Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Tom
The elevator doors close and Sam exhales.
"That went well," I say.
She glances at me, eyebrows raised. "Well?"
"Okay. That went really well."
"Better."
The lobby is marble and glass. Sam's heels click against the floor as we cross toward the exit. I'm half a step behind her, noticing her shoulders have finally dropped from where they've been living near her ears all week.
The Developer smiled. Not the polite corporate smile he gave us after the last presentation—the real thing. He called us a powerhouse. Twice.
Sam pushes through the revolving door and the cool air hits us. The street is crowded—end of the workday rush, people moving fast with their heads down. She stops on the sidewalk and turns to face me.
"We were in sync," she says.
"We were."
"You picked up the timeline question before I could even pull up the Gantt chart."
"You set it up. I just followed through."
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. "That's not what happened and you know it."
A bike messenger cuts between us and Sam steps closer to the building. I follow, and now we're standing in a pocket of space between the revolving door and the street, out of the flow.
"You want to grab dinner?" I ask. "Celebrate?"
The words come out easy. Like I haven't been waiting to ask her for the last fifteen minutes.
Sam's expression shifts. "Oh. I can't. I'm meeting the Boss Babes."
I stop. "The what?"
She pauses. Her hand goes to the strap of her bag, adjusting it even though it doesn't need adjusting. "The Boss Babes. It's—okay, don't laugh at the name."
"I'm already laughing."
"Tom."
"Sorry. What is a Boss Babe?"
She rolls her eyes, but the color in her cheeks deepens.
"There are four of us. All women."
"I sort of got that from the name," I say, my grin growing wider.
“We all work in male-dominated fields. We meet up periodically to vent, support each other, and keep each other honest. That's it."
Three women who know Sam well enough that she texts them or meets them when things go sideways. The people she trusts.
"That's actually really cool," I say.
Sam looks at me like she's trying to figure out the angle. "You think so?"
"Yeah. I mean it."
She shifts her weight, glances past me toward the street, then back. "You could come. If you want."
The offer hangs there.
"You want me to meet the Boss Babes?"
"Yeah." She says it fast, like if she slows down she'll rescind it. "I mean, they've been asking about you anyway."
Asking about me. Which means Sam has been talking about me.
"Should I be nervous?"
Sam's mouth quirks. "Oh, definitely. Three women who've heard everything about you? You should be terrified."
She's messing with me now. "Okay. I'm in."
"You sure? They're not going to go easy on you."
"Where's the fun in that?"
She pulls out her phone. Thumbs move across the screen. She hits send and the screen lights up immediately. Three times in rapid succession.
"They're excited?" I ask.
Sam tilts the screen so I can read it.
Priya
??????
Liv
FINALLY
Nadia
Data point: this is significant
"You have no idea," Sam says.
We take the subway two stops downtown into Tribeca, the post-presentation adrenaline keeping the conversation light. By the time we turn the corner onto Greenwich Street, I'm genuinely looking forward to the interrogation.
The wine bar is small. Eight tables, exposed brick, a chalkboard menu listing wines I've never heard of. It tries for cozy and mostly succeeds.
Three women wait at the corner table. Wine glasses in front of them, coats draped over chair backs, eyes tracking us the second we walk through the door.
This is it.
If they don't like me, this gets complicated.
Sam raises a hand in a small wave and heads toward the table. I follow.
The woman on the left stands first. Dark hair, sharp eyes. Her posture suggests she has experience holding her ground in rooms full of men. She extends her hand.
"So you're the photographer. I'm Liv."
I shake her hand. Firm grip. "Tom. And you're the Boss Babes."
"We prefer 'professional support network,'" the woman on the right—Priya—says, grinning, "but yeah, Boss Babes works."
Sam pulls out a chair and sits. I take the one beside her.
The third woman, Nadia—quieter, observing me with the kind of analytical attention that makes me check my shirt buttons—speaks without smiling. "Sam says you're tolerable."
I glance at Sam. "High praise."
"Be nice," Sam says to Nadia. "He saved my laptop this week."
"We heard." Liv leans forward, elbows on the table. "The miracle recovery."
Sam goes still beside me.
I keep my voice even. "She would've done the same."
Priya grins. "He's a keeper."
Sam's face flushes. "Can we not do this right now?"
"We're absolutely doing this right now," Priya says.
A server appears with menus and Sam orders wine for both of us without asking. I don't mind.
Liv sets her glass down. "So, Tom. What's the plan after this project ends?"
The directness of the question catches me off guard.
"Uh... I don't know yet. I've been focused on finishing strong."
Liv tilts her head. "That's not an answer."
Sam turns to her. "You're supposed to be the nice one."
"I am being nice. I didn't ask about his five-year plan."
Nadia's eyes haven't left my face. "Are you staying in New York?"
I glance at Sam. She studies her wine glass, tracing the rim with one finger.
"Yeah," I say. "I am."
Nadia's eyebrows rise a fraction. "That's a recent decision, isn't it?"
"It is."
The table goes quiet. Assessing. All three of them look at Sam, then back at me.
Sam clears her throat. "Can we talk about literally anything else?"
"Well…" Priya says, smiling now. "We can talk about your grocery spreadsheet instead."
Sam's eyes widen. "You wouldn't."
"Oh, I absolutely would."
"It's color-coded by aisle," Liv adds, grinning. "And sorted by perishability."
"That's um…efficient?" I say.
"That's unhinged," Priya says.
Sam drops her face into her hands. "I hate all of you."
Nadia leans back, mouth twitching up. "She also has a packing list template. Laminated."
"Laminated?" I repeat.
"Don't encourage them," Sam says, laughing now.
The conversation shifts. They tell me about the time Sam brought printed agendas to a girls' weekend. About her refusal to use anything other than a physical planner because digital calendars "lack accountability." About the time she organized her bookshelf by spine color and then by genre.
Sam defends herself—barely—and the whole time she's relaxed. Shoulders loose. Smiling without thinking. Laughing at herself instead of bracing for judgment.
This is Sam. With people who love her.
And they're letting me see it.
Liv refills Sam's glass and asks about the Harbor District shoot. Priya asks if I've worked with other architects. Nadia asks how I got into photography. Normal questions.
They’ve decided I’m okay.
An hour later Sam checks her phone. "It's almost nine."
"We should go," I say.
Priya waves a hand. "You're fine.”
"I have an early meeting," Sam says, standing. She hugs each of them—quick, efficient, real.
I shake hands again. Priya's grip remains firm. Liv tells me to take care of Sam. Nadia just nods.
Outside, the temperature has dropped. Sam pulls her coat tighter and we start walking.
"Let me walk you home," I say.
"You don't have to."
I stop. She stops.
"I invested eight hundred dollars in your laptop," I say. "I need to protect that investment."
Sam goes completely still. Her eyes widen. She stops walking entirely, turning to stare at me, the math visibly turning over in her head.
"Eight hundred?" Her voice catches. "Tom, that's your own money. You didn't even ask me. You just... paid it?"
"Like I said. An investment, which is why I am walking you home."
Her eyes soften, a mix of disbelief and something much deeper taking over her face. She hates owing people. But looking at me now, she doesn't look burdened. She looks amazed.
Then, a slow, disbelieving laugh escapes her, and she bumps her shoulder against mine. "Jerk."
"You're welcome."
We start walking again. The sidewalk is quieter now, fewer people. The streetlights throw long shadows and our footsteps fall into an easy rhythm.
"I like seeing you like this," I say.
"Like what?"
"Smiling. Enjoying yourself."
She glances at me. "I smile."
"Not like that."
We walk another half-block. A cab speeds past, horn blaring at a pedestrian in the crosswalk.
"I liked seeing you with the Boss Babes," I say. "Although I'm not sure I can ever get used to saying those two words."
Sam laughs again. "You'll survive."
The silence is comfortable.
"So," Sam says. "Verdict?"
"On the Boss Babes?"
"Yeah."
"They weren't as terrifying as I feared. Direct, though."
She smiles. "That's one word for it."
I look at her. The streetlight catches her profile. "They're good for you."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. You seem more comfortable in your skin around them."
Sam doesn't answer immediately. We cross another street, wait for the light, keep walking.
"They liked you," she says finally.
"How do you know?"
"They stopped interrogating you and started embarrassing me. It's their way of saying, 'She might have some funny quirks, but we love her just the same.'"
I grin. "So they want me to appreciate all your quirks?"
She smacks my arm. "You're impossible."
"What? That's not what they meant?"
"No. They're trying to tell you to put up with me despite all my quirks."
I stop walking. Sam takes two more steps before realizing and turning back.
"Who says I feel like I have to put up with them?" I say. "Besides, you're stuck with me. I'm already invested."
She stares at me. Not sure if I'm joking. Not sure if I know I'm not joking.
Then she shakes her head, smiling. "That eight-hundred-dollar joke is going to haunt me forever, isn't it?"
"Oh, absolutely."
We walk the rest of the way to her building. Shoulders brush twice. Neither of us moves away.
At her door she stops. The porch light is dim and her building is quiet.
"Thanks," she says. "For coming. For... all of it."
"Thanks for inviting me."
She shifts her bag. Keys are in her hand but she doesn't move toward the door.
"They really did like you," she says.
"Good. I like them."
"Even the interrogation?"
"Especially the interrogation."
She smiles.
I reach out, push a stray piece of hair off her face. My hand lingers. Her skin is warm and she doesn't pull back.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I say.
"Yeah. Tomorrow."
She turns toward the door, keys jingling. The lock clicks. She pushes the door open, glances back over her shoulder.
"Goodnight, Tom."
"Goodnight, Sam."
The door closes. The hallway light flickers on through the frosted glass. I wait until I hear the second door click shut before I turn and walk back toward the subway.
You're stuck with me, Samantha Morgan.
I'm already invested.
I am.