Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
CHRISTIAN
My driver pulls the Bentley to a stop outside Winter Wishes at precisely seven o'clock.
I don't tolerate lateness—not in business, not in pleasure, and certainly not tonight.
The shop is closed, dark except for lights spilling from windows on the second floor.
Sophie's apartment. I check my watch, more from habit than necessity.
I'm exactly on time, as always. Through the tinted windows, I watch flurries of snow dance in the glow of street lamps, coating Evergreen in pristine white.
Appropriate backdrop for what I'm about to acquire.
"Wait here," I tell my driver, not waiting for acknowledgment before stepping out into the cold.
The side entrance leads to a narrow staircase—clean but worn, the banister smooth from years of hands sliding along its surface. Sophie's world. So different from mine. So…quaint. Her door is at the top, forest green with a brass knocker in the shape of a snowflake. Handmade, no doubt.
I rap three times, sharp and commanding. Inside, something crashes, followed by a muffled curse that makes the corner of my mouth twitch upward. She's nervous. Good.
The door swings open, and everything in me goes still.
Sophie Winters stands framed in the doorway, transformed from the shop girl in comfortable sweaters to something ethereal.
The dress—emerald velvet that clings to curves I've only imagined until now—catches the light, making her skin glow like fine porcelain.
Her honey-blonde hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, and she's wearing just enough makeup to enhance features already perfect without it.
She looks expensive, elegant…and still unmistakably herself.
Still Sophie with her wide, wary eyes and the flush that spreads across her cheeks under my scrutiny.
My credit card was well spent.
"Christian," she says, my name coming out breathy and uncertain. "You're right on time."
"I'm always on time," I reply, not hiding my appraisal. "You look…appropriate."
It's a deliberate understatement. She looks like everything I've wanted since watching her fumble through that charity dance. She looks like mine.
She frowns slightly, clearly expecting a more effusive compliment. "Thank you for the dress. And the shoes. I'll return them tomorrow—"
"You'll do no such thing." I cut her off, stepping into her space without invitation.
Her apartment is small but neat, with handmade touches everywhere—throw pillows with intricate embroidery, watercolor paintings of winter scenes, shelves of crafting supplies organized by color. "They were a gift."
"A very expensive gift," she counters, taking a step back. "Too expensive."
"I decide what's too expensive," I say simply. "Are you ready?"
She nods, turning to collect a small clutch purse from a side table.
The back of the dress dips low, revealing the elegant curve of her spine.
Something primal roars to life inside me—the urge to run my fingers down that exposed skin, to claim what's standing before me.
I curl my hands into fists at my sides, maintaining control. Always control.
"I'm a little nervous," she admits, turning back to me. "I've never been to anything like this before."
"You'll be with me," I tell her, as if that resolves everything. In my world, it does.
Her eyes meet mine, a flash of defiance brightening their depths. "As your…vendor? Your business associate?"
Smart girl. Testing the boundaries already.
"As my guest," I say, deliberately vague. "The business aspect is secondary."
"To what?" she challenges, chin lifting slightly.
I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume—something light and floral, nothing like the heavy fragrances most women wear to these events. Nothing artificial or trying too hard. Just Sophie.
"To my enjoying your company," I answer, letting my gaze drop to her lips then back to her eyes. "Is that a problem?"
She swallows visibly. "No, I just…want to be clear about expectations."
"Clarity is important in business," I agree, reaching out to brush an imaginary speck from her shoulder, allowing my fingers to graze the bare skin there. Her breath catches. "Shall we?"
She nods, reaching for a coat draped over a chair—some practical wool thing that would ruin the lines of the dress. I shake my head.
"I have something more suitable in the car."
"Of course you do," she murmurs, and I catch a hint of that spark again—the one that suggests she's not as easily cowed as she appears.
I open the door and wait for her to pass, catching another waft of her scent as she moves by me.
The staircase is narrow, forcing her to precede me, giving me a view of her back, the dress, the gentle sway of her hips as she descends.
My jaw tightens. The evening hasn't even begun, and already my self-control is being tested.
Outside, snow continues to fall. Sophie hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the flakes swirling in the light from the street lamp.
They catch in her hair like stars, and for a moment—just a moment—I forget about the gala, about business, about everything except the way the snow melts against her warm skin.
My driver exits the Bentley, opening the rear door. I remove the coat I had waiting—black cashmere, simple but elegant—and hold it open for her. She turns, allowing me to drape it over her shoulders. My hands linger, adjusting the collar, brushing against the pulse point at her neck. It's racing.
"Thank you," she says softly.
"My pleasure," I respond, and mean it.
I guide her to the car with my hand at the small of her back—the first sustained contact between us since that dance weeks ago. Even through the velvet of her dress and the cashmere of the coat, I can feel her heat. She tenses momentarily under my touch, then relaxes, allowing herself to be guided.
She slides into the back seat of the Bentley, looking smaller and more delicate surrounded by black leather and burled walnut. I follow, sitting closer than necessary. Professional boundaries are for professional relationships. This is not that, no matter what she tells herself.
As we pull away from the curb, I watch her profile in the dim light of the car.
She's staring out the window at her little shop growing smaller behind us—a metaphor so perfect it almost makes me smile.
Tonight, Sophie Winters steps into my world.
And if I have my way—which I always do—she won't be going back to hers. Not really. Not completely.
"Christian?" she asks, turning to find me watching her. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing at all," I reply, allowing myself the smallest of smiles. "I'm simply looking forward to the evening ahead."
With you, I don't add. On my arm. In my world. Where you belong.
Where I intend to keep you.
Sophie sits with her hands folded in her lap, the picture of composure except for the white-knuckled grip she has on her clutch purse.
The Bentley glides through Evergreen's snow-dusted streets, its engine barely a whisper.
I could have my driver take the direct route to the Grand Summit Hotel, but I deliberately instructed him to take the scenic drive along the lake.
More time alone with her. More time to establish expectations before we arrive.
"The dress suits you," I say, breaking the silence that's stretched between us since leaving her apartment.
She startles slightly, as if lost in thought. "Thank you. It was more than I would have chosen for myself."
"That's why I didn't leave the choice to you." The words come out more possessive than intended, but I don't regret them.
Her eyes narrow a fraction. "Do you always make choices for other people, Christian?"
"For people who matter." I hold her gaze until she looks away, a fresh blush coloring her cheeks. Victory, small but significant.
"So," she says, clearing her throat, "what should I expect tonight? You mentioned something about displaying my work?"
"I've arranged a small table near the entrance to the ballroom. A selection of your finest pieces—which I had my assistant collect from your shop manager this afternoon."
"Lily gave you my ornaments?" Her eyebrows raise in surprise.
"She was quite cooperative once I explained the exposure opportunity." And once I added a generous personal bonus to convince her. "Your work will be displayed with appropriate lighting and signage. Guests will pass it on their way in and out of the main event."
Sophie's shoulders relax fractionally. This is familiar territory for her—business, product placement. "That's very generous. Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," I reply, watching how the passing streetlights cast shadows across her face. "These people aren't your typical customers, Sophie. They're sharks. Old money, new money, people who collect businesses the way others collect art. They'll evaluate everything—including you."
Her chin lifts slightly. "I can handle myself."
"Can you?" I lean forward, invading her space deliberately. "These aren't quaint townsfolk buying Christmas presents. These are people who can make or break careers with a single word. People who spend more on a weekend yacht trip than your shop makes in a year."
She flinches slightly but doesn't back down. "I'm not ashamed of what I do or where I come from."
"Good," I say, surprising her. "Confidence is attractive. Remember that when they're circling."
The Bentley turns onto the lakefront drive, moonlight glinting off the frozen surface to our right.
Sophie glances out the window, momentarily distracted by the beauty of it.
I take the opportunity to study her profile—the delicate slope of her nose, the fullness of her lips, the pulse visibly beating at her throat.
"I should warn you," I say, my voice dropping lower, "that I have certain expectations for this evening."