Chapter 9 #2
Mrs. Henderson finally takes her cue to leave, though not without a parting comment about "young love" that makes Sophie look like she wants to sink through the floor.
Several other customers linger, pretending to examine ornaments while obviously eavesdropping.
The red-haired girl who must be Sophie's assistant—Lily, I recall from my background research—watches from across the shop with naked curiosity.
"Did you need something specific?" Sophie asks, clearly trying to regain her professional composure. "Or did you just come to see if I was sufficiently overwhelmed by turning my shop into a flower exhibition?"
The hint of fire beneath her embarrassment pleases me. She's not entirely cowed by my gestures or presence. Good. I want her willing, not submissive. Challenge makes victory all the sweeter.
"Perhaps I need Christmas gifts," I suggest, glancing around the shop. "I have several business associates who might appreciate handcrafted ornaments."
"Of course," she says, slipping into shopkeeper mode though her eyes remain wary. "Any particular style you're interested in?"
"Show me your favorites," I tell her. "The pieces you're most proud of."
The request surprises her, but she nods, coming around the counter to lead me toward a display case near the window. I follow, close enough that my hand can occasionally brush against hers—casual contact that sends visible shivers up her arm each time.
"These are my newest designs," she explains, pointing to a collection of crystal and silver snowflakes, each unique and intricately detailed. "I call this series 'Winter's Heart.'"
"They're exquisite," I say honestly, genuinely impressed by the craftsmanship. "Like frozen moments in time."
She glances up at me, clearly not expecting sincere appreciation. "Thank you. They're more complex than they look. Each one takes hours."
"I'd like all of them," I decide. "And a selection of your other work. Say, fifty pieces total."
Her eyes widen. "Fifty? That's—"
"A modest order compared to what I typically spend on corporate gifts," I finish for her. "Quality deserves recognition, Sophie. Your work has quality."
The sincerity in my voice seems to affect her more deeply than the extravagance of my order. Something shifts in her expression—a softening, a recognition that my interest extends beyond the physical attraction between us.
"I can prepare a custom selection," she offers. "If you'll tell me about the recipients, I can match ornaments to personalities."
"I'd prefer you choose," I tell her. "Your artistic instinct is what makes these special."
Her assistant approaches, clearly unable to contain her curiosity any longer. "Sophie, do you need help with Mr. Hawthorne's order?" she asks, though her eyes scream questions about far more personal matters.
"Christian, please," I correct her, extending my hand. "And you must be Lily. Sophie mentioned you were invaluable to her shop."
She did no such thing, of course, but the comment serves its purpose—establishing that Sophie and I discuss personal details, that we have conversations beyond business. Lily's eyebrows rise as she shakes my hand, her gaze darting to Sophie with unmistakable glee.
"Did she now?" Lily grins. "Well, I'm happy to help with your massive order while Sophie takes a well-deserved break. Maybe show you the workroom? That's where the magic happens."
Sophie shoots her assistant a warning look that Lily cheerfully ignores. I find myself appreciating the girl's transparent attempt at matchmaking.
"I'd like that," I agree. "If Sophie doesn't mind."
Put on the spot, Sophie has little choice but to lead me through the shop toward a door in the back.
I'm acutely aware of the eyes following us, the whispers that will spread through town the moment we're out of sight.
Exactly as I intended when I decided to visit.
Public claim-staking at its most effective.
The workroom is small but organized, with a large table in the center covered in supplies—ribbons, paint, tiny brushes, spools of silver wire.
Half-finished ornaments hang from a rack near the window, catching the afternoon light.
This space feels intensely personal, like I'm seeing into a private part of Sophie's world.
"This is where I create most of my designs," she says, gesturing around somewhat awkwardly. "Not very glamorous, but functional."
"It suits you," I observe, stepping closer. "Organized. Creative. Authentic."
She looks up at me, confusion evident in her expression. "Why are you really here, Christian? You didn't need to place an order in person. Or send enough flowers to open a second business."
Direct. Another quality I appreciate about her.
"Perhaps I couldn't wait until seven to see you again," I admit, allowing a rare moment of straightforward honesty. "Perhaps I wanted to see your face when you received my flowers."
"They're…overwhelming," she says, but there's no criticism in her tone. More like wonder.
"Good." I reach out, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her cheek. "You deserve to be overwhelmed occasionally, Sophie Winters."
Her breath catches, pupils dilating at the contact. "I'm not used to this. To someone like you."
"There is no one like me," I tell her, not boasting but stating fact. "Just as there's no one like you."
Before she can respond, the bell above the shop door jingles, announcing new customers. Sophie steps back, putting professional distance between us, though her eyes remain fixed on mine.
"I should get back," she says reluctantly.
"And I should let you work." I don't move immediately, prolonging this moment of privacy. "I'll see you at seven, Sophie."
She nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I'll be ready."
I follow her back into the main shop, where I complete the purchase of fifty ornaments with my platinum card, signing the receipt with a flourish that makes Sophie's assistant whistle under her breath.
The transaction is entirely unnecessary—I could have had my assistant handle it, could have placed the order over the phone.
But the public nature of the exchange, the exorbitant amount, the way Sophie's hand trembles slightly as she passes me the receipt—these details matter.
They establish connection, intention, claim.
As I leave, nodding acknowledgments to the curious onlookers who pretend not to stare, satisfaction settles deep in my chest. By tonight, everyone in Evergreen will know that Sophie Winters has captured my exclusive attention.
The flowers, the shop visit, the dinner to come—all links in the chain I'm methodically creating to bind her to me.
And if the softness in her eyes when I touched her cheek is any indication, she's not fighting the binding.
Good. Because I have no intention of letting her go.
I'm nearly at the door, satisfaction warming my chest, when it opens to admit another customer.
Male. Mid-thirties. Conventionally attractive in that generic, forgettable way of men who rely on gym memberships and expensive haircuts rather than substance.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't spare him a second glance.
But normal circumstances don't include him immediately heading toward Sophie with the purposeful stride of a man on a mission.
My hand freezes on the door handle as I watch him approach her, a too-wide smile spreading across his face.
"Sophie Winters," he says, loud enough for me to hear across the shop. "You are a sight for sore eyes."
His familiarity grates like sandpaper against raw skin. I turn, watching Sophie's reaction. Recognition lights her features, followed by a polite smile—the kind reserved for acquaintances rather than friends. A small relief.
"Ben," she acknowledges. "It's been a while. How are you?"
Ben. The name immediately files itself in my mental database of potential obstacles.
I release the door handle, moving to a display near the counter where I can observe without being obvious.
Sophie's assistant—Lily—notices my lingering presence, her eyes darting between me and the newcomer with undisguised interest.
"Better now that I'm looking at you," Ben says, leaning against the counter in a pose he clearly thinks is charming. His gaze travels to the white roses surrounding Sophie. "Someone's got an admirer. Secret Santa?"
Sophie's cheeks flush that delicious pink I'm coming to crave. "Not exactly," she replies, gesturing vaguely. "Just a…friend."
Friend. The word is a knife twist I wasn't expecting. Is that how she categorizes me? After the gala, the kiss, my declaration at her door? Friend?
Ben leans closer. "Must be some friend. Though I can't say I blame them. You always were the prettiest girl in town."
The compliment is delivered with practiced ease—the line of a man who relies on flattery as currency. I watch Sophie's reaction, tension coiling in my chest. Her smile widens slightly, a reflexive response to praise perhaps, but it sends a surge of something dark and possessive through me.
"What can I help you with today, Ben?" she asks, professionally deflecting.
"Christmas shopping for my mom," he says, though his body language makes it abundantly clear that's not his primary purpose. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping to see you. Heard through the grapevine you were back on the Benet after that thing with David ended."
David. Another name for my mental file. Ex-boyfriend, apparently. Recently enough that "Ben" here feels it's appropriate to reference.
"I've been single for months," Sophie corrects him, arranging ornaments in a display with unnecessary focus. "And very busy with the shop."
"Too busy for dinner?" he asks, reaching across the counter to touch her hand. "I always regretted not asking you out in high school. Maybe it's not too late?"