Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
SOPHIE
I wake up reaching for someone who isn't there.
My sheets are tangled around my legs, evidence of a restless night spent chasing sleep that refused to come.
Christian's words followed me into my dreams, his voice a persistent echo that wouldn't fade even in unconsciousness.
"You're mine now." Three words that should make me angry, should trigger every independent bone in my body.
Instead, they've lodged beneath my skin, a splinter of possession I can't extract no matter how I try.
What is wrong with me? One kiss—just one—and I'm lying awake at night, haunted by a man I barely know.
My alarm blares, an unnecessary intrusion since I've been staring at the ceiling for the past hour.
I reach over to silence it, then fall back against my pillows, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.
This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman, not some teenager with a crush.
Christian Hawthorne is just a man—an arrogant, controlling, impossibly magnetic man who looked at me like I was something precious, then walked away when he could have had me.
That's the part I can't make sense of. He wanted me—I felt it in his kiss, saw it in his eyes, heard it in the rough edge of his voice.
I invited him in, practically offered myself on a silver platter.
And he walked away. Left me standing in my doorway, trembling and confused, while he retreated to his waiting car like some conquering general making a strategic withdrawal.
"Damn him," I mutter, finally forcing myself out of bed.
The cold floor against my bare feet is a welcome shock, grounding me in the reality of morning.
My apartment is chilly—the ancient heating system struggles against December's bite—but I barely notice as I shuffle toward the bathroom.
My reflection in the mirror is a disaster: makeup smudged despite my half-hearted attempts to remove it last night, hair a tangled mess, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep.
I look like a woman who spent the night being thoroughly ravished, except I spent it alone, staring at my ceiling, replaying every moment of the gala in excruciating detail.
The shower helps, hot water washing away the physical remnants of last night if not the memories.
I catch myself lingering on the places Christian touched—my hand, my waist, my face.
The ghost of his fingers seems imprinted on my skin, a phantom touch I can't shake.
I turn the water colder, hoping to shock some sense back into my system.
It doesn't work.
Wrapped in a towel, I return to my bedroom, where the emerald dress hangs on the outside of my closet door—a glittering reminder that last night wasn't a dream.
I reach out to touch the velvet, soft and cool beneath my fingertips.
A dress that cost more than I make in a week, maybe two.
A dress he bought for me without blinking, as if such extravagance was nothing.
To him, it probably is nothing.
That thought should be sobering. The reminder of how different our worlds are, how mismatched we appear on paper. Christian Hawthorne, billionaire CEO, and Sophie Winters, small-town shopkeeper. It's absurd, the stuff of HallBen movies, not real life.
Except the heat in his eyes when he held my face and told me I was his—that was very real.
I force myself to turn away from the dress, to go through the motions of my normal morning routine.
Comfortable jeans, a soft sweater in deep cranberry, practical boots.
My shop-owner uniform, worlds away from last night's glamour.
I pull my hair into a simple ponytail, apply minimal makeup, put on the snowflake earrings my grandmother gave me before she died. Normal. Ordinary. Me.
So why does it all feel like a costume now?
Downstairs, the shop is quiet and dark, waiting for the day to begin.
I flip on lights, adjust displays that don't need adjusting, check the register even though I know it's ready.
Muscle memory takes over while my mind remains stubbornly fixed on Christian.
Will he call today, as he promised? What happens if he does? What happens if he doesn't?
The bell above the door jingles at precisely 9:00 AM, startling me from my reverie. Mrs. Henderson, right on time for her weekly browse. She's been coming every Saturday morning for years, usually purchases one small item, spends an hour chatting about town gossip.
"Sophie, dear!" She beams, unwinding a scarf from her neck. "I heard all about the gala last night. Marjorie's nephew works catering at the Grand Summit and said you were the talk of the event!"
I nearly drop the snow globe I'm holding. "I—what?"
"You and Christian Hawthorne!" She leans over the counter conspiratorially, eyes bright with excitement. "Marjorie's nephew said you two couldn't keep your hands off each other! Something about a mistletoe kiss that had the whole room buzzing?"
Heat floods my cheeks. So much for small-town privacy. "It was just a business event, Mrs. Henderson. Mr. Hawthorne featured my ornaments at his company gala."
"Mmhmm." Her knowing smile makes it clear she doesn't believe me for a second. "And I suppose he features all his vendors with champagne and dancing and kisses that make the catering staff stop in their tracks?"
I busy myself straightening already-perfect rows of gift boxes. "It wasn't—I mean—it was just one dance. One kiss. For the mistletoe game."
"Marjorie's nephew said he left early. With you." She pauses meaningfully. "First time in five years he's left his own event before midnight, apparently."
I'm saved from responding by the arrival of more customers—a young couple looking for baby's first Christmas ornaments. Mrs. Henderson wanders off to examine the new display of snow globes, but her knowing smile follows me as I help the couple choose the perfect keepsake.
The morning passes in a blur of customers and gift wrapping and stilted small talk.
I'm operating on autopilot, my body going through the motions while my mind circles endlessly around Christian.
Every time the bell above the door rings, my heart leaps, expecting to see his tall figure filling the doorway.
Every time my phone buzzes with a notification, my hands fumble in their rush to check it.
By noon, I'm a mess of anticipation and dread.
During a brief lull, I retreat to the small workroom behind the shop, needing a moment alone to collect myself.
I slump against the workbench, surrounded by half-finished ornaments and spools of ribbon.
This is my world—simple, creative, safe.
Nothing like the glittering, high-stakes universe Christian inhabits.
I press my fingertips to my lips, remembering the pressure of his mouth on mine, the way he claimed me with that kiss in front of everyone.
Heat spirals through me at the memory, settling low in my belly.
I can still taste him, still feel the firm grip of his hand at my waist, still hear his voice in my ear: "You're mine now. "
The door to the shop jingles again, pulling me reluctantly back to reality. I straighten, smooth my sweater, plaster on my customer service smile. It feels fake, stretched tight across my face like it no longer fits.
Because the truth is undeniable now, standing alone in my workroom with phantom sensations of Christian's touch still lingering on my skin: last night wasn't just a glamorous interlude, a Cinderella moment that ended at midnight.
It was the beginning of something I don't fully understand but can't seem to resist.
One kiss, one night, one man—and everything has changed.
Christian Hawthorne has gotten under my skin, into my thoughts, and I'm terrified by how much I want him to stay there.
The afternoon rush hits right after lunch—holiday shoppers with lists in hand, determined to find the perfect gifts before Christmas arrives.
I throw myself into the work, grateful for the distraction from my circling thoughts about Christian.
Every customer gets my brightest smile, my most attentive service.
I wrap packages with extra care, adding sprigs of holly and hand-curled ribbons.
If I keep my hands busy enough, maybe they'll stop reaching for my phone to check if he's called.
If I talk enough about ornament care and custom orders, maybe I'll stop hearing his voice in my head: "You're mine now. " It's almost working. Almost.
Lily arrives for her afternoon shift, bringing a blast of cold air and her usual whirlwind energy. She takes one look at me and raises an eyebrow.
"You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet," she announces, loud enough that Mrs. Peterson examining snow globes nearby glances over with scandalized interest.
"Thanks," I mutter, pulling her behind the counter. "Could you possibly say that louder? I don't think they heard you in the next county."
Lily grins, unrepentant. "So? Details. Now. How was the gala? How was he? Did you—"
"Not here," I hiss, nodding toward the customers browsing throughout the shop.
"Fine," she agrees, shrugging out of her coat. "But I want every juicy detail when things slow down. And don't think you can skip the good stuff. Marge's nephew who works catering at the Grand Summit already texted me about the mistletoe kiss that made the entire room stop and stare."
I groan, burying my face in my hands. "Is there anyone in this town who doesn't know about that?"
"Nope," Lily says cheerfully. "And if there is, they will by closing time. Small towns, honey. No secrets allowed."