Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
SOPHIE
The dance ends, but Christian's words echo in my head like a promise—or a warning.
"This is just the beginning, Sophie. The night has barely started.
" His hands linger at my waist, reluctant to release me even though the music has stopped.
I should pull away. Should remind him—remind myself—that I'm just here to display my ornaments, to make business connections, to advance my little shop's prospects.
I'm not here to fall under the spell of a man who says things like "you're mine tonight" and actually growls at other men who approach me.
I'm definitely not here to enjoy it when he does.
But I do. God help me, I do.
The way he looked at that man—Victor?—like he was Bening territory, staking a claim…
it should have offended me. Instead, it sent a thrill racing down my spine that pooled low in my stomach, hot and liquid.
No one has ever wanted me with that kind of raw intensity before.
Like I'm something precious. Something worth fighting for.
I take a half-step back, needing space to think clearly. Christian's hands drop from my waist, but he captures my fingers in his, maintaining contact.
"I need a minute," I say, my voice sounding breathless even to my own ears. "That was..."
"Inevitable," he supplies, gray eyes locked on mine.
Before I can respond, a tapping sound echoes through the ballroom.
The CEO of Christian's company—no, I remind myself, Christian is the CEO.
This must be someone else important. The board chairman, perhaps.
He stands on a small platform near the orchestra, microphone in hand, champagne in the other.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, his voice carrying across the crowd as conversations quiet. "As is tradition at our annual holiday gala, it's time for the Mistletoe Challenge!"
A ripple of excitement passes through the room. Several staff members appear, distributing what look like small sprigs of mistletoe tied with red ribbon to various guests.
"For our new guests," the chairman continues, nodding in my direction with a knowing smile that makes my cheeks heat, "the rules are simple.
Throughout the next hour, our designated 'mistletoe bearers' will circulate among you.
If you find yourself beneath the mistletoe with someone, tradition demands a kiss.
The more creative the location, the more…
enthusiastic the participation, the better! "
Laughter and applause follow his announcement.
I feel my stomach drop. A public kissing game?
Among the city's elite? This is the stuff of my nightmares—being put on display, being expected to perform.
I'm already out of my depth in this glittering crowd, already feeling like an imposter in this borrowed dress.
"Don't look so terrified," Christian murmurs, amusement coloring his tone. "It's mostly harmless. The board thinks it encourages 'team bonding.'"
"I'm not on your team," I point out, trying to hide my panic. "I'm just a vendor."
His eyes darken. "You're considerably more than that."
I can't handle this—not now, not with my emotions already in turmoil from our dance, from the way he defended me against other men, from the growing awareness that I'm falling into something I don't understand and can't control.
"Bathroom," I blurt, pulling my hand from his. "I need a minute. I'll be right back."
I don't wait for his response, just turn and walk as quickly as dignity allows toward the exit. I feel his eyes following me, burning a hole between my shoulder blades, but he doesn't call me back. Small mercies.
The hallway outside the ballroom offers momentary relief.
The sounds of laughter and music fade as I move farther down the corridor, searching for a quiet corner to collect myself.
What am I doing here? Playing dress-up in a world I don't belong in, letting myself be swept away by a man who's so far out of my league we're not even playing the same sport?
I find a small alcove with a window overlooking the snow-covered grounds.
The glass is cool against my forehead as I press against it, trying to slow my racing heart.
Through the window, I can see the hotel gardens transformed into a winter wonderland, string lights glittering among snow-laden branches. Beautiful, but cold. Untouchable.
Like Christian.
"Running away?"
His voice behind me makes me jump. I turn to find him standing at the entrance to the alcove, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. I didn't hear him approach—how does someone so commanding move so quietly?
"Just needed air," I say, wrapping my arms around myself. "It's a lot in there."
"The mistletoe game," he says, taking a step closer. "That's what spooked you."
It's not a question. Of course he sees right through me.
"I don't like being the center of attention," I admit. "And I'm already standing out enough tonight."
"Because you're with me."
"Yes."
"And that bothers you?"
I sigh, frustrated at my inability to articulate my feelings. "It's not that. It's—I don't belong here, Christian. In this world. With these people. With you."
"Says who?" he challenges, taking another step closer.
"Says reality," I counter. "Look at me. I make Christmas ornaments in a small-town shop. You run a global corporation. You live in a world where people play kissing games at formal events and everyone watches to see who you'll choose. It's—"
"Intimidating?" he supplies.
"Terrifying," I correct him.
Another step closer. He's only an arm's length away now. "What are you really afraid of, Sophie? The crowd? The game?" His voice drops lower. "Or me?"
The question hangs between us, demanding honesty. I swallow hard, finding courage I didn't know I had.
"Myself," I whisper. "I'm afraid of how much I want things I shouldn't."
His eyes darken, the gray turning stormy. "Such as?"
"You know what."
"Tell me anyway."
I shake my head, unable to form the words. How do I admit that his possessiveness thrills me? That his controlling nature, which should send me running, instead draws me closer? That when he growled "She's with me" during our dance, I wanted nothing more than for it to be true?
He closes the final distance between us, not touching me but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the expensive cologne that's become familiar in just one night.
"You don't have to be afraid of wanting me," he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my chest. "It's the most natural thing in the world."
"For tonight," I remind him, repeating what's become our refrain. "It's just tonight."
Something flashes in his eyes—determination, possession, hunger. "We'll see."
From the ballroom, laughter erupts, followed by applause. The mistletoe game is in full swing. Christian's gaze flicks in that direction, then back to me.
"We should return," he says. "Unless you'd prefer to hide all night."
"I'm not hiding," I protest weakly.
His smile is knowing. "Aren't you?"
He extends his hand to me—an offer, not a demand. I hesitate, knowing that taking it means more than just returning to the party. It means stepping further into his world, deeper into whatever this is between us.
"I won't let anyone make you uncomfortable," he promises. "Not even me."
It's the "not even me" that does it—the acknowledgment that he knows how overwhelming his presence is, how powerfully he affects me. I place my hand in his, feeling the now-familiar warmth of his fingers closing around mine.
"What if someone catches us with the mistletoe?" I ask as he guides me back toward the ballroom.
Christian's smile turns predatory, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear.
"Then I'd have the excuse I've been looking for all night," he says simply.
My heart stutters in my chest. "Which is?"
He stops walking, turning to face me fully, his eyes dropping to my lips with unmistakable intent.
"To taste you," he says, the words hanging in the air between us like a vow. "Properly."
I should be scandalized. Should pull away. Should remind him of professional boundaries and appropriate behavior.
Instead, I find myself wondering what it would be like to be kissed by Christian Hawthorne—really kissed, not just the polite peck a mistletoe game might demand. Wondering, and wanting, with an intensity that terrifies me.
"Come," he says, tugging me gently toward the light and noise of the ballroom. "The night isn't over yet."
I follow, knowing I'm walking straight into danger, and doing it anyway.
We re-enter the ballroom just as someone across the room shrieks with laughter, caught beneath a sprig of mistletoe with a silver-haired man who looks pleased with his luck.
Christian's hand remains firmly clasped around mine, a warm anchor in this sea of unfamiliar faces and unspoken social rules.
The gala has shifted during our brief absence—the formal veneer giving way to something more relaxed as champagne flows and the mistletoe game loosens inhibitions.
Women in designer gowns giggle like schoolgirls, distinguished business titans sport lipstick Bens on their cheeks and collars.
I feel Christian's thumb stroke across my knuckles, a small gesture that somehow grounds me, reminds me I'm not navigating this alone.
"See?" Christian murmurs close to my ear. "Not so terrifying after all."
But it is terrifying, just not for the reasons he thinks. What terrifies me is how badly I want to be caught under that mistletoe with him. How much I've been thinking about his lips since the moment he picked me up tonight.