The blush deepens. I find myself wanting to trace it with my finger, see how far down it goes.
"That's very kind. I just make things I love." She gestures vaguely around the shop. "Would you like me to show you some options for corporate giving? We have ornaments that can be customized with company logos."
"Show me," I command, simply because I want to watch her move.
She steps out from behind the counter. The sweater dress she's wearing falls just above her knees, paired with thick tightsand boots. Modest. Innocent. It makes me want to devour her whole.
"These are our most popular items for businesses," she explains, leading me to a display case of glass ornaments. "We can add names, dates, logos..."
I'm not listening to her words. I'm watching her hands—small, delicate, with a smudge of what looks like paint on one finger. The same hands I held briefly during that dance, the ones that trembled in mine.
"How long have you owned this shop?" I ask, interrupting her pitch.
She blinks. "Three years. It was my grandmother's before that."
"And you make everything yourself?"
"Most things. I have two part-time helpers during the holiday season, but all the designs are mine."
I pick up a hand-painted nutcracker ornament, turning it in my fingers. The craftsmanship is impressive. "Your profit margins must be slim," I observe.
She stiffens slightly. "We do well enough. Not everyone measures success by the bottom line, Mr. Hawthorne."
The subtle challenge in her voice sends a thrill through me. Most people cower when I ask about their finances. She's defending her little kingdom.
"Christian," I correct her. "And success is precisely what interests me, Miss Winters."
"Sophie," she offers automatically, then looks like she wishes she hadn't.
"Sophie," I repeat, letting her name linger on my tongue like fine whiskey. "I'm interested in featuring local businesses at our upcoming holiday gala. Hawthorne Enterprises sponsors an annual event—quite exclusive. Your work would fit our theme this year."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You want to display my ornaments at your gala?"
"Among other things," I say, deliberately vague. "Perhaps a small booth showcasing your work. It would put you in front of some very influential people."
"That's…unexpected." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "But very generous."
"I'm not known for my generosity," I remind her, stepping close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "I'm known for recognizing value."
The air between us charges with something electric. Around us, customers pretend not to stare while openly gawking.
"The gala is this Saturday evening," I continue. "I'll need you there personally to discuss your work with potential clients."
"This Saturday?" She frowns. "That's the town's Christmas parade. I always have a booth?—"
"This is a better opportunity," I cut her off. "My driver will collect you at seven."
It's not a request. We both know it.
She opens her mouth, likely to protest, then closes it. "Mr. Hawthorne—Christian—I appreciate the offer, but I should really check my calendar first?—"
"Do you remember our dance?" I ask abruptly, watching her cheeks flush darker.
"At the charity auction? Yes, of course, but?—"
"I paid one hundred thousand dollars for three minutes of your time, Sophie." I lean in closer, my voice dropping lower. "Consider this gala my way of securing more than three minutes. My company. My event. My guest."
Her breath catches. "Are you always this…direct?"
