"We should return," he says. "Unless you'd prefer to hide all night."
"I'm not hiding," I protest weakly.
His smile is knowing. "Aren't you?"
He extends his hand to me—an offer, not a demand. I hesitate, knowing that taking it means more than just returning to the party. It means stepping further into his world, deeper into whatever this is between us.
"I won't let anyone make you uncomfortable," he promises. "Not even me."
It's the "not even me" that does it—the acknowledgment that he knows how overwhelming his presence is, how powerfully he affects me. I place my hand in his, feeling the now-familiar warmth of his fingers closing around mine.
"What if someone catches us with the mistletoe?" I ask as he guides me back toward the ballroom.
Christian's smile turns predatory, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear.
"Then I'd have the excuse I've been looking for all night," he says simply.
My heart stutters in my chest. "Which is?"
He stops walking, turning to face me fully, his eyes dropping to my lips with unmistakable intent.
"To taste you," he says, the words hanging in the air between us like a vow. "Properly."
I should be scandalized. Should pull away. Should remind him of professional boundaries and appropriate behavior.
Instead, I find myself wondering what it would be like to be kissed by Christian Hawthorne—really kissed, not just the polite peck a mistletoe game might demand. Wondering, and wanting, with an intensity that terrifies me.
"Come," he says, tugging me gently toward the light and noise of the ballroom. "The night isn't over yet."
I follow, knowing I'm walking straight into danger, and doing it anyway.
We re-enter the ballroom just as someone across the room shrieks with laughter, caught beneath a sprig of mistletoe with a silver-haired man who looks pleased with his luck. Christian's hand remains firmly clasped around mine, a warm anchor in this sea of unfamiliar faces and unspoken social rules. The gala has shifted during our brief absence—the formal veneer giving way to something more relaxed as champagne flows and the mistletoe game loosens inhibitions. Women in designer gowns giggle like schoolgirls, distinguished business titans sport lipstick Bens on their cheeks and collars. I feel Christian's thumb stroke across my knuckles, a small gesture that somehow grounds me, reminds me I'm not navigating this alone.
"See?" Christian murmurs close to my ear. "Not so terrifying after all."
But it is terrifying, just not for the reasons he thinks. What terrifies me is how badly I want to be caught under that mistletoe with him. How much I've been thinking about his lips since the moment he picked me up tonight.
We move further into the room, and I feel eyes tracking our progress. The whispers follow us like ripples in water. Christian Hawthorne doesn't bring dates to company functions. Christian Hawthorne doesn't dance the way he danced with me. Christian Hawthorne doesn't hold hands, doesn't touch, doesn't stare at women like they're water in a desert. Except tonight, he's doing all those things. With me. The small-town shopkeeper in a borrowed dress.
"Would you like a drink?" Christian asks, guiding me toward one of the bars.
"Please," I reply, hoping the champagne might steady my nerves. "White wine?"
He nods, releasing my hand only when necessary to signal the bartender. The momentary loss of contact feels significant, like being untethered in a storm. How have I become so dependent on his touch in just one evening?
"Christian!" A woman's voice cuts through the crowd. "There you are!"
We turn to find Eleanor Blackwell—the investor Christian introduced me to earlier—approaching with purpose. She carries something in her hand, and with a jolt of recognition, I realize it's one of the mistletoe sprigs.
"Eleanor," Christian acknowledges, his tone warming marginally. He genuinely likes her, I realize. "Enjoying the festivities?"
"Immensely," she replies with a mischievous smile that makes her look decades younger. "Especially now that I've been designated a mistletoe bearer." She lifts the sprig, shaking it playfully. "And look where you two happen to be standing."
My heart leaps into my throat as Eleanor raises the mistletoe above our heads. Christian doesn't look surprised—if anything, there's a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, as if this is exactly what he's been waiting for all night.
"Tradition is tradition," Eleanor says with faux innocence that doesn't fool me for a second. "And we do so value tradition at Hawthorne Enterprises, don't we, Christian?"
"Some traditions more than others," he replies, his gaze never leaving my face.
