Chapter 1 #2
"How long have you owned this shop?" I ask, interrupting her pitch.
She blinks. "Three years. It was my grandmother's before that."
"And you make everything yourself?"
"Most things. I have two part-time helpers during the holiday season, but all the designs are mine."
I pick up a hand-painted nutcracker ornament, turning it in my fingers. The craftsmanship is impressive. "Your profit margins must be slim," I observe.
She stiffens slightly. "We do well enough. Not everyone measures success by the bottom line, Mr. Hawthorne."
The subtle challenge in her voice sends a thrill through me. Most people cower when I ask about their finances. She's defending her little kingdom.
"Christian," I correct her. "And success is precisely what interests me, Miss Winters."
"Sophie," she offers automatically, then looks like she wishes she hadn't.
"Sophie," I repeat, letting her name linger on my tongue like fine whiskey. "I'm interested in featuring local businesses at our upcoming holiday gala. Hawthorne Enterprises sponsors an annual event—quite exclusive. Your work would fit our theme this year."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You want to display my ornaments at your gala?"
"Among other things," I say, deliberately vague. "Perhaps a small booth showcasing your work. It would put you in front of some very influential people."
"That's…unexpected." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "But very generous."
"I'm not known for my generosity," I remind her, stepping close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "I'm known for recognizing value."
The air between us charges with something electric. Around us, customers pretend not to stare while openly gawking.
"The gala is this Saturday evening," I continue. "I'll need you there personally to discuss your work with potential clients."
"This Saturday?" She frowns. "That's the town's Christmas parade. I always have a booth—"
"This is a better opportunity," I cut her off. "My driver will collect you at seven."
It's not a request. We both know it.
She opens her mouth, likely to protest, then closes it. "Mr. Hawthorne—Christian—I appreciate the offer, but I should really check my calendar first—"
"Do you remember our dance?" I ask abruptly, watching her cheeks flush darker.
"At the charity auction? Yes, of course, but—"
"I paid one hundred thousand dollars for three minutes of your time, Sophie." I lean in closer, my voice dropping lower. "Consider this gala my way of securing more than three minutes. My company. My event. My guest."
Her breath catches. "Are you always this…direct?"
"Only when I want something." I hold her gaze, letting her see exactly what I mean. "And I want you at that gala."
I reach into my jacket and extract a business card, placing it on the counter. "My personal number. Call with any questions about attire. Black tie."
I turn to leave, then pause, looking back at her. "And Sophie? Don't make me come find you."
The bell above the door rings as I exit into the December cold, the warmth of the shop—of her—lingering on my skin. In the reflection of the Bentley's window, I allow myself the rarest of expressions: a smile.
Saturday can't come fast enough.
Three days. Three days since I visited Sophie's shop, and my phone remains stubbornly silent.
No calls. No confirmation about the gala.
I stare at the device on my desk like it's personally offended me, my fingers steepled beneath my chin.
Patience has never been my virtue. In business, hesitation costs millions.
In my personal life, I simply don't allow it.
The clock on my wall ticks past five, and I make my decision.
If the mountain won't come to Muhammad.. .
"Have my car brought around," I tell my assistant through the intercom. "Cancel my seven o'clock."
She doesn't question me. No one does. Twenty minutes later, I'm parking outside Winter Wishes for the second time this week. The OPEN sign has been flipped to CLOSED, but I can see lights still on inside. Movement behind the counter. Sophie.
I try the door—locked—and rap my knuckles against the glass. Inside, Sophie's head snaps up, a startled deer in headlights. She's wearing her hair up today, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. For a moment, she freezes, then makes a visible decision to approach the door.
She opens it just enough to speak through the crack. "Mr. Hawthorne. We're closed."
"Christian," I correct her again. "And I'm aware of your hours."
"Then you know I can't help you right now."
"I think you can." I push the door open wider, not enough to be threatening, just enough to make my intentions clear. I'm not leaving. "May I come in?"
Her eyes dart past me to the empty street, then back to my face. She sighs and steps aside. "Five minutes. I have inventory to finish."
I enter her domain for the second time, noting the differences now that customers are gone. Christmas music plays softly from hidden speakers. Half-packed boxes sit on the counter. The scent of her—vanilla and spice—seems stronger without competing perfumes and colognes.
"You didn't call," I say, moving to the center of the shop. Not accusing, merely stating a fact.
"I've been busy," she replies, closing the door and locking it again. She moves behind the counter, putting a physical barrier between us. Defensive. Interesting. "The holiday season is our busiest time."
"Too busy for an opportunity to showcase your work to the city's elite?"
She busies herself with arranging tissue paper in a gift box. "I appreciate the offer, truly. But as I mentioned, I have the town parade that night. I've had a booth reserved for months."
"Cancel it."
Her hands still. "Excuse me?"
"Cancel your booth at the parade." I move closer to the counter, resting my fingertips on its surface. "The exposure from my event will be worth ten parades."
"It's not just about exposure, Mr.—Christian." She meets my eyes briefly before looking away. "It's tradition. My grandmother had that same spot for thirty years before me."
"Traditions change," I say flatly. "Opportunities don't knock twice."
"Why are you so insistent that I come to your gala? There must be dozens of artisans in the area who would jump at the chance."
Smart girl. She's cut right to the heart of it. I could lie, tell her it's purely business. Instead, I decide on a calculated half-truth.
"Because I want you there."
The words hang in the air between us. Her cheeks flush that delicious pink again, and her fingers fumble with the ribbon she's holding.
"I—that's very flattering, but—"
"Do you remember the auction?" I interrupt, circling the counter slowly, a shark scenting blood. "You let me hold you for three minutes and forty-seven seconds. You trembled the entire time."
"I was nervous," she whispers. "Everyone was watching."
"They'll be watching at the gala, too." I'm at the end of the counter now, nothing between us. "When I walk in with you on my arm."
Her eyes widen. "On your arm? I thought I was going to set up a display booth?"
"You are." I take another step closer. "And then you'll join me for the evening. As my guest."
"That wasn't part of the offer."
"It is now."
She backs up until she hits the shelves behind her. I don't crowd her further, but I don't retreat either. The space between us is electric, charged with something neither of us is acknowledging out loud.
"Mr. Hawthorne—"
"Christian," I say, the edge in my voice unmistakable.
"Christian," she corrects, swallowing hard. "I don't think this is a good idea."
"Why not?" I counter. "Afraid of me, Sophie?"
"No," she says, lifting her chin with unexpected defiance. "I'm afraid of what you represent."
I raise an eyebrow. "And what's that?"
"Complications." She takes a breath. "You're not the kind of man who does anything without an agenda. I run a small business in a small town. I make Christmas ornaments and snow globes. I'm not…in your world."
I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo. "You could be."
The invitation—the implication—hangs heavy between us. Her pupils dilate, her breathing quickens. She wants this, wants me, despite her protests. I can read people like balance sheets; Sophie Winters is an open book with dog-eared pages.
"One evening," I continue, voice lowering. "A few hours of your time. In exchange, I introduce your work to people who can afford to buy it by the crate. People who summer in places where your little parade has never been heard of."
She hesitates, her business sense warring with her caution. I decide to push a little harder.
"Unless, of course, you're content to stay small forever. To hide your talent in this little shop, in this little town."
Her eyes flash. "That's not fair."
"Life rarely is." I reach out, not touching her but letting my hand hover near her face. "Success requires risk, Sophie. You took a risk when you danced with me at the auction. Take another one now."
She closes her eyes briefly, and I know I've won.
"Saturday at seven?" she asks, her voice small but not defeated.
"My driver will collect you." I pull my hand back, not wanting to spook her now that I've secured what I want. "Wear something appropriate for the occasion."
"I don't exactly have a wardrobe full of gala attire," she admits, a thread of embarrassment in her tone.
I reach into my jacket and extract my credit card, placing it on the counter. "Problem solved."
"I can't accept that—"
"You can, and you will." My tone makes it clear this isn't negotiable. "Consider it an investment in my guest's appearance."
She doesn't take the card, but she doesn't throw it back at me either. Progress.
"I'll see you Saturday, Sophie." I step back, giving her space to breathe. "Don't disappoint me."
As I reach the door, she calls out, "This is just business, right? A professional courtesy?"
I turn, taking in the sight of her—flushed, breathless, beautiful in her confusion—and allow myself a small, predatory smile.
"Of course," I lie. "Just business."
I leave her standing there, surrounded by her handcrafted treasures, knowing that by Saturday night, she'll be mine. The most precious acquisition of all.