Chapter 17 Sam
Chapter seventeen
Sam
The leather chair is lower than Richard's.
I sit with my spine straight, laptop bag still on my shoulder because I haven't been invited to set it down.
Richard's at his desk, fingers steepled.
The Developer—Aldridge—paces in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, blocking the harbor view.
His reflection moves across the glass, sharp suit and sharper edges.
"The design narrative is strong." Aldridge stops pacing. Turns. "The delivery yesterday was a mess."
The word lands flat. No preamble.
My shoulders pull up toward my ears. I force them down, shift the laptop bag. The strap digs into the muscle.
"Disjointed." He says it like he's reading from notes. "That's the word the Board used. Disjointed."
I press my palms into my thighs. My jaw aches. I make myself breathe through my nose.
Richard leans back. The leather creaks. "Sam, walk us through what happened."
I pull in air. Let it out slowly.
“Tom and I coordinated on the slide sequence Tuesday night. Thursday morning, I made last-minute adjustments to the opening images. We had less time to practice the transitions."
"Less time." Aldridge crosses his arms. "Or no time?"
"Less time."
"Because from where I sat, it looked like you two weren't even in the same room. He missed three cues. You talked over him twice."
My throat tightens. I swallow against it. "The content was solid. The Board approved the direction."
"The Board approved the design." Richard's voice is quieter than Aldridge's, which makes it worse. He picks up a pen. Taps it twice against the leather. "They questioned the partnership."
The air in my lungs goes thin. My pulse jumps. I keep my face neutral. "Questioned how?"
Richard taps the pen again. Deliberate. Slow. "Is there friction between you and Tom? Because we can't afford personal issues on a project this visible."
Personal issues.
I need to answer. Need to say something that sounds true without being true. My brain races through options—timeline pressure, tech issues, compressed schedule.
I set my laptop bag on the floor. The movement buys me three seconds. I straighten, meet Richard's eyes.
"No friction. We're navigating a complex timeline with overlapping deliverables. Thursday's presentation was packed, and we didn't leave enough buffer for live adjustments."
Aldridge's reflection shifts in the glass. He turns back to face the window. "We hired Tom because his portfolio showed exactly what we needed—visual storytelling that supports architectural intent. If his eye isn't on the ball, we can bring in someone else for the final push."
My stomach turns over.
Someone else means losing the visual language we created. It means losing the trust we built with the Board. It means finishing the project without Tom.
I wanted that in the beginning. Now the idea makes my hands shake.
"Tom's eye is exactly where it needs to be." I pull my shoulders back. "Thursday wasn't a partnership issue. It was a coordination issue. I didn't give him enough lead time on the slide transitions. That's on me."
Richard's expression doesn't change, but his posture shifts. He leans forward. "I don't care whose fault it is, Sam. I care that it's fixed. Next Thursday needs to be flawless."
Aldridge heads to the door and pulls it open. He pauses in the frame, turning back to look at me. "We're betting a lot on this partnership. Make sure it's a good bet."
Then he's gone. The heavy door clicks shut, sealing the quiet in the room.
Richard picks up the pen again. Doesn't look at me. "That's all."
I stand and shoulder my laptop bag.
The hallway is empty. The elevator is twenty feet away. I make it fifteen before my hands start trembling.
I stop. Press my palm against the wall. The plaster is cool. I breathe.
In through my nose. Four counts.
Out through my mouth. Four counts.
The elevator button glows when I press it. The doors open. I step inside, hit the lobby button, and watch the floor numbers descend as my pulse slowly comes down from crisis level.
Outside, the sharp, freezing air cuts into my face. The brutal contrast with the overheated office makes my eyes water. I walk half a block before the adrenaline dump hits—my hands won't stop shaking, and my knees feel loose.
I stop on the sidewalk. Pull out my phone.
We need to talk. Not at the site. Meet me at The Grind—10th and Wythe.
Not the Donut. The Donut is Boss Babes territory. I need neutral ground.
His reply comes in forty seconds.
When?
Now.
The Grind is half-empty. It's eleven-fifteen on a Friday. I take the corner table, back to the wall.
The barista is a guy in his twenties with tattoo sleeves. "What can I get you?"
"Black coffee. Medium."
The words are out before I process them. Tom's drink. I ordered Tom's drink on autopilot.
He nods. Two minutes later he sets the cup in front of me. Steam curls off the surface.
I wrap my hands around it. The heat soaks into my palms, almost too hot, but I don't let go. Then I look at the cup and my brain catches up.
I push it three inches to the left.
I pull out my laptop. Open my email. Scroll through meeting notes I already read twice. The cursor blinks. I close the email without typing.
The door chime rings. Tom walks in. His hair damp. He scans the room—checks the counter, then the back corner, then finds me. His eyes are tired.
He crosses to the table. Pulls out the chair. Sits.
"Hey."
"Hey."
He glances at the black coffee. Doesn't touch it. Folds his hands on the table and waits.
I take a breath. "Aldridge almost pulled you off the project."
Tom freezes.
"What?"
"This morning. Meeting with Richard and the Developer. They called Thursday's presentation disjointed. Asked if there was friction between us."
Tom's jaw shifts. A muscle jumps near his ear. "What did you say?"
"That we weren't in sync. That I didn't give you enough lead time on slide transitions. That we'd already talked through it."
Tom's hands flatten against the table. "You took the blame."
"I took responsibility for my part." I pause. "Which was real. I should've coordinated better."
"Sam—"
"I'm not looking for credit." I unfold my hands. Flatten my palms on the table. "I'm telling you so you know where we stand. The partnership is on probation. We can't afford another Thursday."
Tom leans back. Runs his hand through his hair. It stands up in uneven spikes. "I'm sorry. I was trying to create space, and I made it worse."
"Space from what?"
He looks at me. Looks away. His hand drops to the table, fingers drumming once. "From this. From whatever's happening between us that isn't just work."
My chest tightens, but I refuse to let him off the hook. "So you decided to blow up our presentation instead of just talking to me?"
"I didn't mean to blow it up."
"But you did."
"I know." His voice drops, rough and entirely unguarded. "I just—I don't know how to do this, Sam. The work part and the other part."
The other part. He said it out loud.
I breathe in through my nose. The espresso grinder whirrs behind the counter. "Then figure it out. Because I can't carry this alone."
"Tom's hand slides across the top of the table. It stops three inches from mine.
"Either we're partners, or we're not," I say, my voice trembling but fierce. "I need to know which."
His fingers twitch. The fear wins out. He pulls his hand back, retreating, and rests it in his lap beneath the table.
"Partners," he says quietly.
I wait.
He doesn't say anything. Just sits there, staring at the scarred wood of the table. The door chime rings again.
Then he exhales. Slow. His shoulders pull in slightly.
"I know I'm on thin ice. I know I messed up.
" He stops, a heavy, complicated guilt flashing across his face.
"I don't have a roadmap for this, Sam. I've never stayed long enough to need one.
I've spent ten years keeping one foot out the door.
Always ready to take the next flight. I almost did it again last night. "
He swallows hard, his eyes dropping to the table before finally coming back to mine. The tightness around his mouth deepens.
"But I let it go. Because I want to figure this out." His voice drops, rough and completely stripped of its usual armor. "I want to figure out how to be with you."
Someone's laptop keys click in steady rhythm. The door opens and a blast of cold air sweeps across the floor.
I look at Tom. At the hair starting to dry in uneven waves. At the deep exhaustion in his eyes. At the hands hidden below the table. At the man who just confessed to anchoring himself for the first time in his life, just for me.
I uncurl my right hand. Extend it across the table. Palm up.
An invitation. Not a demand.
Tom stares at my hand. He goes perfectly still.
Five seconds pass. Ten.
Then his hand comes up from under the table. Slowly. Fighting the instinct to hide.
It hovers over mine. Not touching yet. Heat pools between us before skin even meets.
His hand lowers. Meets mine.
The contact is careful. Tentative. Testing whether I'll pull away.
I don't.
I close my fingers around his. Gentle pressure. My thumb finds the ridge of his knuckles. Traces across them. The skin is dry, rough at the joints. There's a callus on his index finger from holding the camera. A small scar near his thumb I've never noticed before.
This is the hand that captures light. The hand that found angles I missed. The hand that's been two inches away from mine a dozen times and never closed the gap until now.
The hesitation vanishes. He shifts his hand, lacing our fingers together.
He looks up. Meets my eyes. The exhaustion in his face dissolves into relief.
My shoulders drop. My breath comes easier. The constant, low-level hum of anxiety that I’ve been carrying since the boardroom finally goes quiet
"Okay," I say quietly. "We'll figure it out."
Tom's thumb slips down, pressing directly against the frantic, fluttering pulse at my wrist. He strokes the sensitive skin there. Once. Twice. The touch sends heat up my arm.
We sit like that. Hands linked across the table. Coffee gone cold. The espresso grinder whirring. The door chime ringing as customers come and go.
Neither of us lets go.