Epilogue Sam
"So any plans with Tom today?" Liv asks, as Tristan slides my coffee in front of me.
I shrug. "He asked me to come look at some shots he's working on. Says he's having trouble getting the right angle on something."
Nadia raises an eyebrow. "I guess for you two that counts as romantic?"
"Oh, shut up." I laugh. "He values my opinion. I like that."
"Just make sure he takes you out to dinner afterward," Priya adds, grinning.
We all laugh, and I shake my head, already pulling out my phone to check the address Tom sent me.
***
The construction site is loud, even from the street. I text Tom when I arrive.
I'm here.
Be right down. I have to escort you up.
A minute later, he appears at the entrance, hard hat in one hand, a second one dangling from the other. He's smiling—that easy, familiar smile that still makes my stomach flip.
"Hey, you," he says, handing me the hard hat.
"Hey yourself." I strap it on, and he adjusts it slightly, his fingers brushing my cheek.
"Come on. We're going to forty."
We step into the construction elevator, and as soon as the gate clangs shut, he leans in to kiss me. Our hard hats collide with a loud clunk.
We both burst out laughing.
"Romantic," I say, grinning.
"I tried." He's still smiling as the elevator lurches upward.
When we reach the floor, he pulls the gate open, and I step out into open space—concrete floors, exposed beams, and floor-to-ceiling windows on every side.
"Wow," I breathe, turning slowly. "You can see everything from here."
Tom walks up beside me, gesturing toward the south. "That's your Harbor project."
I follow his gaze. The cranes, the framework, the beginnings of something massive.
I've walked that site a hundred times, stood at ground level staring up at the skeleton rising from rubble.
But from here—forty floors up, looking down—I'm seeing it the way Tom sees it.
The way light will move through the corridors at different times of day.
The way the waterfront sightlines connect to the grid.
"It's coming along," I say softly.
"It is." He's watching me, not the project.
I turn in a slow circle, taking in the three-sixty view. "This place is going to have stunning views."
"Yeah," he says quietly. "That's the idea."
I glance back at him. He's standing near a makeshift table with his laptop open, hands in his pockets. Something in his expression shifts—just slightly.
"So," I say, walking over. "What are you having trouble with?"
He gestures at the screen. "These shots. Tell me what you think."
I lean in, scrolling through the first image. It's a wide shot of the skyline, golden hour light catching the buildings just right. "This is beautiful. What's wrong with it?"
"Keep going."
The second shot is similar—another angle, same light. I frown. "Tom, these are gorgeous. I don't see the problem."
"Third one."
I click to the next image, and I blink at the screen. It's a close-up. Something small. Dark. I squint, leaning closer.
"What am I looking at?"
When I glance up, Tom's expression has changed. He looks—nervous.
"Why the close-up?" I ask slowly.
"Look more closely."
I stare at the screen. The image sharpens in my mind.
It's—wait.
That's the corner. The southeast corner of this floor.
"Wait—" My voice comes out strange. "That's—the southeast corner."
"It is," Tom says quietly.
I turn, scanning the space. "But I don't—"
"Keep walking."
My feet move before my brain catches up. I'm walking toward the corner. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. And then I see it.
A small black velvet box, duct-taped to the beam.
My knees go soft. I reach out, palm flat against the beam to steady myself.
I stop. Turn. Look at him.
He's smiling now, a little sheepish, a little breathless. "It's duct-taped down pretty good. You're gonna have to grab it hard."
I walk over, my hands shaking, and pry at the edges. The duct tape finally gives, and I hold the box in my hands, staring at it.
Tom crosses the space between us in three strides. He takes the box gently from my hands, but he doesn't open it yet. He just looks at me, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.
Then he takes a breath.
"I didn't think it was possible to love anyone as much as I love you."
His voice is quiet, steady. "And every day, I love you more."
A tear slips down his cheek, and he swipes at it quickly, laughing a little. Then he takes my hand, holding it between both of his, and looks right at me.
"Samantha—" He pauses. "Wait. I just realized I don't know your middle name."
I laugh, the sound coming out shaky. "Allison."
He grins. "Samantha Allison Morgan." His grip tightens on my hand. "Will you marry me?"
He opens the lid of the box, the ring catching the light, and gives me this questioning look—hopeful, nervous, vulnerable.
"Please say yes," he adds quickly, "because I really want to spend the rest of my life with you."
I'm laughing and crying at the same time.
"Yes."
Tom exhales. Relief floods his face. He slides the ring onto my finger, his hands steadying as the band settles into place. I can't stop staring at it. The diamond catches the late afternoon light pouring through the exposed steel framework, throwing tiny points of brightness across my hand.
I look up at him, and he's grinning.
"Are we allowed to take our hard hats off?" I ask.
He shakes his head, smiling. "Well, technically, that's against the rules."
I push my hard hat back just enough, and then I kiss him.
When we finally pull apart, he's grinning. "Now look who's bending the rules."
I laugh and pull him in for another kiss.
THE END
If you love Tom and Sam, I think you will love Liam and Claire from my previous book Stuck with my Guarded MVP: A Sweet Roommates to Lovers Hockey Romance
(Warning EVERYONE loves Liam)
It’s been 3,832 days since I saw that face.
I know it isn’t her. It can’t be.
But for a second, just one brutal, disorienting second, my brain glitches.
The woman standing in the lobby has her exact eyes.
That same warm honey-brown, wide and unguarded.
The same tilt of her head when she’s listening closely.
The same unconscious habit of tucking a strand of hair behind her left ear when she’s concentrating.
Like muscle memory from a life that isn’t hers.
I blink, and the illusion fractures. This woman’s posture is too careful. Too composed.
She moved through a room like gravity worked differently for her, arms wide when she laughed, her expression always half a second ahead of her thoughts.
This one wears control like armor.
Still, the resemblance is enough to make my chest ache. Enough to make me forget, for a second, what year it is. Where I am. Enough to drag up what I’ve spent ten years trying not to remember.
Same eyes. Same gesture. The resemblance is still crawling up my spine. Same legs. But hers were usually in jeans and boots, not heels and a skirt that fits like that.
She turns, and I know it’s not her.
But for a second, I let myself feel it anyway.
***
My phone buzzed.
"Mr. Callahan," the doorman said, his voice crackling slightly through the speaker. "You’ve got a delivery."
“Thanks, Arturo. I will be right down.”
“Let me guess, Mr. Callahan...another book?"
I could picture the smirk on his face. I smiled, wiping my hands on a dish towel. "That would be correct. Actually, it’s two this time. I need something to read on the plane."
"Living dangerously," he said, and the line clicked off.
I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my key card, and stepped into the elevator. No music, no chatter. Just the soft hum of motion and the low ping as the floors ticked by. My kind of quiet.
The lobby smelled faintly of citrus and polish, like it always did. Arturo stood behind the desk, a rectangular package already in hand, grinning like he’d just won a bet.
I took the box and gave it a quick shake, enough to feel the weight shift inside. "Biography of a Chef. French guy. And a book on fermentation techniques, I’ll probably screw up before I get them right."
Arturo chuckled. "Yeah, no need to pass that one along when you’re done."
"Didn’t think so."
I turned the package under my arm and started to head for the door.
A voice cut across the lobby.
Her voice. Tense. Clipped words. No give in her tone.
I stopped walking.
She was standing near the far window, phone to her ear, her back to me.
"No, I understand things come up, but I’ve been trying to see this place for two weeks." She let out a short huff and pressed her free hand to her forehead. "You said today was the best shot—now you’re saying the end of next week? That’s too late. He’ll already be in town."
She turned slightly, pacing two slow steps toward the window, her heels tapping against the tile. Her other hand gripped the phone tightly.
"No, it’s not for me. It’s for my brother. He just took a job here. He needs to move in and get the place ready before his family arrives."
A pause.
"Yes. I’ve already ruled out the rest of the shortlist. This was the last place I had lined up."
I leaned a little toward the desk. "Arturo, what’s going on?"
He glanced over his shoulder, then back at me. "She’s been apartment hunting for her brother. Apparently, he’s got the financials all cleared, but she insists on seeing any unit in person before he signs."
I looked back toward the woman by the window. She was still on the phone, clearly losing steam.
Arturo continued, a little quieter. "The real estate agent was supposed to meet her here, but they’re a no-show."
"Which unit?"
"2804."
I paused. "That’s only a few floors down from my place."
"Yep," Arturo said. The place is nice. Move-in ready. Honestly, if you’re willing, maybe you could answer some questions? Give her a sense of the building? I feel bad for her, she seems pretty rattled."
I didn’t answer right away. I just turned the package over in my hands and kept watching her.
Her shoulders dropped. She stopped pacing.