With trembling fingers, I open the envelope. Inside, a simple card with just three words in bold, masculine handwriting: "Don't make me wait."
No signature. None needed.
Lily peers over my shoulder. "Hot damn," she breathes. "Christian Hawthorne doesn't mess around, does he?"
"Apparently not," I murmur, my thumb tracing over the words. Don't make me wait. Not a request—a command. Just like everything else about him.
"Sophie, honey," Mrs. Peterson approaches, her eyes bright with excitement, "are these from that handsome CEO who took you to the gala last night? The one Marge's nephew said couldn't keep his hands off you?"
"Um, yes," I admit, seeing no point in denials with the evidence perfuming the entire shop.
This confirmation sends a ripple of delighted murmurs through the store. More customers drift in, drawn by the spectacle of the flowers and the promise of gossip. Within minutes, the shop is more crowded than it's been all season, full of people who suddenly need Christmas ornaments—and details about the town's most exciting romance.
"I knew it," Lily whispers triumphantly as I help a customer who's openly staring at the roses. "I told you he was into you."
"It's not—" I start, then stop. What exactly is it? Not just business, not after that kiss. Not just a casual flirtation, not with this grand gesture making his intentions publicly clear.
"Check your phone," Lily advises. "Bet he's waiting for your call."
I glance at my phone on the counter and feel a flutter of anticipation mixed with apprehension. He's expecting me to call. To respond to this overwhelming display of…what? Interest? Possession? Courtship?
"I can't just drop everything and call him," I protest, though my fingers itch to do exactly that.
"Why not?" Lily challenges. "I'm here. The shop's covered. And those flowers—" she gestures at the sea of white roses "—aren't going to acknowledge themselves."
She's right, of course. Ignoring this gesture would be impossible, rude even. But calling means stepping further into whatever this is with Christian. Acknowledging that last night wasn't just a glamorous aberration but the beginning of something real.
When the shop briefly empties—customers leaving with purchases and fresh gossip to spread—I pick up one of the perfect white roses, bringing it to my face. The scent is subtle but luxurious, just like the man who sent them. Despite my reservations, I find myself smiling, a warm glow spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the shop's heating system and everything to do with knowing Christian is thinking about me. Wanting me to call.
"Don't make me wait," I murmur, repeating his words.
As if he'd hear me.
As if he'd give me a choice.
My phone seems heavier than usual as I pick it up, my heart beating a rapid tattoo against my ribs. This is just a thank-you call, I tell myself. Just acknowledging a kind gesture. Just...
Who am I kidding? This is surrender, one white rose at a time.
I press his number—already saved in my contacts from when he gave me his card at the shop—and hold my breath as it rings. Once. Twice.
"Sophie." His voice, deep and satisfied, as if he's been waiting by the phone. As if he knew exactly when I would call. "I see you got my flowers."
Arrogant, presumptuous man. I should be irritated.
Instead, I find myself smiling wider, turning away from Lily's knowing gaze.
"Hard to miss them," I reply, aiming for dry but landing somewhere closer to breathless. "You do realize my shop isn't actually a flower shop, right?"
His low chuckle travels through the phone, settling somewhere deep in my belly. "I wanted to make sure you were thinking about me today. Are you?"
The direct question catches me off guard, though it shouldn't. Christian Hawthorne doesn't do subtlety.
"Yes," I admit, the honesty surprising me. "I am."
I've been doing nothing but thinking about him, and somehow he knew. Just as he knows I'm holding one of his roses right now, my fingers caressing the soft petals as if they were his skin.
"Good," he says simply. "Have dinner with me tonight."
