Chapter 35 Sam
Chapter thirty-five
Sam
Pre-dawn light creeps through the curtains, gray and thin. I've been awake for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, listening to Tom breathe, five feet away. The clothing rack still stands between us. Neither of us moved it before we went to sleep.
You're perfect.
He said it like he meant it. And then he hid the picture. Wouldn't let me see it.
I wish I knew why.
"You awake?"
Tom's voice breaks the quiet. I turn my head, but I can't see him past the wall of fabric.
"Yeah."
"What are you thinking about?"
I could deflect. I could say "the gala" or "work" or "nothing." I don't.
"The photoshoot. You taking pictures of me."
The silence stretches. I count three breaths before he speaks again.
"I was thinking about that too."
"The gala or the photoshoot?"
"That photo I took of you. The one at the ocean."
My pulse kicks up. I press my palms flat against the mattress.
"What about it?"
"It's my favorite thing I've ever shot."
"Tom—"
"Just wanted you to know."
I exhale slowly through my nose.
"Good morning, Tom."
"Good morning, Sam."
I sit up, pushing the blanket aside. I need to move. Coffee. Something to do with my hands.
"What time is it? I can't see the clock past all these clothes."
He laughs. "Seven twenty. Want to grab some coffee? Maybe breakfast?"
"Desperately. Coffee, I mean."
"Okay." The mattress creaks as he shifts. "You can have the bathroom first. I'll stay behind this wall of clothes."
"Jerk." I'm laughing now, and it helps. The tightness in my chest loosens.
"At the risk of sounding like I'm talking about planning—"
"Oh, I would never accuse you of that."
"It's not polite to interrupt." I stand, grabbing my toiletry bag from the dresser. "I was thinking we could walk the site while it's early. Get a feel for it before the gala setup starts."
"I was thinking the same thing." His voice is closer now, like he's sitting up too. "While you're getting ready in the bathroom, I'll change quickly and get my camera gear together. I want it to look like I'm just a guy with a nice camera."
"Very stealthy."
I close the bathroom door before I can say anything else.
***
The outdoor patio overlooks the water. The hotel is a historic mansion converted to a boutique inn, with terraced gardens leading down to the ocean. Tonight the gala will fill the ballroom and spill out into the gardens below. But right now it's quiet. Just us and the morning light.
Tom is halfway through his second cup of coffee, staring past me at the water. He's been quiet for three minutes. I've counted.
"Tom, what are you thinking? You seem a million miles away."
He blinks, refocuses on me. "Sorry. I was just thinking."
"About what?"
"About you." He pauses, runs his thumb along the rim of his mug. "Well, I guess more about me."
"Um. Care to elaborate?"
He sets the mug down, doesn't look at me right away.
"I told you I moved around a lot as a kid. Different homes, different rules, always temporary." He traces the rim of his mug. “I learned that staying meant getting attached—and getting attached meant getting hurt when it ended."
"Yes. It helped me understand your relationship with Wren."
He nods, still looking past me. "Now I'm here. Sharing a hotel room with a woman who made a shower schedule and yelled at me for leaving wet towels everywhere." He finally meets my eyes. "And I don't want to leave."
My throat goes tight. I grip my coffee cup with both hands.
"Good." My voice doesn't come out as steady as I meant it to.
He reaches across the table. His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheek. For half a second I think he's going to kiss me. My pulse hammers at the base of my throat.
But he doesn't. His thumb just traces my cheekbone once, slow and deliberate, before he pulls back.
The waiter refills our water glasses. Tom clears his throat and picks up his coffee again.
"For what it's worth," I say quietly, "I don't want to force you into staying. I want you to choose it."
"And for what it's worth..." He pauses, tips his head slightly. "I want to figure out how to stay."
Not "I'm staying." Not "I've figured it out."
He's trying.
I take a breath, let it out slow. "Should we start walking the site?"
Tom stands, offers me his hand. "After you."
He picks up his camera with the other hand, and we walk down the terrace steps toward the gardens.
The property is the kind of space I would love to work on. Layered history, good bones, natural flow from the main building down to the water. The gardens are tiered—stone pathways, low hedges, benches positioned to catch the view.
Tom photographs sightlines, pedestrian access, view corridors. All the techniques that worked for Harbor District. I watch him work, noting how he frames each shot. He's not improvising. He's applying a method.
His spontaneity isn't chaos.
"You have a process."
He stops mid-frame, lowers the camera. "What?"
"I thought you just winged it. But you don't." I gesture at the camera, at the way he's been moving through the tiered hedges. "You have a process. It just doesn't look like mine."
He tilts his head, lowering the camera. "Meaning?"
"Meaning, I've spent the last month trying to organize you. Like you're one of my deliverables." I let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. "I didn't realize I was doing it, but I was trying to force my structure onto your process. I'm sorry."
Tom chuckles, shifting his camera strap. "A little. But I get it."
I meet his eyes. "I'm going to try to stop doing that. You're good at what you do. You don't need me managing it."
He smiles, slow and genuine. "Does this mean I get to take down the shower schedule?"
I laugh, and the tension breaks. "Don't push your luck."
We walk back toward the hotel. The gala setup crew is starting to arrive—vans pulling up to the side entrance, workers unloading chairs and linens.
Tom's hand brushes mine as we walk. Not holding, just touching. My knuckles still burn where his thumb grazed them at breakfast.
I glance at him. He's looking at the ballroom entrance, probably already framing shots in his head.
Tonight, we will walk through it together.