Three days after the summit ended, Sophie was still tired in her bones.
She’d made it back to Denver, slept for almost twelve hours, and then been sucked straight into the post-event vortex: debrief meetings with Miranda, thank-you calls with vendors, invoice reconciliations that made her eyes cross.
On top of that, Aurora’s inbox had exploded.
“Everyone wants their own haunted mountain retreat now,” Miranda said, tossing a stack of new inquiries onto Sophie’s desk. “I told them we’re fresh out of trauma rooms.”
“I’m not going back up there with StreamWave v2 until at least six months and another therapy cycle,” Sophie replied, flipping through a prospective tech founder’s flowery email. “‘We want an authentic, edgy experience that challenges our leadership team.’ Translation: we want to cry in Patagonia fleeces.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Miranda said. “Crying founders pay our rent.”
Sophie snorted.
On her laptop screen, an email thread from Isabel blinked politely—a long exchange about post-summit action items, content timelines, and a final apology re: the leak.
Down on her taskbar, the chat icon had a small red “1.”
NATHAN: Stop working.
The timestamp read five minutes ago.
She smiled despite herself.
Miranda caught the expression.
“Is that him?” she asked, too casual.
“No,” Sophie lied.
Miranda arched a brow.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she said. “Go answer your reclusive boyfriend.”
“He’s not my—” Sophie began, then shut her mouth.
They hadn’t labeled it.
They’d only… defined it.
Sort of.
“Term of art,” Miranda said, waving a hand. “We’ll workshop it later. Take a break, Soph. You’ve been here since eight.”
“It’s only three,” Sophie protested.
“Exactly,” Miranda said. “We’re partners now. I refuse to let my co-owner die of overwork.”
That new word still felt weird.
Owner.
Co-owner.
Her chest did a little flip.
“Fine,” she said, closing the request letter. “I’m going to get coffee.”
“Get… something,” Miranda said. “Preferably with alcohol.”
“On a Wednesday?” Sophie asked.
“You’ve earned a Wednesday whiskey,” Miranda said.
Sophie grabbed her phone and headed for the break room instead. Alcohol with Nathan felt like an advanced move. She wasn’t there yet.
She poured herself a mug, then leaned against the counter and opened the chat.
SOPHIE: You’re not my boss. SOPHIE: I can work if I want.
NATHAN: Lies. NATHAN: You haven’t stopped in three days. NATHAN: Howard told me you sent him a fourteen-point follow-up plan at 2 a.m.
She winced.
Traitors, all of them.
SOPHIE: I had ideas. SOPHIE: You told me once that when you don’t write them down, they disappear.
NATHAN: I did. NATHAN: I regret giving you my neuroses. NATHAN: Stop working.
She rolled her eyes.
SOPHIE: Why? SOPHIE: Do you need something?
Three dots.
NATHAN: Yes. NATHAN: You. NATHAN: On a date.
Heat rushed up her neck, right there, in the fluorescent-lit break room with the coffee machine hissing.
She stared.
Then:
SOPHIE: We literally saw each other three days ago. SOPHIE: In your house. SOPHIE: For a week.
NATHAN: That was a summit. NATHAN: I want a date. NATHAN: No agendas. No panels. No guests. No run-of-show. NATHAN: Just you and me and something resembling… leisure.
Her heart pounded.
She slid the phone into her pocket, mindful of the intern making tea nearby, and walked back to her office before she answered.
At her desk, door closed, she typed:
SOPHIE: And what does a Nathan Cross date look like? SOPHIE: Rooftop stakeout? Escape room? Live reenactment of your favorite murder scene?
NATHAN: When you mock, I know you’re nervous. NATHAN: I was thinking something radical. NATHAN: Dinner. NATHAN: In the city. NATHAN: At a place with real menus and other humans.
She blinked.
He hated crowds.
He hated public spaces where he couldn’t control the environment.
He was offering that.
For her.
Her chest squeezed.
SOPHIE: Is this your idea or your therapist’s?
NATHAN: A collaborative effort. NATHAN: I told him I wanted to see you. He asked if I insisted it happen in my house. I said… not necessarily. NATHAN: He almost fainted. NATHAN: It was gratifying.
She laughed.
SOPHIE: Okay. SOPHIE: Date. SOPHIE: But we have another clause.
NATHAN: Of course we do. Demon.
SOPHIE: No famous-chef-tasting-menu-in-an-underground-bunker. SOPHIE: We go somewhere normal. Casual. SOPHIE: Where you can leave quickly if you need to. SOPHIE: And where I can get fries.
NATHAN: You and Rafe and your fry obsession. NATHAN: Fine. Fries. NATHAN: I’ll have Howard research “normal” Denver restaurants where staff are less likely to sell photos to the tabloids.
Tabloids.
Right.
The leak might have faded, StreamWave might be in damage control mode, but the gossip ecosystem had a long half-life.
She’d already seen a couple of blurry phone shots from the gala pop up on clickbait sites, paired with breathless speculation.
WHO IS THE WOMAN STEADYING NATHAN CROSS?
She’d closed the tabs before her stomach twisted all the way.
“Normal” was a relative term.
SOPHIE: When?
NATHAN: Tomorrow night. NATHAN: If you’re free.
She glanced at her calendar.
A vendor call at two. A brief with Jonah. A client follow-up.
Even if she weren’t free, she’d move things.
SOPHIE: I’m free. SOPHIE: Text me the place. SOPHIE: And the dress code. SOPHIE: I refuse to show up in jeans if you’re wearing a three-piece suit.
NATHAN: Casual. NATHAN: I own exactly one three-piece suit and it’s for weddings and funerals. NATHAN: This is neither.
Her heart did that stupid little flip again.
SOPHIE: Debatable. SOPHIE: First date is a kind of funeral. SOPHIE: For your illusions.
NATHAN: You killed my illusions months ago. NATHAN: That’s why I love you.
She went very still.
They’d said it.
Out loud.
Face to face.
Now it was in text.
Concrete.
Real.
Her fingers trembled.
SOPHIE: Stop texting me emotional grenades when I’m at work. SOPHIE: It’s rude.
NATHAN: You’re the one who answered. NATHAN: Go back to invoices. NATHAN: I’ll see you tomorrow.
She stared at the screen for a long second.
Then, because she couldn’t not, she typed:
SOPHIE: Looking forward to it.
She didn’t see Miranda in her doorway until she looked up.
Her boss—partner—leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a knowing look on her face.
“You have the ‘someone just said something big’ eyes,” Miranda said. “Should I be bracing for a staffing crisis or a wedding?”
“Neither,” Sophie said. “He asked me out.”
Miranda’s brows shot up.
“As in a date,” she said.
“Yes,” Sophie said.
“And you said yes,” Miranda said.
“Yes,” Sophie repeated.
Miranda’s mouth curved.
“Good,” she said simply.
“That’s it?” Sophie asked. “No lecture? No risk assessment? No sliding a prenup across my desk?”
“Please,” Miranda said. “I trust you more than any prenup. You’ve done the work. You’ve been honest about the mess. You have Lia and a therapist and me to smack you if you start losing yourself.”
“That’s… oddly comforting,” Sophie said.
“Also,” Miranda added, “selfishly, if he breaks your heart, I get to rip up his contract and never work with him again. So there’s that.”
Sophie barked a laugh.
“He’d suffer more if you banned him from Rafe’s risotto,” she said.
“Excellent point,” Miranda said. “I’ll add it to the clauses.”
She sobered.
“Seriously, Soph,” she said. “Whatever this becomes, we’ll adjust. If it’s amazing, we ride with it. If it’s a disaster, we course-correct. You aren’t alone in any scenario.”
Emotion burned behind Sophie’s eyes.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“Now,” Miranda said briskly, straightening. “Go home at a reasonable hour. Pick out something killer. And remember: you’re not the intern at her first corporate gala anymore. You’re Sophie Turner, Partner. He’s lucky you said yes.”
The words sat somewhere deep.
Partner.
Loved.
Lucky.
Her throat felt tight.
“Bossy,” she said, swiping at her eyes.
“Learned from the best,” Miranda replied, and left.
***
The next evening, Sophie stood in front of her closet and contemplated her options.
It felt ridiculous to be this uncertain about clothes at thirty-two.
She planned seven-figure events on three days’ notice.
She negotiated with hotel chains and celebrities’ teams without breaking a sweat.
But the question of “what do you wear on a first date with the man you’ve already kissed in a blizzard and held during a gala and defined terms with in his glass house” was… fraught.
Lia lay sprawled on her bed, chin propped in her hands, eyes glittering with mischief.
“I vote for the black dress,” she said, pointing with her toes at a sleek, sleeveless number hanging on the closet door. “Classic. Hot. Easy access.”
“Stop,” Sophie groaned.
“For the bathroom,” Lia added innocently. “Tights are the devil.”
“It’s still winter,” Sophie said. “I’ll freeze.”
“You have a coat,” Lia said. “Also, your date is a human furnace.”
Sophie rolled her eyes.
She pulled the black dress off the hanger and slipped it on.
It skimmed her body without clinging, the neckline modest but flattering, the hem hitting just above her knees.
She added black tights to appease the weather and ankle boots with a low heel.
Lia nodded approvingly.
“You look like the person Eleanor wrote about,” she said. “Capable. Calm. Secretly filthy-minded.”
“That was not in the article,” Sophie protested.
“It was between the lines,” Lia said. “Makeup?”
Sophie kept it simple.
Light foundation, a sweep of bronzer, mascara, a touch of eyeliner.
She reached for her usual nude lipstick.
Lia slapped her hand lightly.
“Red,” she said, fishing in her bag. “Just enough.”
Sophie hesitated.
“It’s a lot,” she said.
“You *are* a lot,” Lia said. “Stop pretending you’re not.”
She applied a muted brick-red shade, smudging it with her finger until it looked more like a stain than a statement.
When she looked in the mirror, she saw… herself, but sharpened.
Capable.
Calm.
Alive.
Her phone buzzed.
NATHAN: I’m outside. NATHAN: Don’t come down alone.
She snorted.
SOPHIE: Why? SOPHIE: Afraid of the dark?
NATHAN: Afraid of paparazzi. NATHAN: Or angry neighbors. NATHAN: Or raccoons.
She laughed.
Lia slid off the bed.
“I want to see him,” she said.
“No,” Sophie said.
“Yes,” Lia insisted. “I’ve seen him at events. That’s different. I want to see Date Him. In the wild.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Sophie muttered.
They went downstairs together.
Her apartment building’s front door opened onto a small stoop and a narrow sidewalk.
A black SUV idled at the curb.
Not the anonymous rental from the first summit.
A sleek electric thing that probably cost more than her college education.
As if sensing her presence, the driver’s door opened.
He got out.
Dressed down, like he’d promised.
Dark jeans, black boots, a charcoal sweater under a black wool coat.
His hair was slightly mussed, as if he’d run his hands through it on the drive.
When he saw her, he stopped.
His gaze swept her slowly, from boots to hem to neckline to mouth.
His throat worked.
“Wow,” he said.
The word sounded dragged out of him.
She flushed.
“You look…” he began, then seemed to give up on adjectives. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she said.
Lia made a small choking noise behind her.
Sophie elbowed her.
“This is Lia,” she said. “My best friend. Who’s supposedly an adult.”
Lia stuck out a hand.
“Nathan,” she said. “I’m the one who threatened you with a crash cart.”
He took her hand, lips quirking.
“Good to meet my potential murderer,” he said. “You’ve done an… adequate job keeping her alive this long.”
“Adequate?” Lia repeated, offended.
“Aspiring,” he amended. “Don’t kill me on the first date. I’ve already done my cardio for the week.”
Lia laughed.
“I like you,” she said. “Don’t fuck it up.”
“Noted,” he replied gravely.
She leaned close to Sophie as she retreated.
“Text me if he’s weird,” she whispered.
“He *is* weird,” Sophie whispered back.
“Text me if he’s the wrong kind of weird,” Lia amended.
Then she disappeared inside, leaving them alone under the streetlight.
The air smelled faintly of exhaust and someone’s takeout.
“You didn’t have to come up,” Sophie said. “You could have just honked like a normal person.”
He made a face. “I’m not honking outside your window like a teenager,” he said. “Also, I wanted to see your door.”
“My… door,” she repeated.
He shrugged.
“Where you live,” he said. “Outside the crisis box. It matters.”
Her chest did that now-familiar ache.
“Okay then,” she said, a little hoarse. “You’ve seen it. Let’s go.”
He opened the passenger door for her, because of course he did.
She slid into the seat, heart thudding.
As he rounded the hood, she caught him glancing up at the building, as if committing it to memory.
***
The restaurant was in a neighborhood she liked, half-industrial, half-trendy, with low brick buildings and strings of lights crisscrossing the street.
He’d listened.
It wasn’t a white-tablecloth place.
No host stand with maitre d’ side-eye.
Just a big window, fogged slightly from the heat inside, and a sign that said JUNIPER in simple black letters.
Inside, the lighting was warm but not dim, the noise level a pleasant hum.
Exposed brick, rough wooden tables, a long bar with greenery hanging overhead.
It smelled like garlic and rosemary and something citrusy.
“Nice,” she said, as they were led to a table near the back, tucked enough to feel private without being obvious.
“Howard vetted it,” he said, sliding his coat off. “Their manager signed three NDAs.”
She snorted.
“Sad that that’s romantic,” she said.
“It’s not not romantic,” he said. “In my world.”
She shrugged off her coat, suddenly hyperaware of his gaze.
He didn’t stare openly.
He wasn’t that man.
But he stole glances like a thief.
At her hands as she unwrapped her scarf.
At her bare shoulders.
At the way she brushed her hair back.
Every look felt like a touch.
The server appeared with menus and water.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” she asked. “Wine, cocktails, something fun? We have a mezcal old fashioned that’s been very popular.”
“I’ll have one,” Sophie said, surprising herself.
She usually kept her head in situations like this.
But tonight, she wanted… a little fuzz.
“A bourbon, neat,” Nathan said.
The server nodded and retreated.
Sophie unfolded her menu.
“This is… normal,” she said after a moment, wry. “I almost don’t trust it.”
“You think the ceiling’s going to fall in,” he said.
“Don’t say that,” she hissed.
He smiled faintly.
“I check rooms for exits too now,” he admitted. “Thanks to you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
They ordered—she chose a burger and fries, he went for grilled fish and roasted vegetables, because of course he did—and then there was the part of the date that used to terrify her in college.
The talking.
Except with him, silence had never felt like failure.
He watched her over the rim of his glass when their drinks came.
“To…” he began, then stopped, frowning.
She raised her cocktail.
“To… better roofs,” she offered.
His mouth twitched.
“To better scaffolding,” he said.
They clinked.
She took a sip.
The mezcal smoked across her tongue, mellowed by orange bitters and a twist of peel.
Her shoulders eased.
“So,” he said. “Tell me the thing you *didn’t* tell the reporter.”
She set her glass down.
“That’s vague,” she said. “Which reporter?”
“The one who did the fixer piece,” he said. “You told them about storms and hallways and scaffolding. What did you leave out because it felt… too personal. Or too messy. Or too… yours.”
She thought.
“A lot,” she said.
He waited.
She exhaled.
“I left out how much I like… control,” she said slowly. “Not just as a coping mechanism. As a pleasure. How good it feels when a plan comes together, when a flow works, when no one notices because it’s seamless. It’s… ego, in its own way.”
He smiled slightly. “You thought that would make you sound… what? Power-hungry?” he asked.
“Bitchy,” she said. “Cold.”
“You’re not cold,” he said.
“I can be,” she said. “I have to be. Sometimes. When brides scream and executives throw tantrums and my team looks to me like I’m supposed to have infinite patience. I have a… ruthless streak. I like shutting down bullshit. I like saying no.”
“Good,” he said. “You should.”
Her chest eased.
“What about you?” she asked. “What did you leave out with Eleanor? Or with Isabel’s people. The thing you didn’t say about why you hate storms.”
He toyed with his glass for a second.
“That sometimes I… miss it,” he said quietly.
She stilled.
“Miss what?” she asked.
“The intensity,” he said. “The… sharpness. When you’re in it. When everything else falls away and there’s just… survival. It’s fucked up. But part of me… craves that. Because it’s simple. It’s not about contracts and perception and leaks. It’s… breathe or die. Move or don’t.”
Her throat tightened.
“Does that scare you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Because it makes me… susceptible. To chaos. To people who bring chaos. To rooms where I can’t hear myself think but at least I can’t hear my own… shit either.”
She touched her glass with her fingertips.
“And me?” she asked quietly. “Do I… bring chaos?”
He looked at her, sharp and soft at once.
“Yes,” he said. “And no.”
She held his gaze.
“Granular,” she said.
He huffed.
“You bring… movement,” he said. “Change. Which feels like chaos to my lizard brain. But underneath it, there’s… structure. Intention. You don’t blow in and knock walls down for fun. You do it when you know they’re rotten. That’s… different.”
She swallowed.
“I thought you liked your walls,” she said.
“I like some of them,” he said. “Others… I built when I was nineteen and never checked if they were still holding. You’re… annoyingly good at tapping on them and going, ‘this one’s rotten, fix it or I will.’”
She laughed, the sound loosening something tight in her chest.
“Annoyingly,” she repeated.
“Yes,” he said.
The server arrived with their food.
The burger was a glorious, messy thing, cheese melting down the sides, pickles glistening. The fries were golden and crisp.
He eyed her plate.
“I’m stealing some,” he said.
“You have vegetables,” she said. “Eat your grown-up food.”
He snagged a fry anyway.
She slapped his hand lightly.
He grinned.
They ate.
They talked.
Childhood stories slipped out between bites.
He told her about the time his father had made him run a mile in the rain because he’d lied about finishing his homework.
“He wasn’t cruel,” he said. “Just… rigid. Army. Rules.”
“Did it work?” she asked.
“In that I learned to lie better,” he said dryly. “Sure.”
She shared the story of the time she’d organized her high school’s prom when the official committee had imploded two weeks before.
“It was supposed to be ‘Enchanted Forest,’” she said. “We ended up with ‘Desperation with Christmas Lights.’”
He snorted.
“They should put that on your LinkedIn,” he said. “‘Turns chaos into desperation with Christmas lights.’”
“That’s my brand,” she said.
They compared worst bosses.
He’d had a literary agent early on who’d once told him a chapter “tasted like lukewarm tap water.”
“I fired him,” he said. “Then wrote him into a book as a man who gets killed by a faulty espresso machine.”
She snorted.
“I once had a catering manager tell me my notes were ‘cute’ and then completely ignore the dietary restrictions for half the guest list,” she said. “We had three allergic reactions before the appetizers were over.”
He winced.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Pulled his manager aside and offered to comp their next event if they comped us this one,” she said. “And never hired them again.”
“Remind me never to cross you,” he murmured.
“You already have,” she said. “Multiple times.”
“And yet,” he said quietly, “you’re still here.”
Her cheeks heated.
She took a sip of her drink to cover it.
By the time plates were empty and the server had cleared them, the noise in the restaurant had thickened.
A birthday group near the bar sang off-key.
A couple at the next table argued in low, intense voices about apartment hunting.
The hum pressed at the edges of Sophie’s awareness.
She glanced at him.
His shoulders had inched up.
His fingers tapped an invisible rhythm on his thigh.
“You doing okay?” she asked, low.
“Yes,” he said. “Maybe. Mostly. A little… loud.”
“Want to get out of here?” she offered. “We can walk. Or get dessert somewhere quieter.”
He hesitated.
Then, to her surprise, “Stay. With you.”
Her chest went tight.
“Okay,” she said softly.
They declined dessert—Rafe would kill her if she cheated on his pastry with an unknown crème brûlée—paid, and stepped back out into the cold.
The air was a balm after the crowded warmth.
He fell into step beside her as they walked down the block.
Their hands brushed.
Once.
Twice.
She let hers linger the third time.
He curled his fingers around hers.
Casually.
Naturally.
Like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Her heart did something wild.
They walked like that for a few blocks, fingers twined, the city humming around them.
At one corner, a group of college students passed, laughing too loud.
One did a double take.
“Dude,” he whispered to his friend. “That looks like—”
Sophie felt Nathan’s hand tense.
She squeezed.
He didn’t speed up.
He didn’t drop her hand.
The student stared for a second longer, shrugged, and moved on.
“See?” she said quietly. “To most people, you’re just a tall guy in a sweater.”
He exhaled.
“Feels… wrong,” he admitted. “And… good.”
“Welcome to being a semi-normal person,” she said.
They looped back toward her apartment.
Outside the building, he hesitated.
The night pressed in, still and sharp.
“Do you want to come up?” she asked, before her courage failed.
His eyes darkened.
“I do,” he said. “Desperately.”
Her pulse spiked.
“But,” he added, voice rougher, “I shouldn’t. Not yet.”
Disappointment and relief collided.
“Why?” she asked, honesty reflex kicking in.
“Because,” he said slowly, “if I come up now, after one official date and a year of… storms, I’m… not confident I’ll stop at… moderation. And we both agreed we want to do this… differently. Not as a runaway train.”
Her cheeks flamed.
He was right.
And annoyingly mature.
She exhaled, shaky.
“Okay,” she said. “Fair.”
“But,” he said, stepping closer, “I’m not leaving without… this.”
He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing her jaw, and kissed her.
Not tender.
Not brutal.
Hungry.
He tasted like mezcal and heat and something that was just… him.
She made a small, involuntary sound.
His fingers tightened.
The world narrowed to the press of his lips, the slide of his tongue, the way his body lined up against hers without crushing, a promise rather than a demand.
Her hands slid up his chest, clutching at his coat.
He made a low noise in his throat that shot straight through her.
He pulled back with visible effort.
Foreheads resting together.
“Better,” he said, voice rough.
“Yeah,” she managed.
“Soon,” he murmured, as if making a vow. “Upstairs. Without coats.”
Her cheeks burned.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He stepped back.
The air between them felt colder.
“I’ll text you,” he said.
“You already do,” she said.
“More,” he said.
She smiled.
“Goodnight, Nathan,” she said.
“Goodnight, Sophie,” he replied.
She watched him go.
Watched his taillights disappear down the street.
Then she climbed the stairs to her apartment, fingers touching her lips, heart pounding.
It wasn’t the kind of night romances were written about.
No grand gestures.
No sudden declarations in the rain.
Just dinner.
Walking.
Hand-holding.
Kissing under a streetlight.
For her, right now, it was enough.
More than.
It was a start.
On a new kind of chapter.
One she wasn’t writing alone.
---