Not a question. Never a question with him.
And God help me, I'm already saying yes.
I end the call with Christian, my heart racing like I've just sprinted uphill. "Seven o'clock," he said, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "Wear something nice, but not the emerald dress. I have something else in mind for you." The presumption should irritate me—the assumption that he gets to dictate what I wear, that I'll rearrange my Saturday night plans (nonexistent as they may be) to accommodate his desires. Instead, I'm already mentally sorting through my closet, wondering what will please him, what will make those storm-gray eyes darken with appreciation. This is bad. This is very bad.
"Well?" Lily demands, practically vibrating with curiosity. "What did he say? Are those roses an apology? A thank-you? A prelude to wild, chandelier-swinging sex?"
"Lily!" I glance around, relieved to see the shop momentarily empty of customers. "He asked me to dinner. Tonight."
She squeals, loud enough to rattle the crystal snowflakes hanging in the window display. "I knew it! Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say he was obsessed with you after that charity auction?"
"He's not obsessed," I protest weakly, though the sea of white roses surrounding us suggests otherwise. "He's just…interested."
"Honey, men who are 'just interested' send a single bouquet. Maybe take you for coffee." She gestures at the floral explosion. "This is not 'interested.' This is full-blown, ring-the-wedding-bells infatuation."
A small shiver runs through me at her words. Infatuation. Obsession. Whatever this is between Christian and me, it doesn't feel casual or temporary. It feels inevitable, like gravity—a force I couldn't fight even if I wanted to.
And that's the problem. I'm not sure I want to.
"Go," Lily says, making shooing motions toward the door. "It's already four. You need time to get ready, and I can close up."
"I can't just leave you?—"
"You can and you will." She plants her hands on her hips. "Your billionaire sent you enough flowers to open a second business. The least you can do is look spectacular for him tonight."
I hesitate, torn between responsibility to my shop and the magnetic pull of what awaits me at seven o'clock. "Are you sure?"
"Sophie Winters, if you don't get your butt upstairs and into the shower right now, I will drag you there myself. This is the most exciting thing to happen in Evergreen since the mayor's wife ran off with the Christmas tree lighting technician."
I laugh despite my nervousness, gathering my purse from beneath the counter. "Fine. But call me if you get swamped."
"The only call you're getting is to hear about how your date went," she promises, already tidying the register area. "Now go. Shave everything. Twice."
Upstairs in my apartment, I drop my purse on the kitchen counter and lean against the wall, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of what's happening. I'm having dinner with Christian Hawthorne tonight. After the gala, after the mistletoe kiss, afterhis declaration at my door—"You're mine now." After all that, I'm still walking straight into whatever web he's spinning around me.
I should be smarter than this.
I move to the bathroom, turning on the shower to let it heat up while I undress. Steam fills the small space as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Same blue eyes, same honey-blonde hair, same face I've seen every day of my life. But something's different now. Something in my expression—a new awareness, perhaps. Or maybe just the look of a woman who's in way over her head.
The warning signs about Christian are impossible to ignore. His possessiveness. His need for control. The way he issues commands rather than requests. The intensity in his eyes when he looks at me, like he's calculating how best to claim every part of me. In any dating guide, these would be red flags—big, glaring, frantically waving red flags.
So why am I stepping into the shower with a smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach?
Maybe because beneath the commanding exterior, I've glimpsed something else in Christian. A vulnerability when he asked why I chose pastry making. A moment of genuine interest in my little shop and the ornaments I create. The careful way he held my hand as we danced, like I was something precious that might break if he wasn't gentle.
Or maybe I'm justifying, seeing what I want to see, creating depth where there's only desire.
The hot water sluices over me as I methodically shave, condition my hair, scrub every inch of skin. My mind keeps returning to Christian's words from last night: "When I have you, it won't be after a night of champagne and mistletoe games. It won't be something you can dismiss as getting caught up in the moment."
The certainty in his voice, the assumption that having me was inevitable—it should terrify me. Instead, it sends heat spiraling through my body that has nothing to do with the shower's temperature.
What does that say about me?
I wrap myself in a towel, padding to my bedroom where the emerald dress still hangs on the closet door. "Not the emerald dress," he said. I run my fingers over the velvet, remembering how his eyes darkened when he first saw me in it. Does he want something different tonight? Something he's chosen himself, perhaps?
My closet offers limited options for "something nice." After some deliberation, I select a deep blue dress with a sweetheart neckline—simple but flattering, elegant without trying too hard. I lay it on the bed, then sit beside it, water dripping from my hair onto the comforter.
The truth I've been avoiding all day surfaces, impossible to ignore any longer: I'm falling for Christian Hawthorne. Despite the warning signs. Despite knowing better. Despite the voice of reason screaming that men like him don't end up with women like me except in fairy tales and HallBen movies.
