"Handcrafted ornaments and gifts," I correct, finding my voice. "My work is on display near the entrance."
"How quaint." Her gaze flicks between Christian and me, calculation evident. "And how unlike you, Christian, to take such an interest in…local arts and crafts."
Christian's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking visibly. "I recognize quality, Vanessa. In all its forms."
"Clearly." Her smile turns predatory as she focuses on me again. "Well, Sophie, you must tell me how you managed what no woman in three counties has accomplished—getting Christian Hawthorne to bring you to an event. We're all dying to know your secret."
My cheeks burn, but before I can respond, Christian cuts in.
"Our dance is starting," he says, though the orchestra is playing the same piece as before. He turns to me, dismissing Vanessa completely. "Shall we?"
He doesn't wait for my answer, simply leads me away, his hand now at my waist, guiding me toward the dance floor. I can feel Vanessa's eyes burning into my back.
"Ex-girlfriend?" I ask when we're out of earshot.
"No." His answer is clipped.
"She seems to think she should be."
His hand tightens on my waist. "Vanessa's ambitions are not my concern."
We reach the edge of the dance floor, and Christian turns me to face him. Both his hands move to my waist, firm and possessive. I place mine hesitantly on his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fine fabric of his tuxedo.
"Everyone is watching," I whisper, suddenly aware of the eyes following us.
Christian's gaze never wavers from my face, intensity burning in those gray depths. "Let them watch."
As he pulls me closer, I realize I'm still clutching my little shop's business card in my hand, the one I'd been ready to give Vanessa. It seems so small, so insignificant against the backdrop of all this wealth and power.
Just like me.
Christian guides me onto the dance floor with the confidence of a man who has never second-guessed a step in his life. His hand splays possessively against my lower back, warm through the velvet of my dress. The orchestra plays something classical and sweeping that I should probably recognize but don't. Around us, couples move with practiced elegance, their jewels catching the light from the chandeliers overhead. I focus on not tripping over my own feet, on remembering to breathe, on ignoring the fact that I'm actually dancing with Christian Hawthorne at his company's gala while what feels like half the city's elite watches.
"Relax," Christian murmurs, pulling me closer than is strictly necessary for this dance. "I won't let you fall."
His words have double meanings I'm not ready to examine. I let him lead, our bodies moving in sync as if we've done this a hundred times before. The charity auction dance was nothing like this—that was brief, public, perfunctory. This feels intimate, deliberate, like we're performing a scene for an audience that can't look away.
"There," Christian says, his mouth close to my ear, "you're getting it."
I'm about to thank him when I notice a man watching us from the edge of the dance floor. Tall, dark-haired, with the kind of looks that probably open doors everywhere he goes. He's not even pretending to pay attention to his companion—his eyes are fixed on me, traveling from my face down to where the dress hugs my hips and back up again. The appraisal is so blatant it makes my skin prickle.
Christian follows my gaze, his body tensing against mine the moment he spots the man. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking visibly beneath the skin.
"James Whitaker," he says, voice low and cold. "Ambitious. Arrogant. And apparently lacking basic manners."
"We met him earlier," I recall. "By the display."
"Yes." The single word is clipped, final.
Christian's hand presses more firmly against my back, angling our bodies so his shoulder blocks James's view of me. The possessive gesture should bother me. It doesn't. Instead, a warm flutter travels through my stomach, up to my chest.
When the dance ends, Christian doesn't release me immediately. His hand slides from my back to my waist, keeping me close as he guides me from the floor. We move toward one of the bars set up around the perimeter of the ballroom. Even with Christian beside me, I feel eyes following—assessing, curious, some openly admiring.
"White wine," Christian tells the bartender, not bothering to ask what I want. Before I can be annoyed, he adds, "Unless you'd prefer something else?"
"White wine is fine," I say, surprised he remembered from our brief conversation about preferences during the car ride.
As we wait, a man in his fifties approaches. Distinguished, silver at his temples, with a smile that's probably closed a thousand deals.
