Chapter 41 Sam
Chapter forty-one
Sam
Priya's looking at me like I'm a ghost that just materialized in the middle of a coffee shop.
"Look who finally showed up."
I slide into the booth at The Donut, drop my bag on the bench. The coffee's already waiting—oat milk latte, extra shot. Nadia must have ordered when she saw me coming up the block.
"Sorry. I've been slammed."
Liv leans back, arms crossed. "We were starting to think you forgot about us."
"I didn't forget."
Nadia pulls out her phone, opens their shared notes app. She taps the screen with one manicured fingernail. "Okay. Standard agenda. Tom update first." She pauses, meets my eyes with a smirk I recognize. "We have a standing Tom agenda item, remember? So spill."
I wrap both hands around the coffee cup. "We've actually been really busy."
The three of them exchange looks. Priya's eyebrow goes up.
"Professionally busy," I add quickly. "Get your minds out of the gutter."
Liv snorts. "Uh-huh. Sure."
"I'm serious. It's two weeks until the Capital Investment Committee meeting. Final push."
Priya frowns. "What's that?"
"Final funding approval," I say, keeping it short. "They decide if the project gets funded. If they say no, the last four months were basically a waste of time."
Priya frowns. "Wow. That's brutal."
Liv's expression shifts. "Ouch. That's a lot of pressure."
"Yeah." I take a sip of coffee. "I'm both looking forward to it and dreading it."
Nadia tilts her head. "Looking forward to it? You mean like... sleeping more? Hanging out with us again? You know we have problems that need solving too."
I smile despite myself. "Yes. That. And..." I hesitate, then push through. "Spending more time with Tom. Where we don't have a work deadline hanging over our heads."
Priya leans forward. "You mean like... dating? Actually going on dates?"
"Yeah. We've been working together nonstop for two weeks. We barely have time to breathe, let alone figure out what we are outside of work."
"What do you think you are?" Liv asks.
I turn the coffee cup in my hands, watch the steam curl up. "We're us. We're good. But I want normal. Coffee dates that aren't site meetings. Dinners where we don't bring laptops. Time to just be together without a deadline hanging over us."
Nadia's watching me carefully. "So if the meeting goes well, you get Tom time. And if it goes badly?"
"Then we deal with that. But I'm trying not to spiral before it happens."
Priya grins. "That's growth."
"Don't start."
"No, seriously," Liv says. "Six months ago, you would've built a spreadsheet of disaster scenarios by now."
I don't deny it. "I have a spreadsheet. I'm just not living in it."
They all laugh. I roll my eyes but I'm smiling too.
Nadia leans back, studies me. "Okay. Real talk. Do you think the project will get approved?"
"I think so. The design is solid. Tom's photography is incredible. We've done everything right. But there's always risk. Castellano's still on the Board. And he's not thrilled with us. This meeting is his last real chance to slow us down."
Priya nods slowly. "The guy who tried to get Tom fired?"
"That's the one."
"Can he block approval?" Liv asks.
"Not single-handedly. But he can create friction. Make it harder." I finish the last of my coffee. "We just have to be better than his objections."
Nadia reaches across the table, squeezes my wrist once. "You will be."
"I hope so."
We sit there for a moment, quiet.
Priya breaks the silence. "So. Two weeks. You can survive two weeks."
"Yeah. I can."
Liv smiles. "And then you get to actually date Tom. Like normal people."
"That's the plan."
Nadia gathers her bag, slides out of the booth. "Good. Because we miss you. And we're ready to have you back."
My throat goes tight. "I miss you guys too."
We exchange quick hugs. I check the time on my phone—7:52.
"I need to go. Site meeting at 8:30."
Priya squeezes my shoulder. "Go. Crush it. We'll be here when you come up for air."
I grab my bag, head for the door.
***
I'm halfway through cross-referencing budget line items when my phone buzzes. "Lunch is here," I say, standing. My knees protest—I've been sitting too long. "Be right back."
Tom doesn't look up from his laptop. His hair's standing up on one side where he's been running his hand through it.
I take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, grab the bags from the delivery guy, and come back up carrying two paper sacks.
When I push through the conference room door, Tom's leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, fingers pressed against his temples.
"Lunch," I say, setting the bags on the table.
He opens his eyes, blinks at me like he forgot where he was.
I pull out the containers, line them up. "I ordered your favorite. And I got us those brownies from the place on 8th."
His face softens. The exhaustion doesn't disappear, but something else surfaces underneath it.
"I could kiss you."
My pulse kicks. The thought flashes—close the blinds, lock the door, pull him toward me and forget about the presentation deck entirely. His voice is low and tired and the space between us feels charged despite the fluorescent lights.
Then I register the glass walls. The hallway beyond where people are walking past with laptops and coffee cups.
We're in a fishbowl.
I glance at the window, then back at him. "Well, you'll have to contain yourself."
He leans closer anyway, voice dropping. "I wanted to kiss you when we first came into this war room this morning. But..."
I meet his eyes. "I know."
We're sitting too close for colleagues. Not close enough for what I actually want.
"I want to kiss you too." I pause, then add with a tired smile, "But I'm afraid I'd fall asleep."
He sits back, mock offense written all over his face. "Excuse me?"
I laugh. "Not because of your kissing ability. I'm just so tired."
He reaches over, brushes his thumb across the back of my hand. Just once. "I know, babe. Me too."
We hold eye contact for a beat. Then I open the takeout containers, pass him his pad thai.
"Two more weeks," I say. "Then we can sleep. And kiss. In that order."
"Deal."
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I'm chewing noodles when Tom's laptop chimes.
He glances at the screen. His expression shifts.
I swallow. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Got an offer."
I set my fork down, wipe my fingers on a napkin. "For what?"
"Photo essay commission. South America. Magazine wants me for two and a half weeks." He pauses, scrolls down. "They're offering really good money. Career-defining kind of work."
My stomach tightens.
I pick up my water bottle, unscrew the cap, take a sip.
"When would you leave?"
"Right after the Harbor presentation. They want me there within three days."
I put the water bottle down carefully. My brain does the math automatically—three days after the presentation is Saturday. I'd already started imagining that Saturday. Sleeping in. Watching a movie. His arm around my shoulders, no laptops in sight. Nowhere to be.
The image cracks.
A sharp wave of disappointment hits—I am so, so tired of waiting for things to be normal.
I exhale slowly through my nose. He's a freelance photographer. Travel is part of the job. I knew that when we started this.
I wipe my hands again, even though they're already clean, and make my voice steady.
"Sounds like a great job. Do you want to take it?"
He's watching me.
"Professionally? Yeah. It's a huge opportunity. The kind of work that opens doors."
"I hear a but."
"But personally..." He sets his phone down, turns it facedown on the table. "I'd hate to leave right when we could finally spend time together. Real time. Not just lunch in a war room."
My grip on the water bottle loosens.
He wants to stay.
"And honestly?" He runs a hand through his hair. "It's not just that. This shoot—it's intensive. Pre-production, location scouting, coordinating with local guides. I would need more than three days of prep to do it right. And I don't have weeks. Plus, I'm running on fumes right now."
I nod slowly. "So you're saying you're not ready for it."
"Yeah. Mentally and physically, I'm tapped. If I took this job right now, I wouldn't be a hundred percent. And that's not fair to them or to me."
I pick up my container again, pushing noodles around. The motion gives me something to do with my hands.
"So what are you going to do?"
"Turn it down."
I stop. Swallow. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I want to sleep for a week after this presentation. And honestly? I want to spend time with you. When we're both conscious."
I smile despite the tightness still sitting in my chest. "That would be nice."
He's quiet for a moment, studying me. "You okay? You got quiet."
"I'm okay. I'm just trying to map this out."
"About?"
I set the container down, meet his eyes. "About how this is going to work. Long-term."
"What do you mean?"
I take a breath. "You're a freelance photographer. Travel is part of your job. And I can't—I don't want to be the person who asks you to stop working just because we're together. That's not fair."
"I'm not asking you to—"
I hold up a hand, cutting him off gently. "I know. But I'm saying it anyway. Because I need to figure out how to handle this. How we handle this."
He leans back slightly, giving me space. "Okay. So what are you thinking?"
This is the part where I usually have a plan. Where I've already mapped out contingencies and built the structure.
I don't have one.
"What if we made a plan?" I say slowly. "For how we handle travel?"
"Like... rules?"
I shake my head. "No. More like... I don't know, guidelines? I don't want to manage you." I pause, trying to find the words. "Jobs that are two weeks or less—you take them. No question. Anything longer, we talk about it first. Figure out timing, logistics, whether it makes sense."
He's staring at me. "You'd be okay with that?"
"I don't know if I'd be okay with it," I admit. "But I think it's realistic. You can't turn down every job that requires travel. And I can't panic every time you get on a plane."
"And if it's a longer job? Like a month?"
I hadn't thought that far. I'm making this up as I go.
"Then maybe I come with you. Sometimes. If the timing works and I can take time off."
He blinks. "You'd travel with me?"
"Not every time. But sometimes. If it makes sense."
He's quiet for a long moment, just looking at me.
"That's... yeah. I can work with that." He pauses, rubs the back of his neck. "I knew we'd have to talk about this eventually. Just didn't know what you'd say. But this? Yeah. This works. This is a relief."
I laugh, and it comes out shakier than I intended. "Don't sound so shocked."
My stomach knots even as I say it; this is the opposite of a Sam-approved, fully controlled plan. I meet his eyes. "I'm not calm. But I'm not scared either. I trust you. And I trust us. That's different."
He takes my hand under the table where no one walking past can see. His thumb brushes across my knuckles once before he lets go.
"For this one—the South America job—I'm saying no."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. But for future jobs? Let's use your plan. We'll figure it out together."
I squeeze his hand.
My eyes drift to Tom's camera case resting against the wall, next to my neat stack of blueprints. The case is battered, scuffed along the corners. There are airline tags still looped around the handle—faded paper rectangles with barcodes and three-letter airport codes I don't recognize.
I don't want to ask him to cut those tags off. I just want to trust that he'll keep texting me when he lands. That when he takes the bag, he'll come back.
I squeeze Tom's hand again. "Okay. Deal."
We go back to eating. Tom picks up his fork, twirls pad thai. "Two more weeks."
I pull the blueprints back toward me.
"Okay," I say. "Let's make sure they can't say no."