Chapter 8 #2
I'm saved from further interrogation by the chime of the bell above the door.
Not a customer this time, but a deliveryman struggling with what appears to be the largest flower arrangement I've ever seen.
An explosion of pristine white roses—dozens of them, maybe hundreds—arranged in a crystal vase that probably costs more than most of the items in my shop.
"Delivery for Sophie Winters," the man announces unnecessarily, as every eye in the store swivels from the magnificent flowers to my rapidly reddening face.
"That's…me," I manage, stepping forward.
The deliveryman looks relieved as he places the massive arrangement on the counter. "Need you to sign here," he says, offering a tablet. "And maybe help me bring in the others?"
"Others?" I echo, signing blindly.
"Three more arrangements," he confirms. "Boss said to bring them all in at once, make an impression." He glances at the stunned faces around the shop. "Mission accomplished, I'd say."
Fifteen minutes and four enormous arrangements later, my small shop looks like a high-end florist. White roses cover the counter, the front window display, the small table near the register.
Their scent fills the air, sophisticated and overwhelming.
Every customer in the store is staring, whispering behind their hands, clearly delighted by the romantic spectacle.
Lily waits until the deliveryman leaves before pouncing. "Oh. My. God." She plucks the small envelope nestled among the blooms of the largest arrangement. "Are you going to open this, or shall I?"
I snatch the envelope from her fingers, heat flooding my cheeks. "Don't you have customers to help?"
"They can wait. This can't." She crosses her arms, making it clear she's not budging until I read whatever message accompanies this extravagant display.
With trembling fingers, I open the envelope. Inside, a simple card with just three words in bold, masculine handwriting: "Don't make me wait."
No signature. None needed.
Lily peers over my shoulder. "Hot damn," she breathes. "Christian Hawthorne doesn't mess around, does he?"
"Apparently not," I murmur, my thumb tracing over the words. Don't make me wait. Not a request—a command. Just like everything else about him.
"Sophie, honey," Mrs. Peterson approaches, her eyes bright with excitement, "are these from that handsome CEO who took you to the gala last night? The one Marge's nephew said couldn't keep his hands off you?"
"Um, yes," I admit, seeing no point in denials with the evidence perfuming the entire shop.
This confirmation sends a ripple of delighted murmurs through the store.
More customers drift in, drawn by the spectacle of the flowers and the promise of gossip.
Within minutes, the shop is more crowded than it's been all season, full of people who suddenly need Christmas ornaments—and details about the town's most exciting romance.
"I knew it," Lily whispers triumphantly as I help a customer who's openly staring at the roses. "I told you he was into you."
"It's not—" I start, then stop. What exactly is it? Not just business, not after that kiss. Not just a casual flirtation, not with this grand gesture making his intentions publicly clear.
"Check your phone," Lily advises. "Bet he's waiting for your call."
I glance at my phone on the counter and feel a flutter of anticipation mixed with apprehension. He's expecting me to call. To respond to this overwhelming display of…what? Interest? Possession? Courtship?
"I can't just drop everything and call him," I protest, though my fingers itch to do exactly that.
"Why not?" Lily challenges. "I'm here. The shop's covered. And those flowers—" she gestures at the sea of white roses "—aren't going to acknowledge themselves."
She's right, of course. Ignoring this gesture would be impossible, rude even. But calling means stepping further into whatever this is with Christian. Acknowledging that last night wasn't just a glamorous aberration but the beginning of something real.
When the shop briefly empties—customers leaving with purchases and fresh gossip to spread—I pick up one of the perfect white roses, bringing it to my face.
The scent is subtle but luxurious, just like the man who sent them.
Despite my reservations, I find myself smiling, a warm glow spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the shop's heating system and everything to do with knowing Christian is thinking about me. Wanting me to call.
"Don't make me wait," I murmur, repeating his words.
As if he'd hear me.
As if he'd give me a choice.
My phone seems heavier than usual as I pick it up, my heart beating a rapid tattoo against my ribs. This is just a thank-you call, I tell myself. Just acknowledging a kind gesture. Just...
Who am I kidding? This is surrender, one white rose at a time.
I press his number—already saved in my contacts from when he gave me his card at the shop—and hold my breath as it rings. Once. Twice.
"Sophie." His voice, deep and satisfied, as if he's been waiting by the phone. As if he knew exactly when I would call. "I see you got my flowers."
Arrogant, presumptuous man. I should be irritated.
Instead, I find myself smiling wider, turning away from Lily's knowing gaze.
"Hard to miss them," I reply, aiming for dry but landing somewhere closer to breathless. "You do realize my shop isn't actually a flower shop, right?"
His low chuckle travels through the phone, settling somewhere deep in my belly. "I wanted to make sure you were thinking about me today. Are you?"
The direct question catches me off guard, though it shouldn't. Christian Hawthorne doesn't do subtlety.
"Yes," I admit, the honesty surprising me. "I am."
I've been doing nothing but thinking about him, and somehow he knew. Just as he knows I'm holding one of his roses right now, my fingers caressing the soft petals as if they were his skin.
"Good," he says simply. "Have dinner with me tonight."
Not a question. Never a question with him.
And God help me, I'm already saying yes.
I end the call with Christian, my heart racing like I've just sprinted uphill.
"Seven o'clock," he said, his voice leaving no room for negotiation.
"Wear something nice, but not the emerald dress.
I have something else in mind for you." The presumption should irritate me—the assumption that he gets to dictate what I wear, that I'll rearrange my Saturday night plans (nonexistent as they may be) to accommodate his desires.
Instead, I'm already mentally sorting through my closet, wondering what will please him, what will make those storm-gray eyes darken with appreciation. This is bad. This is very bad.
"Well?" Lily demands, practically vibrating with curiosity. "What did he say? Are those roses an apology? A thank-you? A prelude to wild, chandelier-swinging sex?"
"Lily!" I glance around, relieved to see the shop momentarily empty of customers. "He asked me to dinner. Tonight."
She squeals, loud enough to rattle the crystal snowflakes hanging in the window display. "I knew it! Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say he was obsessed with you after that charity auction?"
"He's not obsessed," I protest weakly, though the sea of white roses surrounding us suggests otherwise. "He's just…interested."
"Honey, men who are 'just interested' send a single bouquet. Maybe take you for coffee." She gestures at the floral explosion. "This is not 'interested.' This is full-blown, ring-the-wedding-bells infatuation."
A small shiver runs through me at her words. Infatuation. Obsession. Whatever this is between Christian and me, it doesn't feel casual or temporary. It feels inevitable, like gravity—a force I couldn't fight even if I wanted to.
And that's the problem. I'm not sure I want to.
"Go," Lily says, making shooing motions toward the door. "It's already four. You need time to get ready, and I can close up."
"I can't just leave you—"
"You can and you will." She plants her hands on her hips. "Your billionaire sent you enough flowers to open a second business. The least you can do is look spectacular for him tonight."
I hesitate, torn between responsibility to my shop and the magnetic pull of what awaits me at seven o'clock. "Are you sure?"
"Sophie Winters, if you don't get your butt upstairs and into the shower right now, I will drag you there myself. This is the most exciting thing to happen in Evergreen since the mayor's wife ran off with the Christmas tree lighting technician."
I laugh despite my nervousness, gathering my purse from beneath the counter. "Fine. But call me if you get swamped."
"The only call you're getting is to hear about how your date went," she promises, already tidying the register area. "Now go. Shave everything. Twice."
Upstairs in my apartment, I drop my purse on the kitchen counter and lean against the wall, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of what's happening.
I'm having dinner with Christian Hawthorne tonight.
After the gala, after the mistletoe kiss, after his declaration at my door—"You're mine now.
" After all that, I'm still walking straight into whatever web he's spinning around me.
I should be smarter than this.
I move to the bathroom, turning on the shower to let it heat up while I undress.
Steam fills the small space as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Same blue eyes, same honey-blonde hair, same face I've seen every day of my life.
But something's different now. Something in my expression—a new awareness, perhaps.
Or maybe just the look of a woman who's in way over her head.
The warning signs about Christian are impossible to ignore.
His possessiveness. His need for control.
The way he issues commands rather than requests.
The intensity in his eyes when he looks at me, like he's calculating how best to claim every part of me.
In any dating guide, these would be red flags—big, glaring, frantically waving red flags.
So why am I stepping into the shower with a smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach?
Maybe because beneath the commanding exterior, I've glimpsed something else in Christian.
A vulnerability when he asked why I chose pastry making.
A moment of genuine interest in my little shop and the ornaments I create.
The careful way he held my hand as we danced, like I was something precious that might break if he wasn't gentle.
Or maybe I'm justifying, seeing what I want to see, creating depth where there's only desire.
The hot water sluices over me as I methodically shave, condition my hair, scrub every inch of skin.
My mind keeps returning to Christian's words from last night: "When I have you, it won't be after a night of champagne and mistletoe games.
It won't be something you can dismiss as getting caught up in the moment. "
The certainty in his voice, the assumption that having me was inevitable—it should terrify me. Instead, it sends heat spiraling through my body that has nothing to do with the shower's temperature.
What does that say about me?
I wrap myself in a towel, padding to my bedroom where the emerald dress still hangs on the closet door.
"Not the emerald dress," he said. I run my fingers over the velvet, remembering how his eyes darkened when he first saw me in it.
Does he want something different tonight? Something he's chosen himself, perhaps?
My closet offers limited options for "something nice." After some deliberation, I select a deep blue dress with a sweetheart neckline—simple but flattering, elegant without trying too hard. I lay it on the bed, then sit beside it, water dripping from my hair onto the comforter.
The truth I've been avoiding all day surfaces, impossible to ignore any longer: I'm falling for Christian Hawthorne. Despite the warning signs. Despite knowing better. Despite the voice of reason screaming that men like him don't end up with women like me except in fairy tales and HallBen movies.
I'm falling for his intensity, his certainty, the way he looks at me like I'm the only woman in the world.
I'm falling for how safe I felt with his arm around me at the gala, how seen I felt when he defended my work to others.
I'm falling for the contradiction of him—ruthlessly commanding one moment, unexpectedly gentle the next.
Most dangerous of all, I'm falling for how he makes me feel about myself: desired, valuable, worthy of grand gestures and undivided attention.
I dry my hair, apply makeup with more care than usual, slip into the blue dress that hugs my curves in a way that's sophisticated rather than obvious. The woman in the mirror looks collected, calm even. Nothing like the turmoil inside me.
My phone chimes with a text. Christian: "Car will arrive in twenty minutes."
Not "I'll pick you up." Not "See you soon." Just the bare information, delivered as a statement of fact. Even his texts sound like commands.
I type back a simple "OK" before I can overthink it.
Setting the phone down, I take a deep breath, smoothing my hands over the blue dress. One last glance in the mirror shows a woman at a crossroads—cautious shopkeeper on one path, willing risk-taker on the other. The choice seems already made, has been since I accepted his dinner invitation.
Since I walked into the charity auction and caught his eye, perhaps.
Christian Hawthorne may be dangerous in all the ways that matter, but tonight—at least for tonight—I'm willing to play with fire.
The real question isn't whether I'm falling for him. It's how hard I'll hit when I land.