Elizabeth's knowing smile tells me she doesn't believe me for a second. "The way you're looking at her suggests otherwise. I haven't seen that expression on your face since…well, ever."
I don't dignify this with a response.
"She's lovely," Elizabeth continues. "And talented, judging by the display. Not your usual type."
"I don't have a type."
"Precisely why this is interesting." She sips her champagne. "The board must be thrilled. Humanizes you."
My jaw tightens. "I don't need humanizing."
"Everyone needs humanizing, Christian. Even you." She glances toward Sophie, who's laughing at something a guest has said. "Especially when they look at someone the way you're looking at her right now."
Before I can respond, the orchestra inside the ballroom begins to play louder, signaling the official start of the evening. Guests begin to move from the foyer into the main event.
I return to Sophie's side, placing my hand possessively at her waist. She turns, looking up at me with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
"People seem to like them," she says, gesturing to her ornaments. "A woman just ordered fifty custom pieces for corporate gifts."
"Of course they do." I lower my head slightly, speaking close to her ear. "They recognize quality when they see it."
Her skin pebbles at my proximity, a reaction she can't hide. Can't deny.
"Shall we?" I ask, nodding toward the ballroom doors where hundreds of guests await, where the real test of the evening begins.
She takes a deep breath and nods. "Lead the way."
As we enter the ballroom, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm, I feel a surge of something unfamiliar—pride mixed with an almost overwhelming possessiveness. Tonight, in this room filled with the powerful and privileged, Sophie Winters is mine. Every glance, every whisper, every speculation confirms it.
And by the time the night is over, she'll know it too.
Chapter
Four
SOPHIE
The ballroomof the Grand Summit Hotel swallows me whole the moment we step through its gilded doors. I've seen fancy parties in movies, but nothing prepared me for this—hundreds of people draped in designer clothing and jewelry that probably costs more than my shop makes in a year, crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen waterfalls, an actual orchestra playing in the corner. It's beautiful, intimidating, and so far from my world of handmade ornaments and small-town charm that I might as well have landed on Mars.
Christian's hand rests at the small of my back, warm and solid, the only familiar sensation in this sea of opulence. I'm grateful for it, even as I resent needing his steadying presence. The emerald dress suddenly feels like a costume—something I'm wearing to play a part I haven't rehearsed.
"Deep breath," Christian murmurs close to my ear, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. "You look like you're facing a firing squad."
I force my lungs to work properly. "They're all staring."
"Of course they are. You're with me." His arrogance should irritate me, but there's something steadying about his absolute certainty. "And you're the most beautiful woman in the room."
Before I can process that, he's guiding me deeper into the crowd, his fingers never leaving contact with my back, hip, or hand. Like he's afraid I might float away if he lets go. Or run. Running seems like a good option right about now.
"Christian Hawthorne." A silver-haired man in a tuxedo that probably costs more than my car steps into our path, hand outstretched. "I was beginning to think you'd skip your own party."
Christian shakes the man's hand with his free one, the other still firmly clasping mine. "Harold. You're looking well."
Harold's eyes slide to me, curiosity barely masked beneath practiced politeness. "And who is this lovely creature?"
I bristle internally at being called a "creature," but paste on my best customer-service smile.
"Sophie Winters," Christian answers before I can speak. "She owns Winter Wishes, the artisan shop providing our featured display tonight."
