Chapter 2 #2
The auctioneer's gavel nearly slipped from his hand. "F-fifty thousand dollars from Mr. Hawthorne!"
I stood frozen under the spotlight, feeling like a rabbit who'd just locked eyes with a wolf.
"Going once..." the auctioneer called, scanning the room.
No one moved.
"Going twice..."
Christian Hawthorne's lips curved into the ghost of a smile.
"Sold! For fifty thousand dollars to Mr. Christian Hawthorne!"
The crowd erupted in applause, but it sounded distant, underwater. I was led off the stage to a small area where the winners were meeting their "prizes." My legs moved on autopilot.
And then he was there, standing before me, taller than I'd realized, his presence swallowing all the air in the room.
"Miss Winters." His voice was like expensive whiskey, smooth but with a burn. "Christian Hawthorne."
"I know who you are," I managed, then winced at how that sounded. "I mean—thank you for your generosity. The hospital will be very grateful."
He extended his hand, and I placed mine in it without thinking. His fingers closed around mine—warm, firm, with calluses I didn't expect from a man who probably signed papers for a living.
"Shall we?" He nodded toward the dance floor, where other couples were already moving to a waltz.
I followed him, hyperaware of every eye on us. Of course they were watching—the town's billionaire recluse had just paid fifty thousand dollars to dance with the Christmas shop girl.
His hand settled at my waist, the heat of it burning through the thin satin of my dress.
My own hand trembled as I placed it on his shoulder, solid as granite beneath his tailored jacket.
He pulled me closer than was strictly necessary for a waltz, close enough that I caught his scent—something woodsy and expensive and unmistakably male.
"You're shaking," he observed, his mouth close to my ear as we began to move.
"Everyone's staring," I whispered back, focusing on not stepping on his undoubtedly costly shoes.
"Let them." His grip tightened fractionally. "I paid for this dance. I intend to enjoy it."
We moved in silence for several moments, his lead so confident that my body followed without conscious thought. It was like being caught in a current—powerful, inevitable, and strangely exhilarating.
"Why me?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. "Why fifty thousand dollars?"
His eyes locked with mine, searching for something I couldn't name. "Because you looked like you didn't want to be up there. Because you made those ridiculous ornaments hanging around the room. Because when they called your name, you blushed the color of a winter sunset."
I couldn't breathe. No one had ever looked at me the way he was looking at me now—like I was a puzzle he intended to solve, then keep all the pieces for himself.
"I should thank you," I said, desperate to break the intensity. "For the donation."
"I don't want your thanks." His thumb moved almost imperceptibly against my waist. "I want your number."
The music was ending. Three minutes that felt like three hours and three seconds simultaneously.
"I—this was for charity," I stammered, pulling away as the last notes faded. "Just a one-time thing."
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe even disappointment. But then his expression smoothed back to unreadable perfection.
"Everything has a price, Sophie Winters," he said, releasing me. "I'm simply good at determining value."
I managed a shaky curtsy—why, I have no idea, like we were in some Jane Austen novel—and fled, feeling his gaze burning into my back until I disappeared behind the curtain.
That night, I dreamt of steel eyes and strong hands, and woke up tangled in my sheets, breathing hard, feeling hunted.
I told myself I'd never see him again. That men like Christian Hawthorne didn't remember girls like me after charity functions.
I was wrong.
"Holy sleigh bells, is that the dress?" Lily's shriek makes me jump so high I nearly knock over the display of crystal snowflakes I'm arranging.
She's standing in the doorway of the back room where I've hung the garment bag, the zipper partially open to reveal a glimpse of emerald velvet.
"Sophie Winters, you've been holding out on me! "
"Shh!" I glance nervously toward the front of the shop where Mrs. Henderson is examining handpainted ornaments. "It's just a dress, Lil."
"Just a dress? Like the Hope Diamond is just a rock?" Lily marches over, flipping the price tag still dangling from the sleeve. Her eyes bulge. "Holy—Sophie, this costs more than my car payment!"
I snatch the tag away, cheeks burning. "I know. It's obscene. I'm returning it after tonight."
"You most certainly are not." Lily folds her arms across her chest. "Christian Hawthorne gave you his credit card. Clearly, he wants you to make an impression."
"A professional impression," I clarify, moving past her to straighten a row of music boxes. "For his business associates. Who might want to order custom pieces for their corporations."
Lily follows me, her red curls bouncing with each determined step. At five feet nothing, she still somehow manages to loom when she's on a mission. "Sweetie, men don't hand out platinum cards for 'professional impressions.' He wants to see you dolled up. For him."
"That's ridiculous." I arrange and rearrange the same music box three times. "He's a billionaire. He could have any woman he wants."
"And apparently, he wants you." Lily leans against the counter, examining her fingernails like they contain the secrets of the universe. "Not that I blame him. You're gorgeous. You just don't see it because you've been hiding behind handmade ornaments since college."
I roll my eyes, but warmth creeps into my cheeks anyway. "One dance at a charity auction doesn't mean anything. He probably forgot about it the next day."
"Yes, men regularly forget about women they paid fifty thousand dollars to dance with.
" She gives me a look that could wither artificial Christmas trees.
"That's why he showed up in your shop the minute he heard about it.
That's why he's demanding you attend his fancy-pants gala tonight.
That's why he personally ordered you to buy something 'appropriate' with his money. Because he's forgotten all about you."
Mrs. Henderson approaches with three ornaments, saving me from having to respond. After I wrap her purchases and she leaves, Lily pounces again.
"What time is he sending the car?"
"Seven," I mutter, busying myself with tidying the register area. "And it's not 'his car.' It's a driver. Probably some car service his company uses for out-of-town guests."
"Mmhmm." Lily's skepticism could power a small city. "And what are you doing with your hair?"
"I don't know." I touch my blonde waves self-consciously. "Up, maybe? What does it matter?"
"It matters because Christian Hawthorne is going to want to run his fingers through it, and updos make that difficult." Her grin is positively wicked.
"Lily!" I glance around, though the shop is empty now. "Stop it. This isn't—he doesn't—" I take a deep breath. "It's business. End of story."
"Sure, if the business is 'how quickly can he get you horizontal.'"
"Oh my god." I bury my face in my hands. "You're terrible."
"I'm honest." She picks up a snow globe, shaking it absently. "My cousin works in the administrative office at Hawthorne Enterprises. Says the man has never—and she means never—brought a date to the company gala. Not once in the five years she's worked there."
Something flutters in my stomach. I squash it immediately. "I'm not his date. I'm a vendor. A local artisan he's showcasing."
"Sophie." Lily sets down the snow globe and takes my hands. "You're telling me a man who could display Tiffany and Cartier products at his gala is instead featuring handmade ornaments from Winter Wishes? The shop whose owner coincidentally made him pay fifty grand to hold her for three minutes?"
When she puts it like that, it does sound...unlikely.
"Maybe he wants to support local businesses," I suggest weakly.
Lily snorts. "Maybe he wants to support getting you out of that dress later tonight."
"Lily!"
"What? He's gorgeous, rich, and clearly obsessed with you. There are worse problems to have."
I turn away, restacking a pile of gift boxes that doesn't need restacking. "Men like that don't get 'obsessed' with women like me. We're not in the same league. Not even playing the same sport."
"You really don't see yourself clearly, do you?" Lily sounds genuinely perplexed. "Sophie, you're beautiful, talented, kind. Any man would be lucky to have you."
"Christian Hawthorne doesn't want to 'have' me," I insist, though even as I say it, I remember the intensity in his eyes when he stood too close in my shop. The way his voice dropped when he said, _"Because I want you there."_
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." Lily checks her watch. "Speaking of which, it's already two. Don't you need to start getting ready soon?"
My stomach drops. "It's only two? The car doesn't come until seven!"
"And you need at least four hours to transform from shop girl to gala goddess. Go!" She makes shooing motions. "I'll close up. Do inventory. Whatever needs doing."
"But—"
"Sophie Winters, so help me, if you show up looking anything less than edible, I will never forgive you. Go home. Soak in a bubble bath. Shave everything. Twice."
"You're making this into something it's not," I protest, but I'm already untying my apron.
"And you're in denial deeper than the snow outside." She takes the apron from me and pushes me toward the back room. "Get the dress and go. Text me when you're ready so I can properly swoon."
I collect the dress and shoes, still arguing even as Lily practically shoves me out the back door. "Remember, this is just—"
"Business. Right. Tell that to the butterflies currently doing the Nutcracker ballet in your stomach." She grins. "Have fun tonight, Soph. And maybe consider not coming home alone?"
"I hate you," I mutter, but there's no heat in it.
"Love you too. Now go get gorgeous for your billionaire."
"He's not my—"
She closes the door in my face, leaving me standing in the alley behind my shop, clutching a three-thousand-dollar dress and wondering how my simple life got so complicated in the span of a week.
Because despite all my protests, despite all my insistence that this is just business...I can't deny the thrill that runs through me when I think about seeing Christian tonight. About his eyes on me in this dress. About his hand at the small of my back, guiding me through a room full of strangers.
It's just business, I tell myself again as I trudge up the stairs to my apartment.
But my thundering heartbeat knows better.