Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
CHRISTIAN
The mistletoe kiss changed everything. I knew it would the moment Eleanor approached with that sprig in hand—knew it and welcomed it.
What I didn't anticipate was the intensity, the raw need Sophie awakened with her soft surrender.
The taste of her lingers on my lips, sweet and addictive, making it nearly impossible to maintain the control I'm known for.
More concerning is my growing irritation with every pair of eyes that turns in our direction.
Every glance at Sophie feels like trespass.
Every appreciative male gaze like a personal affront.
I've never been a man who shares what's his.
And after that kiss, Sophie Winters is undeniably mine.
We've retreated to a relatively quiet corner, but the privacy is an illusion.
The entire room is watching us—some openly, others with practiced subtlety.
I catch Daniel eyeing Sophie's profile as she speaks, his expression calculating.
James Whitaker hovering near the bar, champagne in hand but attention fixed on the curve of her neck.
Even the women are watching, assessing, wondering what makes this small-town shopkeeper worthy of Christian Hawthorne's unprecedented public display of interest.
The attention was useful earlier—strategic, even.
I wanted everyone to see her with me, to understand the connection, to recognize my claim.
Now that claim has been staked with the kiss, the continued scrutiny has become intolerable.
I don't want their eyes on her anymore. Don't want to share even the sight of her in that dress, the sound of her laugh, the flush that colors her cheeks when I stand too close.
I check my watch. Only ten-thirty. The gala typically continues until midnight or later, with key business discussions happening in these later, more relaxed hours. Leaving now would be noted, commented upon, possibly interpreted as a slight to some of the attendees I haven't yet greeted.
I find I don't care.
"Is something wrong?" Sophie asks, noticing my distraction.
I shake my head slightly. "On the contrary. I've made a decision."
Her eyebrows lift in question. I take her hand in mine, brushing my thumb across her knuckles in a gesture that's become familiar in just one evening.
"We're leaving," I tell her, not a question or suggestion. A statement of fact.
"Now?" she glances around, taking in the party still in full swing. "But what about your guests? Don't you have to stay until the end?"
"The advantage of being the one who signs the checks," I say, "is the freedom to make my own schedule."
She studies my face, searching for something. "Why? What's changed?"
Everything. The taste of her. The knowledge that I can't go back to merely watching her, merely standing beside her without touching her the way I now know she wants to be touched.
"I find I've lost my appetite for sharing you with this crowd," I say honestly.
Her cheeks flush at the possessiveness in my tone, but she doesn't pull away. Progress.
"What about my display?" she asks, practical even now. "My ornaments..."
"Already handled. My assistant will have everything packed and delivered to your shop tomorrow."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You planned this? To leave early?"
"I plan for all contingencies," I tell her, not mentioning that this particular contingency has been on my mind since I picked her up tonight. "But no, this decision is…spontaneous."
The word feels foreign on my tongue. I don't do spontaneous. Every action, every business move, every relationship has been calculated, measured, controlled. Until Sophie. Until tonight.
"I should at least say goodbye to Eleanor," Sophie says, wavering. "She was kind to me."
"Of course." I place my hand at the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd. "A few necessary farewells, then we leave."
I send a quick text to my driver while guiding Sophie through the crowd.
People part before us, some attempting to engage, others simply watching with undisguised curiosity.
I acknowledge only those who cannot be ignored without causing offense—board members, major investors, the chairman who is visibly surprised to see me departing so early.
"Leaving us already, Christian?" he asks, glancing between Sophie and me with poorly concealed interest.
"I've attended to what matters," I reply, my hand never leaving Sophie's back. "The event is in capable hands."
He nods, understanding the subtext. "Miss Winters, a pleasure to have your work featured tonight. I hope we'll see more of you."
The emphasis on "we" isn't lost on me. The old man is fishing for information about my intentions. Sophie smiles politely, thanking him for the opportunity. She handles herself well—natural grace beneath the nervousness.
We find Eleanor near one of the champagne fountains, engaged in conversation with two other investors. Her eyes light with knowing amusement when she spots us approaching.
"Don't tell me you're escaping already," she says, not bothering with pretense.
"I've never been one for prolonged social engagements," I reply smoothly.
Eleanor's attention shifts to Sophie. "My dear, your ornaments are exquisite. I've already placed an order with your shop manager for fifty custom pieces."
Sophie's eyes widen. "Fifty? That's—thank you. That's incredibly generous."
"Not generous at all. Good business. Quality speaks for itself.
" Eleanor pats Sophie's arm. "As does chemistry.
" Her pointed glance between us makes Sophie blush again.
"Christian, don't be a stranger. And Sophie—" her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, though not low enough that I can't hear "—he's worth the trouble. Trust me."
I pretend not to hear, but satisfaction curls through me at Eleanor's tacit approval. She doesn't offer it lightly.
We make our final farewells, declining three more attempts to keep us engaged in conversation.
My hand remains at Sophie's back, possessive, guiding.
I feel her relaxing into my touch as we navigate the crowd, unconsciously leaning toward me when someone steps too close.
Her body recognizes what her mind is still questioning. She belongs with me.
The night air hits us like a shock when we finally step outside. Snow has begun falling again, fat flakes drifting lazily from the black sky. My driver has the Bentley waiting at the bottom of the steps, engine running, exhaust creating clouds in the cold.
Sophie pauses at the top of the stairs, looking up at the snow, then out at the illuminated winter garden stretching into darkness.
Her profile in this light—snow catching in her hair, cheeks flushed, the emerald dress rich against her pale skin—makes something tighten in my chest. Something unfamiliar, almost painful in its intensity.
"It's beautiful," she says softly.
"Yes," I agree, not looking at the snow.
She turns, catches me watching her, and the blush deepens. I offer my arm to escort her down the stairs, hyperaware of the slick marble beneath the light dusting of snow. She places her hand in the crook of my elbow, trusting me to keep her steady.
"Where are we going?" she asks as we approach the car.
A reasonable question. One with too many possible answers, all of which lead to the same inevitable conclusion: wherever we go, she's mine tonight. And if I have my way—which I always do—for much longer than that.
"Home," I say simply, as my driver opens the door for us.
I don't specify whose home. That decision can wait. For now, all that matters is that we're leaving the crowded gala behind, that I'm taking Sophie somewhere private, somewhere I don't have to share her with curious eyes and speculative whispers.
Somewhere I can explore exactly what that kiss promised—and everything that comes after.
The Bentley pulls away from the Grand Summit, leaving behind the glittering chaos of the gala for the cocoon-like silence of the car's interior.
Sophie sits beside me, close enough to touch but with a careful few inches between us—a space charged with everything unsaid.
Snow falls harder now, creating a hypnotic pattern in the headlights as we navigate the winding drive away from the hotel.
I haven't told my driver where to go yet.
That decision feels weighted, consequential in ways that billion-dollar acquisitions never have.
The privacy partition is raised, sealing us in our own world.
The only illumination comes from the soft ambient lighting recessed in the car's ceiling and the occasional passing streetlamp that washes Sophie's profile in gold before returning her to shadow.
In this shifting light, she looks otherworldly—the emerald dress transformed to black in the darkness, then flaring to life with each sweep of light.
Her hands rest in her lap, fingers twisting together in a gesture I've come to recognize as nervousness.
She's beautiful in her uncertainty. In her awareness of what's happening between us.
"Where are we going?" she asks finally, breaking the silence.
"Where would you like to go?" I counter, giving her the illusion of choice while knowing I've already narrowed the possibilities to ones I find acceptable.
She hesitates. "I should probably go home. It's late, and I open the shop tomorrow."
Should. Not want. The distinction is small but significant.
"Is that what you want?" I press, turning slightly to face her. "To go home? Alone?"
Her eyes meet mine in the dimness, wide and conflicted. "What I want and what I should do aren't necessarily the same thing."
"They can be." I let the words hang between us, an offering and a challenge.