I meet her eyes. "This is all real."
"Tom—"
"You're real for me."
Her hands press against my chest. I feel my heartbeat under her palms.
"Well," she says softly. "I can't pretend I don't want to kiss you again."
For one suspended second, neither of us moves.
Then she closes the distance and kisses me.
I respond immediately, bringing both hands up to cup her face before sliding them deep into her hair. I angle her head back, kissing her harder. She answers by wrapping her arms around me, her hands tracking up my spine. One hand presses between my shoulder blades; the other curls tightly over my shoulder, pulling me down until there is absolutely zero space left between us.
I lose track of time. There is only the heat of her mouth, the heavy rise and fall of her chest against mine, and the frantic thud of her heart. The cool night air, the string lights, the muffled music from inside—all of it fades into nothing.
When we pull apart, we're both breathing hard.
I rest my forehead against hers. "We should probably head back inside."
She laughs. The sound is breathless. "Yeah. Probably."
I offer my hand. She takes it.
We walk back toward the hotel in silence. The air between us is thick, charged. Neither of us speaks. We don't need to.
***
We reach room 314. I unlock the door.
Sam steps inside. "I'm calling dibs on the bathroom first."
I grin. "Of course you are. Fine. I'll just be here. Behind the wall of clothes."
She laughs, disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut.
I sit on my bed. Pull out my phone. Unlock the screen.
The ocean photo fills the display. Sam at the water's edge, hair down, completely herself.
I set it as my wallpaper.
Lock the screen.
Set the phone face down on the bed.
And leave it.
Chapter thirty-seven
Sam
The reality of Monday morning hit us like a physical blow, and by Wednesday afternoon, we are both bruised.
My phone screen is glaringly bright against the dark wood of the table when Tom finally slides into the booth across from me.
I glance up, register his presence with a tight knot in my chest, and immediately look back down at the email from Richard. The subject line readsHarbor Follow-Up — Action Items. The body is a bulleted list of deliverables with Friday deadlines. I scroll, skim, and flag three items that absolutely should have been delegated to Leo.
