Tom's eyes drift past my shoulder to the massive corkboard on the back wall. It's a chaotic collage of index cards, photos, and newspaper clippings pinned over each other like archaeological strata.
"What's this wall about?" he asks.
I glance back. “Margit’s thing. If something good happens, you write it down and pin it up. ‘Good things stay.’”
Tom studies the board a moment, then looks back at me.
“So what have you put up there?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“You. What have you pinned up?”
I blink. “Oh. Nothing.”
Tom’s eyebrows rise. He sets his coffee down with a small, deliberate clink.
“Wait. With everything you’ve accomplished, you haven’t put anything up there?”
My face heats. “What do you mean, ‘everything I’ve accomplished’?”
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
“The ‘30 Under 30’ article,” he says. “The one about emerging architects reshaping urban development. You were featured—two years ago?”
I freeze. My chest tightens.
“How do you know about that?”
Tom shrugs, but his eyes stay on mine. “I read it. Before we started working together.”
“You—” I stop. Recalibrate. “You read an article about me?”
“I looked up the team. You were the lead.” His tone stays light. “And you didn’t put it on the wall?”
I suddenly find the rim of my coffee mug fascinating. “The Boss Babes probably put it up.”
Tom opens his mouth—he's definitely about to say something pointed—but Tristan appears at the table holding two fresh mugs.
He sets them down with a knowing smile, then leans in toward Tom with a stage whisper loud enough to wake the dead.
"You know, she just started wearing makeup."
He winks at me.
I glare at him. My face burns, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking away.
I look at Tom. "Maybe calling you was a mistake."
Tom grins, his laughter rumbling low in his chest. "I don't know about that. I think calling me was a terrific idea."
The laughter fades, leaving a quiet space between us.
Tom’s gaze drops to my hands still wrapped around the mug. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches across the table and covers one with his.
His thumb brushes my knuckles.
“The color’s back in your cheeks.”
