Chapter
One
CHRISTIAN
I drummy 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 isthis 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.
