Two weeks later, her mother called.
She always called, not texted.
Texting, in Linda Turner’s mind, was for “teenagers and criminals.”
Sophie’s phone lit up with MOM as she was elbow-deep in sample linens at a rental showroom.
She tucked the bolt of fabric under one arm and swiped.
“Hi, Mom,” she said, bracing.
“Sweetheart,” Linda said, a little breathless. “You’re alive.”
“I texted you yesterday,” Sophie pointed out.
“Yes, with that *link*,” her mother said. “To that, that—what do you call it—piece. On the computer.”
“The article?” Sophie said, throat tightening.
She’d sent it out to her family on a burst of pride and fear, copying the link with shaking fingers.
Her father had replied, simply: Proud of you, kiddo. You’ve always been the one to keep the lights on. Mom had… not.
“I read it twice,” Linda said now. “Once by myself. Once out loud to your father while he was fixing the garbage disposal. He got teary and blamed it on the onion he’d cut three days ago.”
Sophie laughed, the tension loosening.
“I’m glad you liked it,” she said.
“Oh, loved it,” her mother said. “You sounded so… important. All those… executives and… authors. And storms. And that… man.”
Heat crept up Sophie’s neck.
“We are not talking about the man,” she said quickly.
“Oh, we are absolutely talking about the man,” Linda said. “I’ve had my book club sending me little clips and articles for weeks. ‘Have you seen this? Your daughter is in the paper with that fellow who writes the scary books.’ Margaret says she’s read all of them.”
“I’m deeply sorry Margaret knows what a disembowelment looks like,” Sophie muttered.
“You didn’t tell me you knew him,” her mother said.
“I don’t ‘know’ him,” Sophie hedged. “He’s a client. Kind of.”
There was a sharp inhale.
“Kind of,” Linda repeated. “Sophie.”
She sighed.
“I manage some of his events,” she said. “And… his time. A bit.”
“And his heart, from the look of it,” her mother said dryly.
“Mom,” Sophie hissed, glancing around to make sure no rental staff were eavesdropping.
“What?” Linda said. “I may be old-fashioned, but I’m not blind. The way he looks at you in that little video, when you’re standing by the stage? That’s not a client looking at an employee. That’s a man looking at a… possibility.”
Sophie closed her eyes.
She’d known this conversation was coming.
Her mother was relentless when it came to her children’s love lives—or lack thereof.
“Things are… complicated,” she said carefully.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Linda said, softening. “They always are.”
There was a rustle, then her father’s voice, muffled.
“Is that Soph?” he said. “Tell her the disposal’s fine.”
“Your father says the disposal’s fine,” Linda relayed. “In case you were lying awake worrying about it.”
“I wasn’t,” Sophie said.
“We worry about you,” her mother said. “Up there on your mountains. In your… glass palaces.”
“I’m in a linen showroom in Commerce City,” Sophie said. “Very glamorous.”
“You know what I mean,” Linda said. “We see the pictures. The… gowns. The lights. The… reclusive billionaires.”
“Please stop saying ‘billionaire’ like it’s a diagnosis,” Sophie said.
Linda laughed.
“So,” she said. “Do we get to meet him?”
Sophie choked.
“What?” she spluttered.
“Well,” Linda said. “You bring him up, we look him up, we see a mountain of articles and interviews and that… gala video. A mother wonders. Is he… serious? Is he… temporary? Should I start knitting him a Christmas stocking?”
“Mom,” Sophie groaned.
“You haven’t brought anyone home in… a long time,” Linda went on. “Not since Kyle.”
Kyle.
The college boyfriend who’d thought moving to Colorado with her would be “an adventure” and had lasted one winter before running back to Missouri to marry a girl from their high school.
She shoved that aside.
“This is different,” she said.
“Because he’s… what?” Linda asked. “Famous? Older? Damaged? Loaded?”
“Mom,” Sophie said, half laughing, half exasperated. “All of the above. And… because I’m… different now. This isn’t… college. Or that guy from the catering company. Or… whoever.”
Linda was quiet for a beat.
“We’re not asking for a wedding,” she said gently. “We’re asking to see our daughter with someone she… clearly cares about. To make sure he doesn’t look at her like she’s… a function. Or a tool.”
Sophie swallowed.
“He doesn’t,” she said softly.
“I know,” Linda said. “From the little I’ve seen. But I’m your mother. I reserve the right to interrogate him in my kitchen.”
An image flickered—Nathan in her parents’ small, warm kitchen, ducking his head to clear the low doorway, her dad offering him a beer, her mom overfeeding him.
It did something weird to her heart.
“He’s… busy,” she said, weak.
“Well, yes, of course,” Linda said. “Important men with important words. But perhaps, someday, not… too busy.”
She wanted to say no.
She wanted to say this was hers, private, separate from childhood and Missouri and casseroles.
But a different part of her—one that had felt sixteen again during the storm, waiting for the roof to hold—wanted him to see where she came from.
To see the hallway where she’d counted seconds between thunder and lightning.
To meet the people who’d built the first scaffolding in her life.
“I’ll… ask,” she heard herself say.
Linda made a small, delighted noise.
“Don’t scare the girl,” her father called in the background.
“I’m not,” Linda said. “She’s very brave, our Sophie. She handles storms.”
Her eyes stung.
“I have to go,” she said, voice thick. “Rentals. Interview. Miranda will fire me if I don’t pick tablecloths.”
“She won’t,” Linda said. “She’d be lost without you.”
“Flattering,” Sophie said.
“Think about it,” her mother said. “We’re here. The house is small, but it’s… solid. We’d love to feed you both. You can come just as you are. No fancy clothes. No summits. Just… Sunday dinner.”
Her throat closed.
“I’ll… see,” she said.
They hung up with promises to call “properly” on the weekend.
Sophie stood there for a moment, bolt of linen under her arm, heart thumping.
Meet her parents.
Introduce him to the hallway.
It was early.
Too early, some would say.
They’d only just named… this.
But time worked differently when you’d weathered storms together.
Intimacy built in strange layers.
She bought the gray linen—practical, adaptable, like her—and drove back to the office with the thought rolling over and over in her head.
Meet my parents.
She texted him that evening.
SOPHIE: Question. SOPHIE: How do you feel about… Missouri?
There was a pause.
NATHAN: I don’t. NATHAN: Should I?
SOPHIE: It’s where my parents live. SOPHIE: My mom read the article. SOPHIE: She wants to feed you.
Three dots.
Then:
NATHAN: That sounds like a threat. NATHAN: And a milestone.
Her stomach twisted.
SOPHIE: We don’t have to. SOPHIE: It was just a… thought. SOPHIE: I told her I’d ask. SOPHIE: You’d be saying yes to questions about your intentions while my dad opens a beer with a screwdriver.
NATHAN: Authentic. NATHAN: Terrifying.
Another bubble appeared.
NATHAN: Do you want me to?
She stared.
Her first impulse was to say no.
To shield him—and herself—from that collision of worlds.
Then she remembered what she’d told him.
Honesty.
Intention.
Moving slowly, but not hiding.
SOPHIE: Yes. SOPHIE: Not tomorrow. SOPHIE: But… someday.
A longer pause.
NATHAN: Then yes. NATHAN: Someday. NATHAN: I’ll let Howard know he may need to go somewhere without cell service to recover.
She laughed, tension easing.
SOPHIE: You realize this means my mother will start knitting you things.
NATHAN: That sounds… nice. NATHAN: No one’s knitted me anything since my grandmother died.
Her chest squeezed.
She’d expected him to joke.
To deflect.
Instead, he sounded… almost wistful.
SOPHIE: Then we’ll pick yarn colors carefully. SOPHIE: You’d make a terrible Christmas sweater model.
NATHAN: Lies. NATHAN: I’d be magnificent. NATHAN: In a very grumpy way.
She smiled.
They shelved the concrete logistics for later.
Their calendars were full.
His editor was pressing on deadlines.
Aurora had booked a run of spring weddings that would take Sophie to three states in two months.
But the seed was planted.
Missouri.
Parents.
Sunday dinner.
Someday.
***
In the meantime, there were other families to navigate.
His mother called during one of their video sessions.
Sophie watched, amused, as he grimaced at the caller ID.
“Answer,” she mouthed.
He scowled.
“Why?” he mouthed back.
She arched a brow.
He sighed.
Took the call.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, tone resigned but not unkind.
“Nathan,” came a brisk, British voice. “You’re not in a cave?”
“No,” he said. “I’m in my study.”
“Same difference,” she said. “You look… less pale.”
Sophie smothered a laugh.
“Thanks,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I read the thing,” his mother said. “That piece. And then the one about the… fixers. Your Sophie.”
Heat raced up Sophie’s neck.
He shot Sophie a look, lips twitching.
“She’s not ‘my Sophie,’” he said. “She’s… Sophie.”
“Don’t quibble,” his mother said. “She is either yours or you’re a fool. That girl has a spine like steel.”
Sophie raised a brow.
Nathan covered the mic with his hand.
“You’re on speaker,” he hissed.
“I gathered,” she whispered back.
He took his hand away.
“Mom,” he said. “This is… not how we start this conversation.”
“Oh, are you there?” Linda Cross—because of course her name was Linda, the universe loved symmetry—said. “Hello, Sophie.”
Sophie froze.
“Hi,” she said, voice higher than usual. “Ms. Cross.”
“Call me Linda,” she said. “I feel we’ve already been through a storm together, even if it was at a remove.”
Sophie laughed weakly.
“You have an army of very loyal fans in my bridge club,” Linda went on. “They all want to hire you to organize their eightieth birthday parties.”
“I’d be honored,” Sophie said. “I’m very good with aggressive balloon arches.”
“Perfect,” Linda said. “Nathan’s father will be thrilled.”
“Mom,” Nathan said.
“What?” Linda replied. “If you’d told me years ago that the woman you fell for would be a planner, I’d have gotten out the bunting immediately. You know how I feel about stationery.”
He groaned.
Sophie bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud.
“I’m hanging up,” he said.
“You will not,” Linda said. “I’ve only just begun interrogating your poor girlfriend.”
“I—she’s not—” he sputtered.
“Is she there in person?” Linda demanded. “Put her on.”
“She’s on my laptop,” he said. “We’re… working.”
“Working,” Linda repeated. “That’s what they all say.”
Sophie leaned into frame, cheeks hot but smiling.
“Hi,” she said again.
Linda peered at her from what looked like a sunlit kitchen somewhere in Surrey.
She had sharp eyes, short silver hair, and a floral apron over a navy sweater.
“You’re pretty,” she said bluntly. “And tired.”
“Accurate,” Sophie said.
“You work too hard,” Linda continued. “He does too. It’s a problem. I blame his father.”
“I heard that,” a male voice called in the background.
“Good,” Linda said.
Sophie liked her instantly.
“Look after each other,” Linda said, suddenly serious. “You’re both very good at looking after everyone else. Don’t forget yourselves.”
“We’re… trying,” Sophie said.
“Good,” Linda said. “Now I’ll let you go back to whatever you were pretending wasn’t a date. Nathan, call me properly later. Sophie, if you ever come to England, you will stay with us.”
“Mom,” Nathan groaned.
“Bye, dear,” Linda said, and hung up.
He stared at his phone.
Then at Sophie.
She burst out laughing.
“I like her,” she said.
“Of course you do,” he said. “She’s you in twenty years.”
“Rude,” she said.
“Accurate,” he replied.
Her smile lingered long after the call ended.
Families.
Parents.
Old kitchens, new kitchens.
It was messy.
It was… oddly comforting.
They weren’t building this in a vacuum.
They had people around them who, in their own flawed, nosy ways, wanted them to be okay.
It helped.
It didn’t solve everything.
But it was more scaffolding.
Another layer holding up the roof.
---