Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
CHRISTIAN
Sleep eludes me. I've been staring at the ceiling of my penthouse bedroom for three hours, watching shadows shift across the minimalist space that usually brings me peace.
Not tonight. Tonight, the king-sized bed feels too large, too empty.
The silence that I typically prize now seems hollow, lacking the soft breathing of the woman who should be here beside me.
Sophie Winters has infected my thoughts like a virus I have no immunity against. Her scent—vanilla and something uniquely her—seems to linger on my skin despite the shower I took when I arrived home.
The taste of her lips haunts me, a phantom sensation I can't shake no matter how I try.
I throw off the sheets and rise, padding barefoot to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the sleeping city.
Snow still falls, coating Evergreen in pristine white.
Somewhere across town, in her small apartment above that quaint little shop, Sophie sleeps.
Or perhaps she lies awake too, replaying our night as I am—the dance, the mistletoe, my declaration at her door.
You're mine now.
I meant those words. Meant them with a conviction that should alarm me but doesn't. In thirty-six years, I've never felt this immediate, consuming need to possess another person. To claim them completely.
My reflection stares back at me from the window—eyes shadowed, jaw tight with tension.
I barely recognize myself. Control has always been my religion, restraint my practice.
I built an empire on calculated risks and cold logic.
Nothing about Sophie Winters was calculated.
Nothing logical about leaving her at her door when everything in me demanded I follow her inside and make her mine in every way possible.
And yet I left. Part of my strategy—leave her wanting, wondering, anticipating.
Make her come to me. I've never pursued a woman who wasn't already signaling availability, interest, willingness.
This deliberate chase is new territory, guided by instinct rather than precedent.
The businessman in me recognizes the risk in that approach. The man in me doesn't care.
I replay every moment of the gala in high definition—her nervous fidgeting as I picked her up, her gasp when I first touched her bare skin, the way she unconsciously leaned into me during our dance.
The mistletoe kiss that changed everything.
The feel of her lips surrendering beneath mine, her body molding against me like it was made to fit there.
The flush on her cheeks afterward, the dazed look in her eyes that told me she felt it too—this inexplicable, irresistible pull between us.
Turning from the window, I retrieve my phone from the nightstand.
Nearly three in the morning—too early to take action, but not too early to plan.
I pull up my assistant's number, drafting a text she'll see when she wakes: "Arrange for delivery of white roses to Winter Wishes.
Multiple arrangements. Largest available.
Card to read 'Don't make me wait.' No signature.
" I add details about timing, payment, the importance of making an impression.
White roses. Pure. Elegant. A traditional symbol of new beginnings and, more importantly, worthy of the woman they're intended for.
Sophie won't be able to ignore such a display, especially delivered to her shop where everyone will see.
Public claim-staking, though she won't recognize it as such. Not yet.
I add another text, this one about dinner reservations at Archer's, the most exclusive restaurant in Evergreen. Private dining room. Special menu. Then a third text, about a delivery to be arranged to Sophie's apartment before our dinner.
My mind works methodically through contingencies, anticipating her reactions, planning my responses. This is familiar territory—strategy, moves and countermoves. The context is new, but the process remains the same. Identify target. Assess value. Create acquisition plan. Execute.
Except Sophie isn't a company to be acquired.
She's a woman—warm, real, disarmingly genuine in a world of calculated facades.
And what I feel for her isn't merely desire or the thrill of the chase.
It's something deeper, more primal. Something that makes my chest tighten when I think of her smile, her scent, the sound of her laughter.
Something that turned my controlled, meticulously ordered world upside down in the space of one evening.
Obsession. Possession. Words that should concern me but instead feel right. Inevitable.
I return to bed, though I know sleep will continue to evade me.
The sheets are cold, the space beside me empty.
I find myself reaching for a phantom presence, fingers grasping air where Sophie's warmth should be.
This won't do. This emptiness, this ache for someone not present—it's unfamiliar, uncomfortable. A weakness I can't afford.
Or perhaps not weakness, but transformation. Evolution.
Sophie Winters has catalyzed something in me—something that's been dormant, waiting. The capacity to want beyond reason. To need beyond logic. To pursue beyond sensible boundaries.
By the time dawn breaks over the snow-covered city, I've made my decision.
This half-state, this wanting without having, ends today.
The flowers will arrive at her shop by noon.
The dinner invitation will follow. And by tomorrow morning, Sophie Winters will be where she belongs—here, in this bed, in my arms. In my life.
I've never failed to acquire something I truly wanted. And I have never wanted anything—anyone—the way I want her.
Sleep finally comes as the first rays of sun touch the horizon, dreams filled with honey-blonde hair spread across my pillow, blue eyes darkened with desire, soft lips whispering my name. Not dreams. Premonitions.
By tonight, they'll be reality.
Four hours after the flowers are delivered, I find myself driving to Winter Wishes.
The dinner reservation isn't until seven, but I'm uncharacteristically impatient.
I need to see her reaction to my gesture, need to witness firsthand the impact of my claim-staking.
This behavior is foreign to me—I never pursue, never chase.
Yet here I am, the CEO of Hawthorne Enterprises, rearranging meetings and clearing my afternoon schedule just to see Sophie Winters blush.
My assistant's carefully neutral expression when I announced I'd be "out on business" told me she wasn't fooled.
News travels fast in corporate circles; by now, everyone knows about the mistletoe kiss that ended my reputation for emotional detachment.
I park my Aston Martin across the street from Winter Wishes, observing the scene before entering.
The shop is busier than I've ever seen it—not surprising, given the spectacle inside.
Through the window, I can see white roses everywhere, transforming the already charming space into something from a fairy tale. More telling is the crowd; the
I park my Aston Martin across the street from Winter Wishes, observing the scene before entering.
The shop is busier than I've ever seen it—not surprising, given the spectacle inside.
Through the window, I can see white roses everywhere, transforming the already charming space into something from a fairy tale.
More telling is the crowd; the small shop is filled with people who appear more interested in the flowers—and their recipient—than in shopping for Christmas ornaments. Small town gossip in action. Perfect.
I straighten my tie—unnecessarily, as it's already impeccable—and cross the street.
The bell above the door announces my arrival, and the effect is immediate.
Conversations halt mid-sentence. Heads turn.
Eyes widen in recognition. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as I make my way inside, searching for the only person who matters.
I find her behind the counter, cheeks flushed as she wraps a package for an older woman who's openly staring at me over Sophie's shoulder.
When Sophie looks up and sees me, her hands falter, nearly dropping the scissors she's holding.
The blush deepens, spreading down her neck toward the modest neckline of her cranberry sweater.
I find myself wondering how far down that blush extends. I intend to find out. Soon.
"Christian," she says, my name breathless on her lips. "I didn't expect you until dinner."
"I was in the neighborhood," I lie smoothly, approaching the counter. "I thought I'd stop by to ensure my delivery arrived as instructed."
Her gaze flicks to the sea of white roses, then back to me. "They arrived. All of them. Every single one."
"Good." I allow myself a small smile, enjoying her flustered state. "They suit you."
The older woman Sophie was helping clears her throat meaningfully. Sophie startles, hastily finishing the package and handing it over.
"Thank you, Mrs. Henderson," she says. "Enjoy your snow globe."
"Oh, I'm enjoying everything about today," Mrs. Henderson replies with a knowing grin, making no move to leave. She looks between Sophie and me with undisguised interest. "The flowers are quite something, Mr. Hawthorne. Never seen anything like it in all my years in Evergreen."
"Sophie deserves nothing less," I reply, holding Sophie's gaze rather than looking at her customer. "Wouldn't you agree?"
Mrs. Henderson chuckles. "I would indeed. Our Sophie is a special one."
"Our Sophie," I repeat, letting the possessive land between us with deliberate weight. "Yes, she is."
Sophie's blush intensifies, the color highlighting the blue of her eyes. I find the reaction immensely satisfying.