"Christian," she says, my name coming out breathy and uncertain. "You're right on time."
"I'm always on time," I reply, not hiding my appraisal. "You look…appropriate."
It's a deliberate understatement. She looks like everything I've wanted since watching her fumble through that charity dance. She looks like mine.
She frowns slightly, clearly expecting a more effusive compliment. "Thank you for the dress. And the shoes. I'll return them tomorrow?—"
"You'll do no such thing." I cut her off, stepping into her space without invitation. Her apartment is small but neat, with handmade touches everywhere—throw pillows with intricate embroidery, watercolor paintings of winter scenes, shelves of crafting supplies organized by color. "They were a gift."
"A very expensive gift," she counters, taking a step back. "Too expensive."
"I decide what's too expensive," I say simply. "Are you ready?"
She nods, turning to collect a small clutch purse from a side table. The back of the dress dips low, revealing the elegant curve of her spine. Something primal roars to life inside me—the urge to run my fingers down that exposed skin, to claim what's standing before me. I curl my hands into fists at my sides, maintaining control. Always control.
"I'm a little nervous," she admits, turning back to me. "I've never been to anything like this before."
"You'll be with me," I tell her, as if that resolves everything. In my world, it does.
Her eyes meet mine, a flash of defiance brightening their depths. "As your…vendor? Your business associate?"
Smart girl. Testing the boundaries already.
"As my guest," I say, deliberately vague. "The business aspect is secondary."
"To what?" she challenges, chin lifting slightly.
I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume—something light and floral, nothing like the heavy fragrances most women wear to these events. Nothing artificial or trying too hard. Just Sophie.
"To my enjoying your company," I answer, letting my gaze drop to her lips then back to her eyes. "Is that a problem?"
She swallows visibly. "No, I just…want to be clear about expectations."
"Clarity is important in business," I agree, reaching out to brush an imaginary speck from her shoulder, allowing my fingers to graze the bare skin there. Her breath catches. "Shall we?"
She nods, reaching for a coat draped over a chair—some practical wool thing that would ruin the lines of the dress. I shake my head.
"I have something more suitable in the car."
"Of course you do," she murmurs, and I catch a hint of that spark again—the one that suggests she's not as easily cowed as she appears.
I open the door and wait for her to pass, catching another waft of her scent as she moves by me. The staircase is narrow, forcing her to precede me, giving me a view of her back, the dress, the gentle sway of her hips as she descends. My jaw tightens. The evening hasn't even begun, and already my self-control is being tested.
Outside, snow continues to fall. Sophie hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the flakes swirling in the light from the street lamp. They catch in her hair like stars, and for a moment—just a moment—I forget about the gala, about business, about everything except the way the snow melts against her warm skin.
My driver exits the Bentley, opening the rear door. I remove the coat I had waiting—black cashmere, simple but elegant—and hold it open for her. She turns, allowing me to drape it over her shoulders. My hands linger, adjusting the collar, brushing against the pulse point at her neck. It's racing.
"Thank you," she says softly.
"My pleasure," I respond, and mean it.
I guide her to the car with my hand at the small of her back—the first sustained contact between us since that dance weeks ago. Even through the velvet of her dress and the cashmere of the coat, I can feel her heat. She tenses momentarily under my touch, then relaxes, allowing herself to be guided.
She slides into the back seat of the Bentley, looking smaller and more delicate surrounded by black leather and burled walnut. I follow, sitting closer than necessary. Professional boundaries are for professional relationships. This is not that, no matter what she tells herself.
As we pull away from the curb, I watch her profile in the dim light of the car. She's staring out the window at her little shop growing smaller behind us—a metaphor so perfect it almost makes me smile. Tonight, Sophie Winters steps into my world.And if I have my way—which I always do—she won't be going back to hers. Not really. Not completely.
"Christian?" she asks, turning to find me watching her. "Is something wrong?"
