The storm that finally tested their new scaffolding didn’t come with snow.
It came with sun.
And sand.
And a charity.
“I want you to do it,” Miranda said, eyes shining, shoving a glossy proposal across Sophie’s desk. “Don’t throw that face at me. We cannot say no to this.”
Sophie stared at the cover.
A logo she recognized.
A global relief organization.
And underneath, in smaller text:
> An Evening with Nathan Cross and Friends > Live from Cabo San Lucas
Her stomach dropped.
“Cabo,” she said.
“Beach,” Miranda said. “Sun. Cocktails. Celebrities. What’s not to love?”
“Cameras,” Sophie said. “StreamWave. Live audience. Heat.”
“Okay, yes, those things,” Miranda admitted. “But also: exposure. For the charity. For us. And—selfishly—for Aurora. Doing a marquee event *outside* Elk Ridge shows we’re not just ‘those mountain people.’”
She scanned the brief.
A one-night gala and live-streamed conversation to raise money for an emergency medical fund.
Nathan on a stage with two other big literary names and a popular late-night host.
Audience of three hundred in person, millions online.
Her heart pounded.
“He said yes to this?” she asked.
“Reluctantly,” Miranda said. “For the cause. And because Eleanor bullied him.”
“Of course she did,” Sophie muttered.
“They asked for you,” Miranda added. “Specifically. Nathan insisted.”
Her throat tightened.
“I told him we’d need to talk,” Miranda went on. “About bandwidth. About boundaries. About… not becoming his in-house everything. But from a business perspective, this is… massive. International. Philanthropic. We’d be idiots to turn it down.”
From a personal perspective, it was a nightmare.
And a dream.
Another stage.
Another room.
No roof to hold.
Just sky.
And ocean.
And cameras.
Her fingers drummed restlessly on the desk.
“Isabel involved?” she asked.
“StreamWave’s co-producing,” Miranda said. “Different team, apparently. Different division. They’re very keen to show they can do this without any… leaks.”
Her mouth twisted.
“And you’d have Jonah and Mia and Priya,” Miranda added. “It wouldn’t just be you. We’d run it like L.A. Even if it’s Cabo.”
She hesitated.
Cabo meant flight.
Hot, crowded airports.
Security lines.
Time zones.
A weekend out of their normal rhythm.
Work and relationship and public image all tangled in one glamorous, sunlit knot.
“Do you want to do it?” she asked.
Miranda paused.
“Yes,” she said simply. “This is the kind of thing I dreamed about when I started Aurora. Doing good, at scale, with people whose names move money. And—frankly—it’s the kind of thing *you* are absurdly good at. High stakes. High emotions. Unruly talent.”
Sophie swallowed.
“Do you?” Miranda pressed back. “Want to do it. Separate from him. From the press. From my greed.”
Separate.
She pictured the stage.
Him, yes.
But also the cause.
The kids.
The stories.
The chance to build a room where money moved because people felt.
Her pulse jumped.
“Yes,” she said.
Miranda’s shoulders dropped in relief.
“Okay,” she said. “Then we do it. But we do it… differently.”
“Differently how?” Sophie asked warily.
“Clearer boundaries,” Miranda said. “Written. For us. For StreamWave. For Nathan. No last-minute add-ons. No ‘oh by the way can we also do a cocktail hour on a yacht.’ We scope it tight and… humane. For you. And for him.”
Her chest eased.
“Deal,” she said.
***
Telling him was easier than she’d expected.
Texting, not talking, was the only way to do it initially—he was in L.A. for a longtime-scheduled development meeting with a production company, his day sliced into forty-five-minute blocks.
She sent:
SOPHIE: Cabo charity thing. SOPHIE: I said yes.
The reply came ten minutes later.
NATHAN: Of course you did. NATHAN: You like chaos.
SOPHIE: You insisted on me.
NATHAN: I like *you*. NATHAN: Chaos is the price.
Her heart thumped.
They scheduled a proper call for that night.
He answered from a minimalist hotel room—white walls, abstract art, curtains drawn against a view of the city.
“Tell me the truth,” he said, skipping hello. “Are you excited or nauseous?”
“Both,” she said. “Is there a word for that?”
“Publishing,” he said dryly.
She laughed.
He sobered.
“I know I’m… asking a lot,” he said. “Of you. Again.”
“You’re not the only one asking,” she said. “It’s a cause I care about. It’s work I’m good at. And… yes, you’re part of it. That’s… bonus or complication depending on the hour.”
His lips quirked.
“Honest,” he said.
“Rule three,” she said.
He nodded.
“Here are my conditions,” he said.
She raised a brow.
“You’re getting good at those,” she said.
“I have an excellent teacher,” he said. “One: You are not my handler in Cabo. You’re the event lead. You’re there to make the charity’s night work, not to babysit me. Howard will run my personal schedule. Isabel can deal with StreamWave. You… look at the whole room.”
Her heart squeezed.
“And if you… freak out?” she asked.
He inhaled.
“Then I tell you,” he said. “And we decide what to do together. But I don’t… assume you’ll fix it. You’re not my panic-plan. You’re my… partner in this.”
Emotion rose behind her eyes.
“Okay,” she said softly.
“Two,” he went on. “We stay in separate rooms.”
She blinked.
“Obviously,” she said. “We’re not animals.”
He gave her a look.
“Not because I don’t… want to share a room,” he said. “God knows I do. Because if we’re sharing, *and* working, *and* dealing with cameras, *and* in a place where the tequila flows like water, our boundaries are going to… collapse.”
He wasn’t wrong.
She exhaled.
“Fine,” she said. “Separate rooms. At least a floor apart. With security and do-not-disturb signs the size of my head.”
“Three,” he said. “We carve out one hour. At least. Just us. No work. No charity. No StreamWave. In Cabo. Even if it’s just… walking on the beach like a couple in a Hallmark movie.”
Her stomach fluttered.
“You want to walk on a beach,” she said. “Voluntarily.”
“I want an hour with you where I don’t have to be… Nathan Cross, reluctant public figure,” he said. “Just… Nathan. With sand in his shoes.”
Her heart did something ridiculous.
“Deal,” she said.
“Four,” he added, surprising her. “If at any point, either of us feels like this—meaning the gala, the press, the… us in this context—is… too much, we say so. Immediately. No pretending for cameras. No swallowing it for the sake of the cause. We… adjust. Or we run. Together.”
“Run *together*,” she repeated.
“Yes,” he said. “Not… you running from me or me running from you. If we bolt, we bolt as a unit. Out the side door. Into a taxi. Into the ocean. Whatever.”
She laughed.
“Into the ocean?” she said. “Fully clothed?”
“Dramatic,” he said. “Good for the cameras.”
Tension eased.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. We can do this.”
He studied her through the grainy connection.
“You’re very brave,” he said quietly.
She snorted.
“I’m very managed,” she corrected. “By you lot.”
He smiled.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” she asked.
“For not… letting me only be a mountain ghost,” he said. “For standing on stages and beaches and roofs with me. Even when you’re scared.”
Her throat closed.
“Same,” she said. “Thank you for… letting me into your middle. Even when you want to shut the door.”
He glanced away, jaw tight.
Then back.
“Soon,” he said. “Cabo.”
“Soon,” she echoed.
***
The trip itself felt like a heist.
Miranda insisted on flying them business class, “like adults,” which meant stretchy seats, mediocre champagne, and a surprising number of men in suits tapping furiously on laptops.
Sophie sat next to Mia for the first leg, going over last-minute details.
“Remember,” she said, sliding a printout across the tray. “Charity at the center. StreamWave as co-producer, not dictator. Nathan as headliner, not sacrificial lamb.”
Mia nodded, eyes bright.
“We have backup generators in case of power,” she said. “Multiple feeds in case of network. Two backup mics in case someone drops one in a margarita.”
“Good,” Sophie said. “What about security?”
“Local team vetted by the charity,” Mia replied. “Coordinated with Howard. No access backstage without credentials. No photographers in the green room.”
“Perfect,” Sophie said.
She checked her phone.
He was on a different flight, from L.A., landing within an hour of them.
It was… better that way.
They’d both agreed.
No plane cuddles.
No jet-lagged sniping.
Focus.
Work.
Then… beach.
The plane shuddered as they began to descend.
Out the window, the ocean shimmered, blue-green and indifferent.
Cabo San Lucas came into view—resorts like white cubes along the shore, cliffs like rocks thrown by a careless god.
Her stomach did a familiar flip.
New storm.
New roof.
New room.
They landed into heat that hit like a wall.
Warm, humid, scented faintly of salt and jet fuel.
“Welcome to Cabo,” Mia said, fanning herself with a folder.
Sophie slipped her sunglasses on and squared her shoulders.
The resort was ridiculous.
Tiered pools, palm trees, an open-air lobby with white couches and woven lanterns.
The ballroom where the gala would be held looked out over the ocean, sliding glass walls that could be opened if the breeze cooperated.
She did what she always did.
Walked it.
Mapped it.
Counted exits.
As staff hustled past with carts of chairs and coiled cables, she stood on the stage and looked out at the rows of still-empty seats.
In twenty-four hours, they’d be full.
Cameras would be trained here.
So would millions of eyes.
Her phone buzzed.
NATHAN: LanDED. NATHAN: Howard says the ceiling in this place is structurally sound. NATHAN: I told him I only trust your assessment.
She smiled.
SOPHIE: I’ve checked. SOPHIE: No loose beams. SOPHIE: Just drunk influencers.
NATHAN: Terrifying. NATHAN: See you at the walkthrough?
SOPHIE: 4 p.m. SOPHIE: Don’t be late. SOPHIE: I’ll dock your pay.
NATHAN: I don’t pay you. NATHAN: Miranda does.
SOPHIE: Semantics.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket.
The ocean rolled.
The sky stretched.
The room waited.
There would be no snow here.
No whiteout.
No generator hum.
Just heat.
Light.
Eyes.
She was scared.
Of the cameras.
Of the exposure.
Of what it would be like to stand next to him in this different kind of storm.
But as she stood on that stage, barefoot for a moment to feel the cool of the polished wood under her skin, she let herself feel something else, too.
Excitement.
For the cause.
For the challenge.
For the chance to see if the scaffolding they’d built could hold up in sun as well as in snow.
“New storm,” she murmured to herself, echoing a thought from months ago.
“New roof,” a familiar voice said behind her.
She turned.
He stood at the edge of the stage, hands in his pockets, sunglasses hanging from the neckline of his T-shirt, hair ruffled by the travel and the breeze.
He was barefoot too.
Of course he was.
His toes curled unconsciously against the boards.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he replied.
He walked up the side steps, each footfall measured.
When he reached her, he looked out at the ocean, then at the rows of chairs.
“Feels… less like a coffin,” he said.
“More like a frying pan,” she said.
He huffed.
He glanced down at her bare feet.
Then at his.
“Look at us,” he said. “Grounded.”
She smiled.
“Ready?” she asked.
“For the cause?” he said. “Yes.”
“For the cameras?” she asked.
“No,” he said honestly. “But I’m willing.”
She took his hand.
Squeezed.
“Then we’re good,” she said.
They stood there for a second, side by side, the ocean roaring below, the empty room watching.
The first summit had tested them in snow.
This one would test them in sun.
Either way, the rules were the same.
Breathe.
Count the exits.
Tell the truth.
Hold the line.
And, if all else failed, run together.
Into whatever storm came next.