I've never failed to acquire something I truly wanted. And I have never wanted anything—anyone—the way I want her.
Sleep finally comes as the first rays of sun touch the horizon, dreams filled with honey-blonde hair spread across my pillow, blue eyes darkened with desire, soft lips whispering my name. Not dreams. Premonitions.
By tonight, they'll be reality.
Four hours after the flowers are delivered, I find myself driving to Winter Wishes. The dinner reservation isn't until seven, but I'm uncharacteristically impatient. I need to see her reaction to my gesture, need to witness firsthand the impact of my claim-staking. This behavior is foreign to me—I never pursue, never chase. Yet here I am, the CEO of Hawthorne Enterprises, rearranging meetings and clearing my afternoon schedule just to see Sophie Winters blush. My assistant's carefully neutral expression when I announced I'd be "out on business" told me she wasn't fooled. News travels fast in corporate circles; by now, everyone knows about the mistletoe kiss that ended my reputation for emotional detachment.
I park my Aston Martin across the street from Winter Wishes, observing the scene before entering. The shop is busierthan I've ever seen it—not surprising, given the spectacle inside. Through the window, I can see white roses everywhere, transforming the already charming space into something from a fairy tale. More telling is the crowd; the
I park my Aston Martin across the street from Winter Wishes, observing the scene before entering. The shop is busier than I've ever seen it—not surprising, given the spectacle inside. Through the window, I can see white roses everywhere, transforming the already charming space into something from a fairy tale. More telling is the crowd; the small shop is filled with people who appear more interested in the flowers—and their recipient—than in shopping for Christmas ornaments. Small town gossip in action. Perfect.
I straighten my tie—unnecessarily, as it's already impeccable—and cross the street. The bell above the door announces my arrival, and the effect is immediate. Conversations halt mid-sentence. Heads turn. Eyes widen in recognition. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as I make my way inside, searching for the only person who matters.
I find her behind the counter, cheeks flushed as she wraps a package for an older woman who's openly staring at me over Sophie's shoulder. When Sophie looks up and sees me, her hands falter, nearly dropping the scissors she's holding. The blush deepens, spreading down her neck toward the modest neckline of her cranberry sweater. I find myself wondering how far down that blush extends. I intend to find out. Soon.
"Christian," she says, my name breathless on her lips. "I didn't expect you until dinner."
"I was in the neighborhood," I lie smoothly, approaching the counter. "I thought I'd stop by to ensure my delivery arrived as instructed."
Her gaze flicks to the sea of white roses, then back to me. "They arrived. All of them. Every single one."
"Good." I allow myself a small smile, enjoying her flustered state. "They suit you."
The older woman Sophie was helping clears her throat meaningfully. Sophie startles, hastily finishing the package and handing it over.
"Thank you, Mrs. Henderson," she says. "Enjoy your snow globe."
"Oh, I'm enjoying everything about today," Mrs. Henderson replies with a knowing grin, making no move to leave. She looks between Sophie and me with undisguised interest. "The flowers are quite something, Mr. Hawthorne. Never seen anything like it in all my years in Evergreen."
"Sophie deserves nothing less," I reply, holding Sophie's gaze rather than looking at her customer. "Wouldn't you agree?"
Mrs. Henderson chuckles. "I would indeed. Our Sophie is a special one."
"Our Sophie," I repeat, letting the possessive land between us with deliberate weight. "Yes, she is."
Sophie's blush intensifies, the color highlighting the blue of her eyes. I find the reaction immensely satisfying.
Mrs. Henderson finally takes her cue to leave, though not without a parting comment about "young love" that makes Sophie look like she wants to sink through the floor. Several other customers linger, pretending to examine ornaments while obviously eavesdropping. The red-haired girl who must be Sophie's assistant—Lily, I recall from my background research—watches from across the shop with naked curiosity.
"Did you need something specific?" Sophie asks, clearly trying to regain her professional composure. "Or did you just come to see if I was sufficiently overwhelmed by turning my shop into a flower exhibition?"
The hint of fire beneath her embarrassment pleases me. She's not entirely cowed by my gestures or presence. Good. Iwant her willing, not submissive. Challenge makes victory all the sweeter.
"Perhaps I need Christmas gifts," I suggest, glancing around the shop. "I have several business associates who might appreciate handcrafted ornaments."
"Of course," she says, slipping into shopkeeper mode though her eyes remain wary. "Any particular style you're interested in?"
"Show me your favorites," I tell her. "The pieces you're most proud of."
The request surprises her, but she nods, coming around the counter to lead me toward a display case near the window. I follow, close enough that my hand can occasionally brush against hers—casual contact that sends visible shivers up her arm each time.
"These are my newest designs," she explains, pointing to a collection of crystal and silver snowflakes, each unique and intricately detailed. "I call this series 'Winter's Heart.'"
"They're exquisite," I say honestly, genuinely impressed by the craftsmanship. "Like frozen moments in time."
She glances up at me, clearly not expecting sincere appreciation. "Thank you. They're more complex than they look. Each one takes hours."
"I'd like all of them," I decide. "And a selection of your other work. Say, fifty pieces total."
