Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Sam
Subject: Harbor District—Sister Site AssessmentFrom: Developer Aldridge
Board is considering a coastal property for community programming space (similar to Harbor District model).
There's a heritage preservation gala this weekend—excellent opportunity to assess how they engage stakeholders and manage public events.
We can then use these learnings to apply to the Harbor Project.
Can you both attend? Saturday evening, black-tie.
Tickets and accommodations covered. Please confirm.
I read it twice. A sister site. Stakeholder engagement research. Black-tie event with coastal preservation experts. This is the kind of opportunity that leads to multi-site portfolio work, the kind of credit that puts you on shortlists for national proposal requests.
I type my response immediately.
Happy to attend. Will coordinate travel logistics with Tom and confirm by end of day.
Professional. Enthusiastic. Exactly what a lead architect should say when handed a strategic expansion opportunity on a silver platter.
My phone buzzes thirty seconds later.
Tom
Field trip? And I have to wear a tie?
I stare at the screen. That's his takeaway. Not the stakeholder assessment. Not the preservation gala. Not the fact that the Board is considering expansion and wants us—both of us—to evaluate it.
Field trip. Tie.
I type back.
It's a professional development opportunity. And yes, black-tie means actual tie.
I own a tie.
One?
It's a very nice tie.
I laugh despite myself, and start building a mental packing list.
***
When we board the flight on Friday, the commuter plane is smaller than I expected. Two seats on each side of the aisle, overhead compartments barely big enough for a backpack. I slide into the window seat and pull out my tablet to review the gala's donor list.
Tom drops into the seat beside me, shoulders tight, jaw set.
I glance over. "Why do you look tense?"
"I'm fine."
"You're gripping the armrest."
He looks down at his hand like he didn't realize it was there, then forces his fingers to relax. "I hate flying."
I blink. "You? The guy who takes international shoots?"
"Doesn't mean I like it. I just tolerate it."
The engines rumble to life. Tom's knuckles go white again.
I set the tablet down and turn toward him. "How many flights have you taken in the last year?"
He thinks for a moment, eyes on the seat back in front of him. "I don't know. Twenty? Thirty?"
"And you hate every one of them."
"Pretty much."
The plane starts taxiing, the small cabin rattling loudly around us. Tom's breathing shallows.
I keep my voice quiet. "Maybe that's a sign you should stay on the ground more."
His head turns. He looks at me like I just said something he wasn't expecting—not the words themselves, but the way I said them. Gently. Without agenda.
"Maybe," he says.
I reach over and slide my fingers through his. His hand closes around mine immediately, grip tight enough that I feel the pressure in my knuckles.
With a heavy, mechanical roar, the plane lifts. The floor shakes, but Tom just closes his eyes and holds on, not opening them again until we're level in the air.
His grip loosens gradually, but he doesn't let go. Neither do I. Not until the seatbelt sign turns off.
***
The boutique hotel sits right on the water, all whitewashed wood and blue shutters. I stand in the lobby reviewing the gala program while Tom handles check-in at the front desk.
The clerk types something, then smiles brightly. "Mr. Bennett, you're in room 314. One room, two queen beds, ocean view. Enjoy your stay!"
My head snaps up.
One room.
Tom turns toward me, room key in hand.
I cross the lobby in four steps. "One room?"
"I changed the reservation," Tom says calmly.
"What?"
"Aldridge booked us under the developer's corporate account.
If we check in as VIPs, the staff will put on a show for us.
I want to see how they actually run events, not how they perform when they know they're being evaluated.
" He pockets his wallet. "I swapped it to one room under my personal name.
We're just a normal couple at a gala. We blend in. "
I stare at him. My pulse is hammering in my ears and I can't tell if it's anger or panic or something else entirely.
"You could have told me before we got here."
"Would you have come?"
"That's not—"
"Don't worry. I asked for two beds."
Heat floods my face. "That's not the point—"
He's grinning now. Full teeth. Eyes crinkling at the corners. "I told the front desk clerk I needed two beds because you snore like a chainsaw."
"I do NOT—"
"Prove it."
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
He's still grinning.
I turn on my heel and walk toward the elevator, pulse still pounding, face still burning. I hear his footsteps behind me.
The elevator doors close. We're alone.
I press the button for the third floor and watch the numbers climb. My reflection stares back at me in the brushed metal doors—flushed cheeks, tight jaw, hands clenched around my bag strap.
"You should've asked me first," I say quietly.
The grin is gone. "You're right. I'm sorry. I was thinking tactically, not... collaboratively."
I glance at him. He's watching me, and there's no deflection in his expression. Just acknowledgment.
"That's a pattern with you."
He exhales through his nose. "I know. I'm working on it."
I let the silence sit for three floors' worth of elevator hum.
"Okay," I say finally.
"Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay. But next time—"
"I'll ask first. I promise."
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
I step into the hallway, and Tom follows. We're halfway to room 314 when he clears his throat.
"Since we're talking collaboratively... there's one more thing I should mention."
I stop mid-step and turn to face him.
"Oh no."
"It's not—"
"What is it? What else did you sign us up for?" My brain is already spiraling through worst-case scenarios. "Don't tell me it's dance lessons. Please don't say you booked us Flamenco lessons—"
Tom's mouth twitches. "Flamenco?"
My face goes hot again. "I don't know! I panicked! It's the first thing that came out!"
He's trying not to laugh. I can see it in the way his shoulders shake, the way he presses his lips together.
"You were picturing us doing Flamenco?"
"Shut up." I'm laughing now too, despite myself. "Just tell me what you actually signed us up for."
He sobers slightly, though the smile doesn't fully disappear. "I have a freelance shoot this afternoon. Fashion brand, sustainable clothing line. Beach setting."
I blink. The catastrophizing drains out of me all at once. "Oh. That's fine. Smart, actually—you're traveling, might as well double up on work."
"Yeah. About that..."
My eyes narrow. "What?"
"The model didn't show."
"No."
"I need you to stand in."
"Absolutely not."
"Sam—"
"No. I'm an architect. I don't model sustainable beachwear for your freelance clients."
He shifts his weight, and I recognize the expression. It's the same one he wore when he asked me to trust him with the drone shots. The same one he had when he showed up at my apartment with Thai food and a plan for my crashed laptop.
"Thirty minutes," he says. "That's it."
I cross my arms. "Tom—"
"Please."
We've reached room 314. Tom slides the key card into the lock and pushes the door open.
I step inside and freeze.
Clothing racks line one wall. Professional lighting stands bracket the window. A reflector panel leans against the dresser. Garment bags hang from the closet door, each one labeled with a brand logo I don't recognize but that looks expensive in the way sustainable things always do.
I turn slowly. "You had this delivered to our room?"
"The hotel has a partnership with the brand. They set it up. When the model bailed, I had them send the clothes here."
I walk over to the nearest rack and touch the fabric of a linen dress. It's soft. Breathable. The kind of thing I'd actually wear if I ever took a beach vacation, which I don't, because I don't take vacations.
"These are actually... really nice."
"Sustainable fibers. Local designers. The whole campaign is about coastal conservation."
I look at him over my shoulder. "You're trying to appeal to my values."
"Is it working?"
I sigh and lift the dress off the rack. It's simple. Clean lines. A soft gray-blue that reminds me of the Harbor District images.
"Thirty minutes," I say. "And you owe me."
Tom grins. "I'll buy you dinner."
"You're already buying me dinner. The Developer is paying for this trip."
"Then I'll buy you dessert."
I hold the dress up to my shoulders and meet his eyes in the mirror.
"Deal."