I'm falling for his intensity, his certainty, the way he looks at me like I'm the only woman in the world. I'm falling for how safe I felt with his arm around me at the gala, how seen I felt when he defended my work to others. I'm falling for the contradiction of him—ruthlessly commanding one moment, unexpectedly gentle the next.
Most dangerous of all, I'm falling for how he makes me feel about myself: desired, valuable, worthy of grand gestures and undivided attention.
I dry my hair, apply makeup with more care than usual, slip into the blue dress that hugs my curves in a way that'ssophisticated rather than obvious. The woman in the mirror looks collected, calm even. Nothing like the turmoil inside me.
My phone chimes with a text. Christian: "Car will arrive in twenty minutes."
Not "I'll pick you up." Not "See you soon." Just the bare information, delivered as a statement of fact. Even his texts sound like commands.
I type back a simple "OK" before I can overthink it.
Setting the phone down, I take a deep breath, smoothing my hands over the blue dress. One last glance in the mirror shows a woman at a crossroads—cautious shopkeeper on one path, willing risk-taker on the other. The choice seems already made, has been since I accepted his dinner invitation.
Since I walked into the charity auction and caught his eye, perhaps.
Christian Hawthorne may be dangerous in all the ways that matter, but tonight—at least for tonight—I'm willing to play with fire.
The real question isn't whether I'm falling for him. It's how hard I'll hit when I land.
Chapter
Nine
CHRISTIAN
Sleep eludes me.I've been staring at the ceiling of my penthouse bedroom for three hours, watching shadows shift across the minimalist space that usually brings me peace. Not tonight. Tonight, the king-sized bed feels too large, too empty. The silence that I typically prize now seems hollow, lacking the soft breathing of the woman who should be here beside me. Sophie Winters has infected my thoughts like a virus I have no immunity against. Her scent—vanilla and something uniquely her—seems to linger on my skin despite the shower I took when I arrived home. The taste of her lips haunts me, a phantom sensation I can't shake no matter how I try.
I throw off the sheets and rise, padding barefoot to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the sleeping city. Snow still falls, coating Evergreen in pristine white. Somewhere across town, in her small apartment above that quaint little shop, Sophie sleeps. Or perhaps she lies awake too, replaying our night as I am—the dance, the mistletoe, my declaration at her door.
You're mine now.
I meant those words. Meant them with a conviction that should alarm me but doesn't. In thirty-six years, I've never feltthis immediate, consuming need to possess another person. To claim them completely.
My reflection stares back at me from the window—eyes shadowed, jaw tight with tension. I barely recognize myself. Control has always been my religion, restraint my practice. I built an empire on calculated risks and cold logic. Nothing about Sophie Winters was calculated. Nothing logical about leaving her at her door when everything in me demanded I follow her inside and make her mine in every way possible.
And yet I left. Part of my strategy—leave her wanting, wondering, anticipating. Make her come to me. I've never pursued a woman who wasn't already signaling availability, interest, willingness. This deliberate chase is new territory, guided by instinct rather than precedent. The businessman in me recognizes the risk in that approach. The man in me doesn't care.
I replay every moment of the gala in high definition—her nervous fidgeting as I picked her up, her gasp when I first touched her bare skin, the way she unconsciously leaned into me during our dance. The mistletoe kiss that changed everything. The feel of her lips surrendering beneath mine, her body molding against me like it was made to fit there. The flush on her cheeks afterward, the dazed look in her eyes that told me she felt it too—this inexplicable, irresistible pull between us.
Turning from the window, I retrieve my phone from the nightstand. Nearly three in the morning—too early to take action, but not too early to plan. I pull up my assistant's number, drafting a text she'll see when she wakes: "Arrange for delivery of white roses to Winter Wishes. Multiple arrangements. Largest available. Card to read 'Don't make me wait.' No signature." I add details about timing, payment, the importance of making an impression.
White roses. Pure. Elegant. A traditional symbol of new beginnings and, more importantly, worthy of the woman they're intended for. Sophie won't be able to ignore such a display, especially delivered to her shop where everyone will see. Public claim-staking, though she won't recognize it as such. Not yet.
I add another text, this one about dinner reservations at Archer's, the most exclusive restaurant in Evergreen. Private dining room. Special menu. Then a third text, about a delivery to be arranged to Sophie's apartment before our dinner.
My mind works methodically through contingencies, anticipating her reactions, planning my responses. This is familiar territory—strategy, moves and countermoves. The context is new, but the process remains the same. Identify target. Assess value. Create acquisition plan. Execute.
Except Sophie isn't a company to be acquired. She's a woman—warm, real, disarmingly genuine in a world of calculated facades. And what I feel for her isn't merely desire or the thrill of the chase. It's something deeper, more primal. Something that makes my chest tighten when I think of her smile, her scent, the sound of her laughter. Something that turned my controlled, meticulously ordered world upside down in the space of one evening.
Obsession. Possession. Words that should concern me but instead feel right. Inevitable.
I return to bed, though I know sleep will continue to evade me. The sheets are cold, the space beside me empty. I find myself reaching for a phantom presence, fingers grasping air where Sophie's warmth should be. This won't do. This emptiness, this ache for someone not present—it's unfamiliar, uncomfortable. A weakness I can't afford.
Or perhaps not weakness, but transformation. Evolution.
Sophie Winters has catalyzed something in me—something that's been dormant, waiting. The capacity to want beyondreason. To need beyond logic. To pursue beyond sensible boundaries.
By the time dawn breaks over the snow-covered city, I've made my decision. This half-state, this wanting without having, ends today. The flowers will arrive at her shop by noon. The dinner invitation will follow. And by tomorrow morning, Sophie Winters will be where she belongs—here, in this bed, in my arms. In my life.
