Her eyes widen. "Fifty? That's?—"
"A modest order compared to what I typically spend on corporate gifts," I finish for her. "Quality deserves recognition, Sophie. Your work has quality."
The sincerity in my voice seems to affect her more deeply than the extravagance of my order. Something shifts in her expression—a softening, a recognition that my interest extends beyond the physical attraction between us.
"I can prepare a custom selection," she offers. "If you'll tell me about the recipients, I can match ornaments to personalities."
"I'd prefer you choose," I tell her. "Your artistic instinct is what makes these special."
Her assistant approaches, clearly unable to contain her curiosity any longer. "Sophie, do you need help with Mr. Hawthorne's order?" she asks, though her eyes scream questions about far more personal matters.
"Christian, please," I correct her, extending my hand. "And you must be Lily. Sophie mentioned you were invaluable to her shop."
She did no such thing, of course, but the comment serves its purpose—establishing that Sophie and I discuss personal details, that we have conversations beyond business. Lily's eyebrows rise as she shakes my hand, her gaze darting to Sophie with unmistakable glee.
"Did she now?" Lily grins. "Well, I'm happy to help with your massive order while Sophie takes a well-deserved break. Maybe show you the workroom? That's where the magic happens."
Sophie shoots her assistant a warning look that Lily cheerfully ignores. I find myself appreciating the girl's transparent attempt at matchmaking.
"I'd like that," I agree. "If Sophie doesn't mind."
Put on the spot, Sophie has little choice but to lead me through the shop toward a door in the back. I'm acutely aware of the eyes following us, the whispers that will spread through town the moment we're out of sight. Exactly as I intended when I decided to visit. Public claim-staking at its most effective.
The workroom is small but organized, with a large table in the center covered in supplies—ribbons, paint, tiny brushes, spools of silver wire. Half-finished ornaments hang from a rack near the window, catching the afternoon light. This space feelsintensely personal, like I'm seeing into a private part of Sophie's world.
"This is where I create most of my designs," she says, gesturing around somewhat awkwardly. "Not very glamorous, but functional."
"It suits you," I observe, stepping closer. "Organized. Creative. Authentic."
She looks up at me, confusion evident in her expression. "Why are you really here, Christian? You didn't need to place an order in person. Or send enough flowers to open a second business."
Direct. Another quality I appreciate about her.
"Perhaps I couldn't wait until seven to see you again," I admit, allowing a rare moment of straightforward honesty. "Perhaps I wanted to see your face when you received my flowers."
"They're…overwhelming," she says, but there's no criticism in her tone. More like wonder.
"Good." I reach out, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her cheek. "You deserve to be overwhelmed occasionally, Sophie Winters."
Her breath catches, pupils dilating at the contact. "I'm not used to this. To someone like you."
"There is no one like me," I tell her, not boasting but stating fact. "Just as there's no one like you."
Before she can respond, the bell above the shop door jingles, announcing new customers. Sophie steps back, putting professional distance between us, though her eyes remain fixed on mine.
"I should get back," she says reluctantly.
"And I should let you work." I don't move immediately, prolonging this moment of privacy. "I'll see you at seven, Sophie."
She nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I'll be ready."
I follow her back into the main shop, where I complete the purchase of fifty ornaments with my platinum card, signing the receipt with a flourish that makes Sophie's assistant whistle under her breath. The transaction is entirely unnecessary—I could have had my assistant handle it, could have placed the order over the phone. But the public nature of the exchange, the exorbitant amount, the way Sophie's hand trembles slightly as she passes me the receipt—these details matter. They establish connection, intention, claim.
As I leave, nodding acknowledgments to the curious onlookers who pretend not to stare, satisfaction settles deep in my chest. By tonight, everyone in Evergreen will know that Sophie Winters has captured my exclusive attention. The flowers, the shop visit, the dinner to come—all links in the chain I'm methodically creating to bind her to me.
And if the softness in her eyes when I touched her cheek is any indication, she's not fighting the binding.
Good. Because I have no intention of letting her go.
