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 ofmy 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."
