Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Sam
The oat milk latte slides onto my desk, interrupting the drone operator mid-sentence.
I blink down at the cup, then up at Tom's retreating back. He doesn't even pause to look at me, stepping right back to the monitors to point at the live aerial feed.
Rule Number One: The work comes first.
We agreed on it yesterday. We sat on his couch in his half-empty apartment, typed the parameters into my phone, and sealed it with a kiss that absolutely short-circuited my brain.
We promised we would keep the personal and the professional in two completely separate boxes.
But it turns out, watching Tom flawlessly execute Rule Number One is a massive liability to my concentration.
He doesn't acknowledge the coffee delivery. Doesn't break stride in his explanation about altitude adjustments and whether the current angle matches the perspective in my design.
The drone operator, Reeves, leans closer to the screen. "If I drop another ten feet, I lose the waterfront context."
“Then tilt north,” Tom says. “Just enough to keep the harbor in frame.” He gestures toward the screen.
“We need the Board to see how her path threads through the structure. If the angle flattens it, the scale disappears.”
Her path.
Tom shifts his weight, one hand braced on the desk. Completely focused.
I should be looking at the monitor. I should be checking the sightline alignment against the rendering.
Instead I’m watching him.
He is treating me like a standard, strictly professional colleague, just like we planned. So why is his hyper-competence making my pulse hammer against my throat?
I wrap my hand around the coffee cup. I take a sip, letting the caffeine hit my system, and close my eyes for a fraction of a second. Two shots of espresso. He remembered exactly how I take it.
"That," Tom says. "Hold that."
The operator nods. "I'll send you the raw files tonight."
"Appreciate it."
The operator packs up his gear and heads out.
Tom doesn't look at me right away. He studies the last still frame like he's memorizing it.
Tom turns toward me. "See you at two?"
"Site walk's at one-thirty."
"I'll be there at one-twenty."
The door closes behind him.
***
By Wednesday morning, I've decided our ground rules are actually working. Then my phone buzzes while I'm brushing my teeth, getting ready to leave for the office.
I rinse and glance at the screen.
A photo. A guy on the subway, reading a paperback. Sitting between his feet is a massive, fluffy Golden Retriever, completely zipped inside a blue bag with four holes cut out for its legs. The dog looks majestic.
The caption: Strict compliance with the MTA 'enclosed container' rule.
I save the photo to my camera roll, then open the folder I created last Thursday. Seven photos now. All from Tom.
I close the folder. My thumb hovers over the screen for a second before I set the phone down and finish getting ready.
***
Wednesday afternoon, we're in the glass-walled conference room reviewing slides for Thursday's check-in on my laptop.
Tom's standing at the window with his arms crossed. My phone buzzes. A calendar notification I already dismissed twice.
Tom glances over. "You color-code your dentist appointments?"
"That's the building inspector callback window."
"Pale blue tag."
"Time-sensitive."
"As opposed to all your other calendar items, which are...?"
"Categorized appropriately."
He grins and turns back to the window. I send him my schedule for the rest of the week.
He pulls out his phone. I watch him in the window's reflection, scrolling, tapping, rearranging something.
"You just moved your lighting walk," I say.
"Yep."
"To Thursday at two-thirty."
"Yep."
"That's right after my site visit."
He doesn't look up from his screen. "Seems like good planning."
I save the updated presentation file and close my laptop. He adjusted his entire afternoon to match mine.
***
When Tom and I get back to the site on Thursday, it's practically deserted.
"Let's confirm the final alignment between your digital model and the images I shot and the drone captured."
Tom's standing near the rusted Ironworks skeleton at the north edge of the lot, camera in hand, reviewing the last series of shots on his screen. The late afternoon light cuts across the empty dirt footprint, turning everything gold and amber.
I should leave. I have three emails waiting and a zoning call at four-fifteen.
I walk over to him instead. "Lighting's good," I say.
He glances up from his camera. "Eighty-two degrees. Almost magic hour."
"Almost."
He lowers the camera and looks out across the lot. "You sticking around?"
"For a minute."
We stand there. The site is quiet now—just wind moving through the skeleton framework and the distant sound of traffic on the parkway. No crew. No machinery. Just empty space waiting to become something.
Tom tips his head back, eyes closed, face turned toward the sun. "Wren's looking at a space in Greenpoint next week."
"The one with the corner exposure?"
“Yeah. But the lease terms are making her nervous. The rent goes up every year and she’d be responsible for the taxes and maintenance on top of it.”
I cross my arms. "That's predatory."
"That's what I said." He opens his eyes and looks at me. "She asked if you'd look at it."
"Send it to me tonight. I'll mark it up over the weekend."
His mouth curves. "You don't have to—"
"I want to."
He's quiet for a second. Then he nods. "Thanks."
A gust of wind kicks up dust from the exposed lot. I turn my face away and blink.
Tom shifts closer. "Hold still."
He reaches over and brushes his thumb across my cheekbone, his touch light and deliberate. "Concrete dust."
My breath catches. His hand lingers—half a second, maybe a full second—fingers warm against my skin.
Then he drops his hand and steps back like nothing happened.
I pull out my phone. Three twelve. I've been here twenty-five minutes past the official review.
Rule Number One.
I guess I have to leave.
***
The professional boundaries are officially off the clock.
I knock on Tom's apartment door Friday night at six forty-three with two bags of Thai food balanced against my hip.
He opens the door barefoot, hair damp. "You're early."
I step inside and he takes one of the bags. I kick my boots off by the door without thinking, lining them up next to his sneakers.
His apartment is small—exposed brick, a couch that's seen better days, a coffee table covered in lens cases and memory cards. The kitchen island looks like it’s never been used for food.
The light in the apartment is good. Western exposure, tall windows, the kind of late-day glow that makes everything look softer than it is.
Tom sets the food on the counter and starts pulling containers out of the bag. "Pad thai?"
"And spring rolls."
"You remembered the peanut sauce."
"You asked for extra last time."
He grins and grabs two forks from the drawer. "See? You're learning."
I grab my container and follow him to the couch. He's already queuing up something on his laptop—a documentary about street photographers in the seventies.
I tuck my feet under me and balance the pad thai on my lap. Tom drops onto the other end of the couch, container in one hand, fork in the other.
We eat in silence for a minute. It’s comfortable.
He takes a bite, chews, swallows. "So there was this one time in Red Hook—"
"Another trespassing story?"
"Security dogs."
I raise an eyebrow. "Plural?"
"Two of them. German shepherds. Very motivated." He spears a spring roll. "I was shooting this warehouse conversion—great bones, terrible lighting—and I needed a specific angle from the loading dock."
"Let me guess. You didn't have permission."
"I had implied permission. The site manager said I could shoot exteriors."
"And the loading dock was technically exterior."
"Exactly." He grins. "So I'm halfway through the series when I hear this noise behind me. Low growl. I turn around and there's two dogs, off-leash, staring at me like I just insulted their mothers."
I set my fork down. "What did you do?"
"Ran."
"Obviously."
"Made it to the chain-link fence in under ten seconds. Personal record." He takes another bite. "Cleared the top in one jump."
"And?"
"Caught my jeans on the wire. Ripped clean through the back seam."
I press my hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking.
"Rode the F train home with my jacket tied around my waist."
I'm laughing now, head tipped back, container wobbling on my lap. "And hoping you didn't get arrested for indecent exposure?"
"I sat in the corner of the car and didn't make eye contact with anyone for forty-five minutes."
"Did you get the shot?"
"Oh yeah. Sold it to an architecture magazine for fifteen hundred bucks." He shakes his head. "Totally worth the trauma."
I wipe my eyes and reach for my water.
I'm barefoot. I haven't checked my phone in forty minutes. I'm sinking into the couch, completely relaxed. My shoulders have dropped at least an inch since I walked through the door.
I watch his hands as he gestures, the way he holds the fork like he's sketching instead of eating.
Tom leans forward to grab his water. His laptop is still open on the table, screen angled toward him.
A notification chime cuts through the room. A banner drops down in the corner of the screen.
My eyes track the movement automatically.
Subject: Red Rock. RUSH assignment. Call me.
Tom closes the laptop and looks at me.