"No."
The word isn't sharp. It's firm.
I look at him. At the way he's holding the camera—protective, like whatever he captured belongs to him alone. He doesn’t blink.
I could push. I could step forward, reach for the screen, demand to see what he's keeping from me.
But I don't. I meet his eyes and hold them for three full seconds. Then I take one step back.
"Okay," I say.
Tom's expression shifts slightly. Surprise, maybe. Or relief.
I let the silence stretch for two beats, then add, "For now."
***
We walk back toward the hotel. The sun is lower now, balanced on the edge of the water. The light stretches long across the sand, turning everything amber and soft.
I'm still barefoot. My sandals dangle from one hand, and the hem of the linen dress brushes against my legs with each step. Tom walks beside me, camera bag over one shoulder, hands in his pockets.
Neither of us talks for a full minute.
Then Tom breaks the quiet. "You looked good out there."
I glance at him. "As a model or as a person?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Both."
I don't respond. But I'm smiling.
We reach the wooden walkway that leads back to the hotel. Tom steps onto it first, then turns and offers me his hand.
I take it and step up beside him.
The lobby doors are ahead, glass and brass catching the last of the daylight.
"So," I say. "Gala tomorrow night."
Tom nods. "What about it?"
"Ready for it?"
"Are you?" he asks.
I think about the dress hanging in the closet upstairs. The heels I haven't worn in six months. The fact that tomorrow we'll be walking into a room full of people who will see us together and draw their own conclusions.
"Ask me again tomorrow," I say.
Tom holds the door open. I walk through, and he follows.
The photo is still on his camera.
Chapter thirty-four
Tom
The restaurant is loud, a steady hum of clinking silver and overlapping conversations, but I'm barely paying attention to the room.
