"Yes, you do." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "Is it enough that I want you? That I've thought about nothing but you for six weeks? That I orchestrated this entire evening just to have you here, with me?"
The admission—that none of this was coincidence, that he'd planned it all—should alarm me. Instead, it sends a thrill of something dangerous and exhilarating through my veins.
"The display of my ornaments..." I begin, struggling to hold onto the business premise that brought me here.
"A convenient truth," he admits without apology. "Your work is exceptional. But I would have found any excuse to bring you into my world, Sophie."
My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. "This is too fast."
"Is it?" he challenges. "Or is it exactly the pace it should be?"
His confidence is intoxicating—the absolute certainty with which he pursues what he wants. What he wants being, inexplicably, me.
"I'm afraid," I confess, the words barely audible.
His expression softens minutely. "Of me?"
"Of this." I gesture between us again. "Of how…overwhelming it is. How complete. I feel like I'm losing myself before I've even found my footing."
"You're not losing anything," he says, his hand sliding to the nape of my neck, warm and solid. "You're gaining something. Someone who sees you. Really sees you."
His words strike a chord deep within me—the loneliness I've carried since my grandmother died, the sense that no one truly sees beyond the cheerful shopkeeper with her handmade ornaments. Christian does see me. I felt it in his kiss, in the way he's looked at me all night. Not as an acquisition or a curiosity, but as someone of value. Of worth.
And that's what terrifies me most—how badly I want to believe him. How easily I could surrender to this pull between us, let myself belong to him in ways I've never belonged to anyone.
"I need time," I say, not pulling away but not yielding further either. "This is…a lot to process."
Something flashes in his eyes—impatience, perhaps—but he controls it quickly. "The night is still young," he says, dropping his hand from my neck but capturing my fingers in his. "And I'm a patient man. When the prize is worth waiting for."
The way he says "prize" should offend me, but the reverence in his tone transforms it from objectification to appreciation. Asif I'm something precious he's discovered, not a trophy to be won.
Around us, the gala continues—laughter, music, the occasional squeal as another couple is caught beneath the mistletoe. But in our quiet corner, time seems suspended, reality altered. I stand at a crossroads, torn between caution and desire, between self-preservation and surrender.
"What happens now?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
Christian's fingers tighten around mine, his thumb tracing small circles on my wrist where my pulse beats a rapid tattoo. His smile is slow, confident, full of promise.
"Now," he says, "we continue where we left off."
And God help me, I want nothing more than to follow wherever he leads.
Chapter
Seven
CHRISTIAN
The mistletoe kiss changed everything.I knew it would the moment Eleanor approached with that sprig in hand—knew it and welcomed it. What I didn't anticipate was the intensity, the raw need Sophie awakened with her soft surrender. The taste of her lingers on my lips, sweet and addictive, making it nearly impossible to maintain the control I'm known for. More concerning is my growing irritation with every pair of eyes that turns in our direction. Every glance at Sophie feels like trespass. Every appreciative male gaze like a personal affront. I've never been a man who shares what's his. And after that kiss, Sophie Winters is undeniably mine.
We've retreated to a relatively quiet corner, but the privacy is an illusion. The entire room is watching us—some openly, others with practiced subtlety. I catch Daniel eyeing Sophie's profile as she speaks, his expression calculating. James Whitaker hovering near the bar, champagne in hand but attention fixed on the curve of her neck. Even the women are watching, assessing, wondering what makes this small-town shopkeeper worthy of Christian Hawthorne's unprecedented public display of interest.
The attention was useful earlier—strategic, even. I wanted everyone to see her with me, to understand the connection, to recognize my claim. Now that claim has been staked with the kiss, the continued scrutiny has become intolerable. I don't want their eyes on her anymore. Don't want to share even the sight of her in that dress, the sound of her laugh, the flush that colors her cheeks when I stand too close.
I check my watch. Only ten-thirty. The gala typically continues until midnight or later, with key business discussions happening in these later, more relaxed hours. Leaving now would be noted, commented upon, possibly interpreted as a slight to some of the attendees I haven't yet greeted.
I find I don't care.
"Is something wrong?" Sophie asks, noticing my distraction.
