Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
Sam
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me. I lock it, then stare at the garment bag hanging from the towel rack.
Thirty minutes. That was the deal. I strip off my travel clothes, folding my clothes into perfectly neat squares on the vanity, delaying the inevitable.
I unzip the bag. The linen fabric is a muted, coastal color—somewhere between slate and the deep teal of the harbor at dusk.
I pull the dress over my head. The fabric settles against my skin, surprisingly cool and incredibly light. I reach back, pull the zipper up in one smooth motion, and finally force myself to look in the mirror.
I stop breathing for a second.
It fits. It fits so perfectly it feels like a trick.
The neckline sits exactly where it should, the waist cinches without pulling, and the hem falls just above my knee.
It’s not armor, like my blazers and silk blouses.
It’s entirely unguarded. The fabric moves with my slightest breath, tracing my ribs, the curve of my hips, the sharp line of my collarbone.
It doesn't hide me.
I press my hands against the edge of the sink.
This is what he's going to see through the viewfinder.
A sudden spike of adrenaline—half panic, half something entirely different—hits my chest. I grab my sandals, dangling them from two fingers, and unlock the door before I can lose my nerve.
I step out barefoot into the hotel room.
Tom is checking his camera battery, but at the sound of the latch, he looks up. His hands completely stop moving. He doesn't say anything. He just stares, his eyes tracking from the hem of the dress, up the drape of the linen, to my bare collarbone.
Suddenly hyper-aware of my own skin, I shift my weight. "Does it work?"
He blinks, seeming to shake himself out of a trance. He clears his throat. "Yeah. It works. Let's go."
***
Five minutes later, we leave the wooden boardwalk behind. I drop my sandals near a patch of sea grass and step onto the actual beach. The beach is quieter than I expected. A gentle breeze moves across the sand. I reach up and pull the clip from my hair, letting it fall loose around my shoulders.
Tom looks up from adjusting his camera strap. "Good. Leave it down."
I stand on the sand and cross my arms. Then uncross them. Then fold my hands in front of me. Then drop them to my sides.
"Where do you want me?" I ask.
Tom glances back. "Right there is fine. Just—" He stops, tilts his head. "You look like you're waiting for a performance review."
"I don't know what to do with my hands."
"Then don't do anything with them." He pulls the camera out, adjusts the light meter hanging from his neck. "Just stand there."
I stand there. The wind pulls at the dress. I feel the fabric against my thighs and immediately wonder if I should hold it down or let it move.
Tom raises the camera, looks through the viewfinder, then lowers it again.
"What's wrong?"
"You're thinking too hard." He gestures at me with the lens cap. "Pretend you're yelling at me for being late."
I blink. "What?"
"You heard me. Pretend I just showed up twenty minutes late with no text and a terrible excuse."
Despite everything, I laugh. "That's not hard to imagine."
"There." Tom raises the camera again. "That. Do that again."
"Do what?"
"Stop thinking and just look at me like I'm an idiot."
I shake my head, but I'm smiling now. The tension in my shoulders loosens half an inch.
Tom clicks the shutter. Then again. "Good. Now walk toward the water."
"Like this?"
"However you want. Just move."
I take three steps. The wet sand is cold under my feet. I glance back at him.
"Don't look at me," Tom calls. "Look at the ocean."
I turn my head. The horizon stretches flat and endless, the water a darker gray-blue than the sky. The light is starting to shift—golden at the edges, softer than midday.
"Now spin," Tom says.
"Spin?"
"The dress is supposed to move. Make it move."
I hesitate, then turn in a slow circle. The linen flares out slightly, catching the wind. I feel ridiculous and weightless at the same time.
Tom's shutter clicks in rapid bursts. "Again. Faster."
I spin again, laughing because it's absurd and because I can hear the grin in his voice.
"Perfect. Now run."
"Run where?"
"Down the beach. I don't care. Just go."
I take off along the shoreline, bare feet slapping wet sand. The dress billows behind me. The wind pulls my hair loose from where I tucked it behind my ears. I can hear Tom's footsteps somewhere behind me.
"Now stop and look back at me like you just remembered I exist!"
I stop, turn, and give him my best annoyed architect expression.
He lowers the camera just long enough to laugh. "That's the one. Hold it."
The shutter clicks three times.
"Okay," Tom says, walking closer and checking the screen on the back of his camera. "Now look like you just discovered coffee."
I stare at him. "You're kidding."
"Dead serious. Give me your best 'first sip of the day' face."
I close my eyes, tilt my head back slightly, and let my mouth curve into something that feels like contentment.
Tom's quiet for two seconds. Then the shutter goes off four times in a row.
"Got it." His voice is lighter than it was ten minutes ago. "You're a natural."
"I'm humoring you."
"I know. It's working."
***
We work through the styled shots. Tom adjusts the light reflector, repositions me closer to the rocks, asks me to hold the hem of the dress like I'm about to step into the water. He gives direction. I follow it. The wind keeps pulling at the fabric, and I stop trying to control it.
Then Tom lowers the camera and checks the exposure on his light meter.
"I think we're good," he says.
I nod, but I don't move yet. My feet are half-buried in the sand. The tide is coming in slowly, each wave reaching a little farther up the beach than the last. The sun has dropped lower, turning the water metallic at the edges.
I turn away from him and walk toward the shoreline.
The wet sand is firm under my feet. Cold. I stop a few feet from where the water is reaching, close enough that the foam almost touches my toes but doesn't.
The horizon is a clean line. No boats. No landmarks. Just the point where the ocean stops and the sky starts.
I exhale, and my shoulders drop.
The wind is constant here. It pulls my hair across my face, presses the dress flat against my legs. I don't fix either.
Behind me, I hear Tom set something down. Maybe the reflector. Maybe the camera bag. I don't turn to check.
The water rolls in again, closer this time. The foam spreads thin across the sand, then pulls back. The sound is rhythmic and low, like breathing.
I close my eyes for three seconds. Then open them.
The light has changed. It's softer now, warmer, the kind of gold that only happens right before the sun sets. It sits on the surface of the water like a layer of liquid gold.
I forget I'm supposed to be doing anything.
***
I hear the click.
It's quiet. The shutter.
Then another click.
Then three more in quick succession.
I turn around.
Tom is standing fifteen feet back, camera raised. He's not adjusting anything. Not checking the screen. Just watching me through the viewfinder.
"What?" I ask. My voice comes out softer than I intended. "Did I do something wrong?"
He lowers the camera slowly. "No. You're perfect."
I walk back toward him, arms crossed loosely over my ribs. "Show me the shots."
Tom hesitates for half a second, then tilts the screen toward me.
I lean in. The first image is me mid-spin, the dress caught in motion, my face half-turned toward the camera. I'm laughing.
"I look ridiculous," I say.
"You look happy."
He swipes to the next one. Me running along the shoreline, hair flying, bare feet kicking up sand.
"This one's worse."
"This one's better."
I reach out and swipe the screen myself. The next shot is me standing still, eyes closed, face tilted toward the sky.
"Okay," I admit. "That one's not terrible."
Tom swipes again quickly. Too quickly.
I catch the motion. "Wait. Go back."
"It's nothing."
"Then why are you hiding it?"
He pulls the camera slightly closer to his chest. The screen is angled away from me now.
I step closer. "Which one's your favorite?"
Tom looks at the screen. His thumb hovers over the controls, but he doesn't swipe.
"This one," he says quietly. "But it's mine."
"Let me see—"
"No."
The word isn't sharp. It's firm.
I look at him. At the way he's holding the camera—protective, like whatever he captured belongs to him alone. He doesn’t blink.
I could push. I could step forward, reach for the screen, demand to see what he's keeping from me.
But I don't. I meet his eyes and hold them for three full seconds. Then I take one step back.
"Okay," I say.
Tom's expression shifts slightly. Surprise, maybe. Or relief.
I let the silence stretch for two beats, then add, "For now."
***
We walk back toward the hotel. The sun is lower now, balanced on the edge of the water. The light stretches long across the sand, turning everything amber and soft.
I'm still barefoot. My sandals dangle from one hand, and the hem of the linen dress brushes against my legs with each step. Tom walks beside me, camera bag over one shoulder, hands in his pockets.
Neither of us talks for a full minute.
Then Tom breaks the quiet. "You looked good out there."
I glance at him. "As a model or as a person?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Both."
I don't respond. But I'm smiling.
We reach the wooden walkway that leads back to the hotel. Tom steps onto it first, then turns and offers me his hand.
I take it and step up beside him.
The lobby doors are ahead, glass and brass catching the last of the daylight.
"So," I say. "Gala tomorrow night."
Tom nods. "What about it?"
"Ready for it?"
"Are you?" he asks.
I think about the dress hanging in the closet upstairs. The heels I haven't worn in six months. The fact that tomorrow we'll be walking into a room full of people who will see us together and draw their own conclusions.
"Ask me again tomorrow," I say.
Tom holds the door open. I walk through, and he follows.
The photo is still on his camera.