CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
JACK
“Welcome home, Mr. McKenzie.”
The immigration officer’s cheerful greeting sends a small ripple of anxiety through me as I glance quickly at Sophia, but she is busy helping Madison gather her things, oblivious to the subtle deference in the man’s tone. He’d barely glanced at my passport before stamping it.
“Thanks, mate. Good to be back.” I keep my voice casual, accepting the passport with a nod.
We’d landed in Auckland twenty minutes ago, the familiar sight of the Manukau Harbour spreading beneath us as we descended.
The relief of being back on New Zealand soil is immediate and visceral—the quality of the light, the accents around me, even the particular scent of the airport terminal. Home.
But now, standing in the immigration hall with Sophia and Madison beside me, that sense of homecoming is tangled with a knot of anxiety. The familiar had suddenly become fraught with potential landmines. Every interaction could betray me.
Sophia moves to the officer next, Madison bouncing impatiently behind her.
The teenager had practically floated off the plane, raving about her Business Premier experience to anyone who would listen.
The flight attendants had thoroughly spoiled her, and she’d slept for a solid eight hours in her pod.
She looks refreshed and eager, while most of our fellow passengers shuffle through immigration with the glazed expressions of the truly jet-lagged.
Sophia, though…Sophia is different. There is a new softness to her expression, a private smile that surfaced whenever our eyes met.
The memory of our mid-flight adventure hangs between us like a delicious secret, creating a bubble of intimacy even in this crowded immigration hall.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she wears the same clothes she’d boarded in, yet somehow she looks more beautiful than ever.
“First time in New Zealand?” the officer asks her.
“Yes,” Sophia answers, handing over her and Madison’s passports.
“Welcome to Aotearoa. Purpose of your visit?”
“Vacation,” she says, with a glance toward me. “Visiting…friends.”
The officer nods stamping their passports efficiently. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Oh my God, the accents,” Madison whispers loudly as we move away from the booth. “They’re even better than yours, Jack.”
I laugh. “Cheeky. That’s because mine’s gone a bit American, hasn’t it? Two weeks here and I’ll be sounding properly Kiwi again.”
“Wow, it’s still Sunday here too?” Madison asks, checking her phone as we head toward baggage claim.
“Actually, love, because we crossed the International Date Line, we skipped Sunday,” I correct gently. “It’s Monday morning here.”
Madison’s eyes widen. “Wait, so we, like…lost a day?”
“Not lost,” Sophia says. “Just…condensed. We’ll get it back on the return flight.”
“That’s so weird,” Madison marvels. “We literally flew to tomorrow. We’re in the future!”
“And yet the future looks suspiciously like an airport,” I tease, spotting our bags on the carousel. “Here, let me grab those.”
After collecting our luggage and clearing customs (where Madison had to be reassured that yes, her sneakers were clean enough to bring into the country), we head toward the exit.
“I’ve arranged a car service,” I say casually, steering them toward the arrivals hall. “Easier than messing about with taxis when you’re jet-lagged.”
The car waiting for us is a sleek black Mercedes—nothing too ostentatious, but certainly nicer than your standard airport shuttle.
Not exactly billionaire transportation, but definitely a step up from what a paramedic should logically afford.
I’d specifically requested something understated from the family’s usual service, but even this feels like pushing my luck.
“Fancy,” Sophia comments, eyebrows slightly raised.
“Just part of the package deal,” I say vaguely, helping the driver load our bags. “Welcome to New Zealand, where the coffee’s strong, the people are friendly, and the sheep outnumber humans.”
“The essential facts,” Sophia deadpans, but she is smiling.
The drive into Auckland is a blur of Madison’s excited observations (“The steering wheel’s on the wrong side!
” “Look at those trees!” “Why are all the signs in two languages?”) and my casual explanations of Māori place names and local landmarks.
Sophia is quieter, gazing out the window with tired but interested eyes, her hand finding mine on the seat between us.
Our hotel, the QT Auckland, is in the central business district—modern, stylish, but not extravagantly luxurious. I’d booked a spacious suite with a separate bedroom, the kind of accommodation that wouldn’t raise eyebrows given the special occasion but wouldn’t scream ‘family money’ either.
“This is amazing!” Madison exclaims as she explores the room, opening every drawer and testing every switch. “Look, Mom, there’s a little balcony! And the bathroom has those fancy toiletries!”
Sophia gives me a look that is equal parts gratitude and a question I’m not ready to answer. “This is lovely, Jack. Really lovely.”
“Nothing but the best for my girls,” I say lightly, then freeze slightly at my own words. My girls . It had slipped out so naturally.
But Sophia’s smile just widens, and she leans up to kiss me quickly. “Your girls appreciate it.”
After a quick freshen-up, we decided to push through the jet lag and grab an early dinner before crashing. The Viaduct Harbour is just a short walk away, the early evening air crisp with autumn, the harbor lights beginning to twinkle against the dusk.
“Proper Kiwi fish and chips,” I say proudly, tapping my fork against the golden-battered fillet on my plate.
“Wait,” Madison says, “Say that again.”
“Say what again?”
“What are you eating?”
“Fish and chips.”
She grins. “That’s not what you said. You said ‘fush and chups.’ ”
“I did not.”
“You so did.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not really a fish person.”
I sigh dramatically, shaking my head. “Americans. Just like the Aussies, no appreciation for the classics.” I flag down our server. “Excuse me, do you have chicken parma on the menu? For the young visitor?”
The server grins. “Course we do. Coming right up.”
“Chicken what?” Madison asks.
“Chicken parmigiana. Aussie pub classic that we’ve adopted. Basically a chicken schnitzel with tomato sauce and cheese on top. You’ll love it, I promise.”
Sophia, meanwhile, has gone straight for the local green-lipped mussels, looking blissful as she dips crusty bread into the garlic butter sauce. “Oh my God,” she moans. “These are incredible.”
“Told you New Zealand food would surprise you,” I say, stealing a mussel from her plate and earning a playful slap on the hand.
The conversation flows easily—first impressions of New Zealand, plans for tomorrow, Madison’s detailed review of every amenity in Business Premier (“They gave me real metal silverware, Mom. And the ice cream had actual chocolate chunks!”) It is…
normal. Beautifully, surprisingly normal.
Just a man having dinner with his girlfriend and her daughter on vacation.
For a moment, I let myself forget what is coming. Forget that in less than forty-eight hours, I’ll be driving them up to the estate. Forget that the life I’d built with Sophia is balanced on a lie of omission that could collapse with a single phone call from the wrong person.
“You okay?” Sophia’s voice breaks through my thoughts, her hand warm on mine. “You drifted away for a second.”
“Just jet lag,” I lie, squeezing her hand. “And thinking how glad I am you’re both here.”
“Me too,” she says softly.
By the time we get back to the hotel, Madison is yawning every thirty seconds, and even Sophia is fading fast. We all surrender to the jet lag, Madison falling asleep in her clothes on top of the covers, Sophia and I barely managing to change before collapsing into the king bed in the separate bedroom.
“Tomorrow,” Sophia murmurs sleepily against my chest. “Show us your country tomorrow.”
I press a kiss to her hair. “Promise.”
◆◆◆
“This is ‘ real ’ coffee, huh?” Sophia stares at the flat white I’d handed her, skepticism written across her face.
“Just try it,” I urge, watching her expectantly.
We are sitting at a small café in Britomart, the morning sunshine warming the outdoor tables. Madison is still working her way through a stack of pancakes, looking much more rested after a solid twelve hours of sleep.
Sophia is, as expected, deeply skeptical. She ordered one, takes a tentative sip, and then her eyes widen. She stares into the cup, then back at me, then back at the cup, a look of profound, almost religious shock on her face.
Madison, thankfully, is engrossed in trying to Instagram a picture of her elaborate hot chocolate.
“What the actual…” She looks up at me, bewildered. “This is…this is what coffee is supposed to taste like? All the time?”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, nearly choking on my own drink. “Told you Kiwi coffee was different.”
“Oh my God, Jack…” Sophia finally breathes, her voice hushed. “This is…this is like when I was sixteen and I figured out what else my electric toothbrush could do.”
I choke noisily on my own flat white, coffee exploding from my nose in a less-than-dignified spray. Laughter, sharp and sudden, bursts from me as I grab a napkin. Sophia is already bright red, her hand flying to her mouth, but her eyes are dancing with unapologetic amusement.
“What’s wrong with you two?” Madison asks, looking up from her phone, completely oblivious.
After breakfast, we make our way to the Sky Tower, Auckland’s iconic landmark. Madison’s excitement builds as we ride the elevator to the observation deck, her face pressed against the glass as the city spreads out beneath us.
“You can see everything!” she exclaims, pointing at the harbor, the volcanic cones, the distant islands. “Look, Mom, those are volcanoes! Actual volcanoes!”
“ Dormant volcanoes,” I clarify quickly, seeing Sophia’s momentary alarm. “Auckland’s built on a volcanic field, but they’ve been quiet for centuries.”
“Less reassuring than you think,” Sophia mutters, but she is smiling as she takes in the 360-degree views.
I play tour guide, pointing out landmarks and sharing stories.
When Madison asks about the possibility of bungee jumping from the tower, it earns an emphatic “Absolutely not” from Sophia.
Instead, we head down to the All Blacks Experience, an interactive exhibit celebrating New Zealand’s national rugby team.
Madison, to my surprise and delight, is immediately fascinated.
The exhibit leads us through rugby history, famous players, and iconic moments. I am careful to keep my comments general, steering clear of any references to the times my family had hosted All Blacks players at events or my father’s position on various rugby boards.
“So it’s like football but you can only throw it backward?” she asks, trying to pass a rugby ball the proper way in one of the interactive displays.
“And no pads,” I add. “Just pure grit and skill.”
“That’s insane,” she says admiringly. “I want to try it.”
Sophia shoots me an accusatory look. “Now you’ve done it. She’ll be tackling people in the hotel lobby by dinner.”
When we reach the haka display, Madison stops, completely captivated.
“This is amazing,” she breathes, watching the video of the All Blacks performing the pre-match challenge, their faces fierce with concentration.