"Only when I want something." I hold her gaze, letting her see exactly what I mean. "And I want you at that gala."
I reach into my jacket and extract a business card, placing it on the counter. "My personal number. Call with any questions about attire. Black tie."
I turn to leave, then pause, looking back at her. "And Sophie? Don't make me come find you."
The bell above the door rings as I exit into the December cold, the warmth of the shop—of her—lingering on my skin. In the reflection of the Bentley's window, I allow myself the rarest of expressions: a smile.
Saturday can't come fast enough.
Three days. Three days since I visited Sophie's shop, and my phone remains stubbornly silent. No calls. No confirmation about the gala. I stare at the device on my desk like it's personally offended me, my fingers steepled beneath my chin. Patience has never been my virtue. In business, hesitation costs millions. In my personal life, I simply don't allow it. The clock on my wall ticks past five, and I make my decision. If the mountain won't come to Muhammad...
"Have my car brought around," I tell my assistant through the intercom. "Cancel my seven o'clock."
She doesn't question me. No one does. Twenty minutes later, I'm parking outside Winter Wishes for the second time this week. The OPEN sign has been flipped to CLOSED, but I can see lights still on inside. Movement behind the counter. Sophie.
I try the door—locked—and rap my knuckles against the glass. Inside, Sophie's head snaps up, a startled deer in headlights. She's wearing her hair up today, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. For a moment, she freezes, then makes a visible decision to approach the door.
She opens it just enough to speak through the crack. "Mr. Hawthorne. We're closed."
"Christian," I correct her again. "And I'm aware of your hours."
"Then you know I can't help you right now."
"I think you can." I push the door open wider, not enough to be threatening, just enough to make my intentions clear. I'm not leaving. "May I come in?"
Her eyes dart past me to the empty street, then back to my face. She sighs and steps aside. "Five minutes. I have inventory to finish."
I enter her domain for the second time, noting the differences now that customers are gone. Christmas music plays softly from hidden speakers. Half-packed boxes sit on the counter. The scent of her—vanilla and spice—seems stronger without competing perfumes and colognes.
"You didn't call," I say, moving to the center of the shop. Not accusing, merely stating a fact.
"I've been busy," she replies, closing the door and locking it again. She moves behind the counter, putting a physical barrier between us. Defensive. Interesting. "The holiday season is our busiest time."
"Too busy for an opportunity to showcase your work to the city's elite?"
She busies herself with arranging tissue paper in a gift box. "I appreciate the offer, truly. But as I mentioned, I have the town parade that night. I've had a booth reserved for months."
"Cancel it."
Her hands still. "Excuse me?"
"Cancel your booth at the parade." I move closer to the counter, resting my fingertips on its surface. "The exposure from my event will be worth ten parades."
"It's not just about exposure, Mr.—Christian." She meets my eyes briefly before looking away. "It's tradition. My grandmother had that same spot for thirty years before me."
"Traditions change," I say flatly. "Opportunities don't knock twice."
"Why are you so insistent that I come to your gala? There must be dozens of artisans in the area who would jump at the chance."
Smart girl. She's cut right to the heart of it. I could lie, tell her it's purely business. Instead, I decide on a calculated half-truth.
"Because I want you there."
The words hang in the air between us. Her cheeks flush that delicious pink again, and her fingers fumble with the ribbon she's holding.
"I—that's very flattering, but?—"
"Do you remember the auction?" I interrupt, circling the counter slowly, a shark scenting blood. "You let me hold you for three minutes and forty-seven seconds. You trembled the entire time."
