He guides me through the crowd, his hand a constant pressure at the small of my back. People part before us like water around a stone, some nodding respectfully to Christian, others watching us with undisguised curiosity. I wonder what they see—the powerful CEO and his latest conquest? A mismatched pair,the billionaire and the small-town shopkeeper? Or something else entirely?
We reach a relatively quiet corner of the ballroom, a small alcove with a window overlooking the snow-covered grounds. Christian positions himself between me and the room, creating a bubble of privacy in the midst of the gala's cheerful chaos.
"Are you all right?" he asks, those storm-gray eyes studying my face with unsettling intensity.
"I'm not sure," I admit, honesty winning out over pride. "That was…unexpected."
"The kiss or your response to it?" The directness of the question flusters me, heat rising in my cheeks.
"Both," I confess, unable to look away from his gaze. "I don't usually…I mean, I'm not the type to..."
"Kiss like that in public?" he supplies, the corner of his mouth lifting in a satisfied half-smile. "Neither am I. You bring out something unusual in me, Sophie."
There it is again—that sense that whatever's happening between us is mutual, not just his magnetic pull on me but some reciprocal force drawing us together. It's a comforting thought, but also terrifying. If Christian Hawthorne is as affected as I am, where does this lead?
"I can still feel it," I say quietly, my fingers rising unconsciously to touch my lips. "The kiss."
His eyes darken, following the movement of my hand. "So can I." He steps closer, not touching me now but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "I've wanted to do that since the charity auction. Since you trembled in my arms for those three minutes and forty-seven seconds."
The specificity of the timeframe startles me. "You remember exactly how long we danced?"
"I remember everything about that night," he says simply. "Just as I'll remember everything about tonight."
The intensity in his voice sends a shiver down my spine—not fear, but something deeper, more primal. Recognition, maybe. Or surrender.
"What is this, Christian?" I finally ask, the question that's been building all night. "What are we doing?"
He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Do you need a label for it?"
"I need to understand it," I counter. "This isn't…normal for me. I don't get kissed by billionaires at fancy galas. I don't wear dresses that cost more than my monthly rent. I don't fit in this world."
"Perhaps it's not about fitting into my world," he suggests, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek. "Perhaps it's about creating a new one. Together."
The suggestion steals my breath. "We barely know each other."
"Don't we?" His thumb traces my jawline, a feather-light touch that makes my pulse leap. "I know you're brave enough to build a business from your grandmother's legacy. I know you create beauty with your hands. I know you blush when you're nervous, and your eyes darken when you're aroused, and you taste like everything I've ever wanted without knowing I was looking."
His words wash over me, seductive in their certainty. It would be so easy to fall into this—into him—to let Christian Hawthorne dictate the terms of whatever this is between us. Too easy.
"And what do I know about you?" I challenge, needing to assert some independence before I drown in his pull. "Besides your name and your reputation?"
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that I'm pushing back. "What would you like to know?"
The question is an opening, an invitation to dig deeper. I take it.
"Why me?" I ask, the question that's been haunting me since the charity auction. "You could have anyone. Why focus all this—" I gesture between us, at the intensity crackling in the air "—on me?"
He doesn't answer immediately, which surprises me. Christian Hawthorne seems like a man who always has answers ready.
"Because you're real," he says finally, echoing what he told me during our dance. "In a world of careful calculations and strategic moves, you're genuinely yourself. No agenda, no manipulation. Just Sophie."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. It sounds like the truth—or at least, his version of it.
"That can't be enough," I insist.
"It is for me." His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing across my lower lip, still sensitive from our kiss. "The question is: is it enough for you?"
I swallow hard, caught in his gaze like a deer in headlights. "I don't know what you mean."
