"Mmhmm." Her knowing smile makes it clear she doesn't believe me for a second. "And I suppose he features all his vendors with champagne and dancing and kisses that make the catering staff stop in their tracks?"
I busy myself straightening already-perfect rows of gift boxes. "It wasn't—I mean—it was just one dance. One kiss. For the mistletoe game."
"Marjorie's nephew said he left early. With you." She pauses meaningfully. "First time in five years he's left his own event before midnight, apparently."
I'm saved from responding by the arrival of more customers—a young couple looking for baby's first Christmas ornaments. Mrs. Henderson wanders off to examine the new display of snow globes, but her knowing smile follows me as I help the couple choose the perfect keepsake.
The morning passes in a blur of customers and gift wrapping and stilted small talk. I'm operating on autopilot, my body going through the motions while my mind circles endlessly around Christian. Every time the bell above the door rings, my heart leaps, expecting to see his tall figure filling the doorway. Every time my phone buzzes with a notification, my hands fumble in their rush to check it.
By noon, I'm a mess of anticipation and dread. During a brief lull, I retreat to the small workroom behind the shop, needing a moment alone to collect myself. I slump against the workbench, surrounded by half-finished ornaments and spools of ribbon. This is my world—simple, creative, safe. Nothing like the glittering, high-stakes universe Christian inhabits.
I press my fingertips to my lips, remembering the pressure of his mouth on mine, the way he claimed me with that kiss in frontof everyone. Heat spirals through me at the memory, settling low in my belly. I can still taste him, still feel the firm grip of his hand at my waist, still hear his voice in my ear: "You're mine now."
The door to the shop jingles again, pulling me reluctantly back to reality. I straighten, smooth my sweater, plaster on my customer service smile. It feels fake, stretched tight across my face like it no longer fits.
Because the truth is undeniable now, standing alone in my workroom with phantom sensations of Christian's touch still lingering on my skin: last night wasn't just a glamorous interlude, a Cinderella moment that ended at midnight. It was the beginning of something I don't fully understand but can't seem to resist.
One kiss, one night, one man—and everything has changed.
Christian Hawthorne has gotten under my skin, into my thoughts, and I'm terrified by how much I want him to stay there.
The afternoon rush hits right after lunch—holiday shoppers with lists in hand, determined to find the perfect gifts before Christmas arrives. I throw myself into the work, grateful for the distraction from my circling thoughts about Christian. Every customer gets my brightest smile, my most attentive service. I wrap packages with extra care, adding sprigs of holly and hand-curled ribbons. If I keep my hands busy enough, maybe they'll stop reaching for my phone to check if he's called. If I talk enough about ornament care and custom orders, maybe I'll stop hearing his voice in my head: "You're mine now." It's almost working. Almost.
Lily arrives for her afternoon shift, bringing a blast of cold air and her usual whirlwind energy. She takes one look at me and raises an eyebrow.
"You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet," she announces, loud enough that Mrs. Peterson examining snow globes nearby glances over with scandalized interest.
"Thanks," I mutter, pulling her behind the counter. "Could you possibly say that louder? I don't think they heard you in the next county."
Lily grins, unrepentant. "So? Details. Now. How was the gala? How was he? Did you?—"
"Not here," I hiss, nodding toward the customers browsing throughout the shop.
"Fine," she agrees, shrugging out of her coat. "But I want every juicy detail when things slow down. And don't think you can skip the good stuff. Marge's nephew who works catering at the Grand Summit already texted me about the mistletoe kiss that made the entire room stop and stare."
I groan, burying my face in my hands. "Is there anyone in this town who doesn't know about that?"
"Nope," Lily says cheerfully. "And if there is, they will by closing time. Small towns, honey. No secrets allowed."
I'm saved from further interrogation by the chime of the bell above the door. Not a customer this time, but a deliveryman struggling with what appears to be the largest flower arrangement I've ever seen. An explosion of pristine white roses—dozens of them, maybe hundreds—arranged in a crystal vase that probably costs more than most of the items in my shop.
"Delivery for Sophie Winters," the man announces unnecessarily, as every eye in the store swivels from the magnificent flowers to my rapidly reddening face.
"That's…me," I manage, stepping forward.
The deliveryman looks relieved as he places the massive arrangement on the counter. "Need you to sign here," he says, offering a tablet. "And maybe help me bring in the others?"
"Others?" I echo, signing blindly.
"Three more arrangements," he confirms. "Boss said to bring them all in at once, make an impression." He glances at the stunned faces around the shop. "Mission accomplished, I'd say."
Fifteen minutes and four enormous arrangements later, my small shop looks like a high-end florist. White roses cover the counter, the front window display, the small table near the register. Their scent fills the air, sophisticated and overwhelming. Every customer in the store is staring, whispering behind their hands, clearly delighted by the romantic spectacle.
Lily waits until the deliveryman leaves before pouncing. "Oh. My. God." She plucks the small envelope nestled among the blooms of the largest arrangement. "Are you going to open this, or shall I?"
I snatch the envelope from her fingers, heat flooding my cheeks. "Don't you have customers to help?"
"They can wait. This can't." She crosses her arms, making it clear she's not budging until I read whatever message accompanies this extravagant display.
