His Christmas Prize
I drum my fingers against the polished mahogany table, barely registering the drone of voices around me.
Board meetings—necessary evils that eat into my time like termites through wood.
These men with their charts and projections don't understand that while they're talking, I'm calculating how many of their positions are redundant.
Hawthorne Enterprises wasn't built by committee.
It was built by me, with my bare hands and a ruthlessness that makes these suit-wearing puppets shiver when I actually bother to speak.
"—quarterly projections exceed expectations by seventeen percent—"
The CFO's voice fades in and out like a badly tuned radio. I check my watch. Two hours. Two hours of my life I'll never get back.
"Mr. Hawthorne? Your thoughts?"
Every head turns to me, expectant, nervous. I straighten my already perfect tie, a habit from when I had nothing but the clothes on my back.
"Continue," I say, the single word carrying enough weight to make the presenter swallow visibly.
I return to scanning the financial report, already having memorized every number. My empire of luxury imports and acquisitions spans five continents. I've closed deals that have made grown men weep. At thirty-six, I've amassed more wealth than most families do in generations. And yet.
Something is missing.
The thought irritates me like sand in an oyster. I've never been a man who dwells on lack. I take what I want. I build what I need. I acquire what I desire.
"—the small business initiative in Evergreen Heights shows promising returns, particularly with the holiday season approaching—"
My attention snaps back to the conversation when two Beneting executives at the far end of the table start their own side discussion.
"My wife won't stop talking about that little gift shop downtown," says one, flipping through his phone. "Winter something. Says the owner makes the most incredible handmade ornaments."
"Winter Wishes," supplies his colleague. "Run by that young woman—Sophie Winters. Cute thing. Makes everything herself."
Sophie Winters.
The name hits me like a physical blow. I go completely still, the way I do before making a killing move in business.
Sophie Winters. The woman from the charity auction six weeks ago. The one whose hand I held for precisely three minutes and forty-seven seconds during a waltz that cost me a hundred thousand dollars. The one whose scent—vanilla and something uniquely her—has been haunting me since.
I haven't been able to get her out of my head.
"They're saying she might win the town's holiday display contest this year," continues the executive, oblivious to the fact that he now has my complete attention. "Apparently the shop is this little wonderland. Traditional, you know? Not like those big commercial places."
"Maybe we should consider featuring local artisans in our holiday Beneting push," suggests the other. "Authentic, community-oriented—the kind of image boost the board was talking about earlier."
I tune out their prattle, my mind already racing ahead. The charity auction—Christ, that night is branded into my memory like a hot iron. I'd gone as a favor to a business associate, bored and irritated by the whole affair until the "Dance with a Local Entrepreneur" auction began.
She'd stepped onto the stage, awkward and clearly uncomfortable with the attention. Wearing a simple blue dress that hugged curves that had my mouth going dry. When they announced her as "Sophie Winters, owner of Winter Wishes," something shifted in my chest. Something primitive and possessive.
I'd raised my paddle without thinking. Then kept raising it until every other bidder fell away.
The dance was brief. Too brief. She'd trembled in my arms, her eyes wide with a mixture of gratitude and wariness that made my blood sing. I'd asked for her number. She'd stammered something about it being a one-time charity thing and practically fled the moment the music stopped.
No one runs from me. Ever.
Yet I let her go, intrigued by the novelty of being refused.
"—town's Christmas festival starts next weekend—"
My eyes narrow as the pieces click into place. Her shop. The holiday season. A perfect excuse.
I clear my throat. The entire room falls instantly silent.
"This small business initiative," I say, making everyone at the table straighten like schoolchildren caught passing notes. "I want details. Specifically about Winter Wishes."
The Beneting director fumbles with his tablet. "I—we don't have specific information about that particular shop prepared, Mr. Hawthorne."
"Then get it," I say, the words quiet but sharp enough to cut glass. "Full report on my desk by end of day."
The meeting concludes shortly after. I don't bother with pleasantries, striding out while my assistant scrambles to keep pace.
"Cancel my afternoon," I tell her, not breaking stride as we head toward the elevator. "And find out everything there is to know about Sophie Winters and her shop. Address, financial standing, clientele, competitors. Everything."
"May I ask why, sir?" she ventures, fingers already flying over her tablet.
I turn to her, my expression making her take an instinctive step back.
"You may not," I say simply. "Just do it."
In the private elevator to my office, I loosen my tie fractionally. Six weeks. Six weeks of having a woman I barely know occupying space in my thoughts. This ends now. One way or another.
The truth is simple: when I want something, I get it. Sophie Winters might not know it yet, but she's already mine. She has been since the moment I laid eyes on her.
And I'm about to remind her of that fact.
Winter Wishes sits nestled between a coffee shop and a bookstore, its storefront glowing with warm golden light that spills onto the snow-dusted sidewalk.
Quaint. Charming. The kind of business I typically devour before breakfast. I step out of my Bentley, ignoring the curious glances from holiday shoppers who recognize either me or the car—both unmistakable in a town this size.
The cold December air bites at my face, but I barely notice.
I'm too focused on what—who—waits inside.
The bell above the door chimes as I enter.
The scent hits me immediately—cinnamon, pine, and something else.
Something that reminds me of her. Vanilla.
I scan the interior, taking inventory like I would a potential acquisition.
Hand-painted ornaments hanging from rustic displays.
Artisanal gifts arranged on antique furniture.
A small Christmas tree in the corner, decorated with what I assume are her creations—each one delicate, unique.
Nothing mass-produced. Nothing that screams profit margin.
I should be contemptuous. Instead, I'm... intrigued.
The shop is busy—three middle-aged women clustered around a display of snow globes, an elderly couple examining handcrafted stockings, a young family debating tree toppers. None of them matter. My eyes find her immediately.
Sophie Winters stands behind a counter, carefully wrapping a package in brown paper and red twine.
Her honey-blonde hair falls in waves past her shoulders, and she's wearing a cream-colored sweater that hugs curves I've been imagining for six weeks.
She's smiling at whatever the customer is saying, a flush of pink in her cheeks from the warmth of the shop.
I stand motionless, letting the predator in me enjoy the hunt before the prey realizes she's being stalked.
She laughs at something, the sound traveling across the shop and settling in my chest like a physical weight. Her hands move deftly over the package, adding a small sprig of holly before handing it to the gray-haired woman across the counter.
"There you go, Mrs. Aldkin. I hope your grandson loves it."
"Oh, he will, dear. Nobody makes trains like you do. Such detail!"
I move closer, pretending to examine a display of crystal snowflakes. Sophie looks up, still smiling from her interaction—and freezes. The color drains from her face, then rushes back all at once. Recognition, confusion, and something else flash across her features.
Fear? Excitement? Both?
"Mr. Hawthorne," she says, voice slightly higher than I remember.
I approach the counter, aware that every eye in the small shop is now on us. The whispers start immediately. The town's most eligible bachelor—the town's most feared businessman—in a tiny gift shop that sells handmade Christmas ornaments.
"Miss Winters," I reply, my voice pitched low enough that only she can hear me. "A pleasure to see you again."
"I—what are you doing here?" She tries to recover, adding, "Can I help you find something?"
I stare at her directly, unblinking. "I believe you can."
Her throat works as she swallows. "Are you shopping for... gifts? Corporate gifts, perhaps?"
"Perhaps." I glance around the shop, then back at her. "Your reputation precedes you. I understand your creations are quite... coveted in the community."
The blush deepens. I find myself wanting to trace it with my finger, see how far down it goes.
"That's very kind. I just make things I love." She gestures vaguely around the shop. "Would you like me to show you some options for corporate giving? We have ornaments that can be customized with company logos."
"Show me," I command, simply because I want to watch her move.
She steps out from behind the counter. The sweater dress she's wearing falls just above her knees, paired with thick tights and boots. Modest. Innocent. It makes me want to devour her whole.
"These are our most popular items for businesses," she explains, leading me to a display case of glass ornaments. "We can add names, dates, logos..."
I'm not listening to her words. I'm watching her hands—small, delicate, with a smudge of what looks like paint on one finger. The same hands I held briefly during that dance, the ones that trembled in mine.
"How long have you owned this shop?" I ask, interrupting her pitch.