everything we'd planned, everything we'd dreamed.

I end the call without speaking, then navigate with shaking fingers to his contact. My vision blurs as my thumb hovers over Block Contact. One movement to sever this connection completely. One gesture that says I'm choosing my future over this pain.

"Goodbye, Jackson," I whisper, pressing down firmly as the first heavy teardrop lands on my screen.

The phone asks for confirmation—a final chance to reconsider.

I don't hesitate.

---

Chapter 1-Tarryn 

Present Day…

The gleaming chrome and glass lobby of Blake Financial seems to whisper important people do important things here as I stride through the entrance. Today marks my two-year attorney work anniversary at the firm, a milestone that still feels surreal some mornings. I catch my reflection in the polished elevator doors—tailored charcoal suit, sleek chignon, the carefully constructed armor of a woman who belongs in these hallways of power.

"Happy work anniversary, Ms. Wells," Martin, the security guard, says as I flash my badge. His smile carries the genuine warmth that's made him a fixture in my morning routine.

"Thanks, Martin. How's Layla doing with the college applications?" I adjust my portfolio, making sure the Westfield contract is properly aligned inside.

"Driving me and her mother crazy, but that's teenagers for you." He shakes his head, pride evident beneath the exasperation. "She's got her heart set on Northwestern."

"Smart girl," I reply. “Don’t forget to tell her that when it’s time for her personal statement, I’m more than happy to help coach her on it.” Martin was kind to me on my first day, when I was so nervous I forgot my badge in the cab. 

“You got it!” He waves me on as I wish him a good day, catching a brief reflection of myself in a lobby mirror.

I straighten my blazer as I walk toward the elevator bank, savoring the confidence it gives me. Two years ago, fresh out of law school, I'd felt like an impostor in my clearance rack suits. Now, everything I wear is still mostly from the sale and clearance racks, but it’s carefully selected to project exactly who I am: Tarryn Wells, rising star attorney, meticulous and thorough, someone who doesn't make mistakes. 

The memory of my law school graduation flashes unexpectedly—standing on the stage, diploma in hand, eyes automatically scanning the crowd for a familiar face before I could catch myself. Even then, with everything I'd accomplished, some small part of me had been looking for Jackson's proud smile. Though we’d long since decided that with all of the hopeful dreams and whispered promises to each other, even we couldn’t make it work. Time and distance did exactly what I feared it would do—ripped us apart. The weakness had annoyed me then. It still does.

The elevator doors open with a soft ding, revealing my friend Zoe already inside, coffee in hand, looking impeccable as always.

"There she is." Zoe grins, her crimson lipstick perfect despite the coffee cup. "The two-year survivor. Congratulations, Counselor."

"Thanks," I say, stepping in beside her. "Though, 'survivor' makes it sound like I've been stranded on a desert island, fighting for my life."

"Please. The Blake Financial legal department makes Survivor look like a day at the spa." She takes a sip of her coffee, leaving a perfect lip print on the rim. "Speaking of which, have you heard about the new hotshot joining the team today?"

I press the button for our floor. "No. Should I have?"

"Oh, honey." She leans in conspiratorially. "Word is he's being fast-tracked. Miguel is personally shepherding him around. They poached him from some Indianapolis firm where he apparently worked miracles with their negotiation strategy."

A small knot forms in my stomach. I've been working my ass off for two years, carefully positioning myself for the junior counsel position that should be opening up next quarter. The last thing I need is some hotshot parachuting in and cutting in line.

"Fast-tracked for what exactly?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

Zoe shrugs, too casual to be genuine. "Not sure, but Denise in HR said Miguel mentioned something about 'fresh blood in the leadership pipeline.'"

The knot tightens. The leadership pipeline is where I'm supposed to be.

"Well, I'm sure he's very qualified," I say diplomatically, though my mind is already calculating how this might affect my carefully plotted career trajectory.

"Supposedly gorgeous too," Zoe adds with a sigh. "Not that I'm looking. I learned my lesson with Daniel."

I wince in sympathy. Zoe's disastrous six-month affair with a partner had ended with her being passed over for partnership and him getting a corner office. The Blake rumor mill had been brutal.

"Office romances are a career suicide pact," I say, repeating what has become my personal mantra. "And one person always has the parachute."

"Preach." Zoe raises her coffee cup in salute as the elevator stops on our floor.

As we step out, I catch fragments of conversation from Miguel's open office door.

"—credentials are exceptional," he's saying to someone I can't see. "The Wellington negotiation alone would have been enough to get my attention."

I feel a stab of anxiety. I've spent two years building a reputation for meticulousness, for never missing a detail, for being the attorney who catches the time bomb in Paragraph 37, Subsection C. But I know what the partners sometimes whisper—that I'm too cautious, too detail-focused, not dynamic enough in negotiations.

"I need to drop these files off," I tell Zoe, gesturing toward Miguel's office.

"Good luck. And try not to scare off the new guy with your intimidating competence." She winks before sashaying down the hallway toward her office.

I take a deep breath, straighten my spine, and head toward Miguel's door, only to pause when I hear more of his conversation.

"Your approach to the Wellington case was exactly what we're looking for," Miguel continues, his voice carrying that particular tone of impressed I've been working two years to earn. "Bold, innovative, but still legally sound."

Whoever he's talking to murmurs something too low for me to catch. I should walk away—eavesdropping is beneath me—but my feet remain rooted to the carpet as Miguel's next words drift out.

"That's why I think you'd be perfect for the junior counsel track. We need fresh perspectives, someone who can see beyond the standard playbook."

My stomach drops. Junior counsel. My position. The one I've been methodically working toward since the day I joined Blake Financial. And he's dangling it in front of some newcomer who hasn't put in the time, hasn't earned the right to even be considered.

I retreat silently, my mind racing. This changes everything. I need to make an impression with the Westfield presentation—not just a good one, but a career-defining one. I need Miguel to remember why he hired me, why I've been his go-to for the most complex contract work.

In my office, I throw myself into final preparations for the Westfield meeting. The contract has been my baby for weeks now, and I've reviewed every comma, every clause, until I could recite it in my sleep. But now I need to do more than just be thorough—I need to be memorable. Dynamic. The kind of attorney Miguel sees potential in, not just reliability.

When I finally walk into the conference room at nine a.m. sharp, I'm armored in confidence and wearing my killer pencil skirt that cost more than my first month's rent in Chicago. The Westfield team is already seated, Mr. Westfield himself at the head of the table. He's a notoriously difficult client who has sent three previous attorneys crying from the room.

"Ms. Wells," he acknowledges with the barest nod, not bothering to stand. "Let's see if you've managed to sort out the mess Johnson left behind."

I smile, unruffled by his brusqueness. "I think you'll find we've done more than sort it out, Mr. Westfield. We've completely restructured the approach."

For the next forty-five minutes, I walk them through my revisions to their contract. I've memorized every detail, anticipating questions before they're asked, highlighting potential issues others might have missed. When I explain the indemnification clause restructuring, I see the exact moment Mr. Westfield's expression shifts from skepticism to interest.

"This section here," I say, highlighting a paragraph on the screen, "is where most attorneys would settle for standard language. But I noticed your subsidiary operations in Singapore would leave you exposed under those terms. So I've created a custom provision that shields you while still remaining enforceable under both jurisdictions."

Mr. Westfield leans forward, actually studying the document now instead of just waiting for me to finish. "Show me how that works with the parent company guarantees."

I flip to the relevant section, feeling a flutter of victory. I've hooked him.

By the time I conclude the presentation, he's actually smiling—something the associates who prepped me said they'd never witnessed in a contract meeting.

"That's exactly the kind of thinking we need," he says, nodding appreciatively. "I've never seen someone catch these details before they become problems."

"Details are my specialty, Mr. Westfield," I reply, allowing myself a small smile. "I believe they're where the most significant risks—and opportunities—often hide."

The meeting concludes with handshakes all around, a rarity with the Westfield team. As they file out, Miguel catches my eye from across the room, giving me an approving nod that sends a wave of relief through me. 

Maybe I haven't lost ground. Guess I'm still in the game after all.

As I settle back in my office, I fire off a quick text to my mom. 

Me: How did Dad’s appointment go? 

She replies quickly.

Mom: More stable than last month, meds adjusted. Tell Miguel he’s keeping you too busy to call.

I smile at her joke but the guilt tugs at my chest. I send a smiley face, then Venmo her a hundred bucks for his copay. It’s not much, but it helps. I exhale slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little. I won’t say it out loud, but getting this promotion? It’s not just for me. It’s for them.

I spend the next three hours methodically preparing. I review my recent cases, noting specific wins and innovative approaches. Then I spend time mentally cataloging my contributions to the firm, crafting the perfect blend of confidence and collegiality to impress whoever this newcomer might be.

By the time I head to Miguel's office, I'm as prepared as humanly possible. This is just another negotiation, and I never enter those without knowing exactly what I want and how to get it.

Walking through the office to head to my meeting with Miguel, I hear a laugh that stops me in my tracks. Deep, warm, with that distinctive cadence I'd know anywhere. My heart pounds as I follow the sound toward the main conference room.

Through the glass walls, I see Miguel giving an office tour to a tall man whose back is turned to me. Something about his posture—broad shoulders, slight weight on his left foot—tugs at my subconscious before conscious recognition kicks in.

The world tilts sideways.

A high-pitched ringing floods my ears as he turns slightly to examine something on the wall. The oxygen seems to vanish from the hallway. My body recognizes him before my mind processes the information—goosebumps erupting across my skin, heart seizing mid-beat before thundering into a gallop.

Jackson Hayes. Here. In my firm.

My portfolio slips from suddenly nerveless fingers, papers scattering across the polished floor. I don't notice. Can't move to retrieve them. My legs have transformed to marble, heavy and immobile. The floor beneath me seems to undulate, reality warping around this impossible apparition from my past.

My mouth goes desert-dry, tongue sticking to the roof as I try to swallow. The taste of copper floods my mouth—I've bitten my cheek without realizing it. The sharp pain is the only thing anchoring me to reality as memories cascade through my mind with such force I nearly gasp aloud.

Jackson laughing in the daisy field. Jackson's fingers tangled in my hair. Jackson's voice, rough with emotion: "Wait for me."

A rush of heat floods my face, followed immediately by an arctic chill that leaves me shivering in the temperature-controlled hallway. My vision tunnels, periphery darkening until Jackson is the only clear point in a suddenly blurry world.

I force myself to breathe—one shallow inhalation that doesn't provide nearly enough oxygen. My hand flies to my neck, fingers instinctively finding the small daisy pendant hidden beneath my blouse. The metal burns against my skin like an accusation.

When I finally manage to move, it's to duck into a nearby empty office after picking up my files, legs finally giving way as I collapse into someone else's chair, the room spinning around me.

"Impossible," I whisper to the empty air, but the violent trembling of my hands betrays the truth my mind refuses to accept.

It can't be coincidence. There’s no way the small-town boy who broke my heart and then ended up going to a different college and law school than me after our plans fell through, somehow ended up at my exact firm.

Through the cracked door of the empty office, I watch Miguel lead him down the hallway, pointing out different departments. Jackson nods at appropriate intervals, the perfect picture of professional attentiveness. He’s no longer that tall, awkwardly thin boy who almost hides behind his own shadow. He’s almost unrecognizable now, but I know those shoulders, that gait, the way his head tilts slightly when he's absorbing new information. Eight years haven't erased my body's cellular memory of him.

He looks good. Devastatingly good, if I'm being honest with myself. The gangly boy I'd loved has matured into a man who wears his tailored suit like he was born in it. Success suits him—there's a quiet confidence in his posture that makes something twist painfully in my chest.

Did he flourish after I left? Was I holding him back with my own dreams?

The question sends an uncomfortable mix of emotions through me—pride and regret and something dangerously close to longing.

I watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from view. My pulse gradually slows from its panicked gallop, reason reasserting itself over the emotional ambush of seeing him again.

This is a professional situation, and I will handle it professionally. Jackson Hayes may have once known every secret corner of my heart, but that was a lifetime ago. We're different people now—accomplished attorneys, professionals. Whatever we once were to each other has no place in these hallways of power.

My fingers tighten around the files I'm carrying, knuckles white with pressure. I make the decision in an instant, turning on my heel and heading back to my office with quick, measured steps.

I'll gather myself and wait a few moments so that I can properly prepare my game face when I inevitably come face-to-face with him in a few moments. Because if there's one thing Tarryn Wells never does, it's enter a battle unprepared.

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