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.
Chapter thirty-six
Tom
The terrace overlooks the water. I pause, frame the shot with my hands—force of habit, checking composition without the camera.
"You're already planning tonight, aren't you?" Sam stops beside me.
I drop my hands. "What?"
