I'm nearly at the door, satisfaction warming my chest, when it opens to admit another customer. Male. Mid-thirties. Conventionally attractive in that generic, forgettable way of men who rely on gym memberships and expensive haircuts rather than substance. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't spare him a second glance. But normal circumstances don't include him immediately heading toward Sophie with the purposeful stride of a man on a mission. My hand freezes on the doorhandle as I watch him approach her, a too-wide smile spreading across his face.
"Sophie Winters," he says, loud enough for me to hear across the shop. "You are a sight for sore eyes."
His familiarity grates like sandpaper against raw skin. I turn, watching Sophie's reaction. Recognition lights her features, followed by a polite smile—the kind reserved for acquaintances rather than friends. A small relief.
"Ben," she acknowledges. "It's been a while. How are you?"
Ben. The name immediately files itself in my mental database of potential obstacles. I release the door handle, moving to a display near the counter where I can observe without being obvious. Sophie's assistant—Lily—notices my lingering presence, her eyes darting between me and the newcomer with undisguised interest.
"Better now that I'm looking at you," Ben says, leaning against the counter in a pose he clearly thinks is charming. His gaze travels to the white roses surrounding Sophie. "Someone's got an admirer. Secret Santa?"
Sophie's cheeks flush that delicious pink I'm coming to crave. "Not exactly," she replies, gesturing vaguely. "Just a…friend."
Friend. The word is a knife twist I wasn't expecting. Is that how she categorizes me? After the gala, the kiss, my declaration at her door? Friend?
Ben leans closer. "Must be some friend. Though I can't say I blame them. You always were the prettiest girl in town."
The compliment is delivered with practiced ease—the line of a man who relies on flattery as currency. I watch Sophie's reaction, tension coiling in my chest. Her smile widens slightly, a reflexive response to praise perhaps, but it sends a surge of something dark and possessive through me.
"What can I help you with today, Ben?" she asks, professionally deflecting.
"Christmas shopping for my mom," he says, though his body language makes it abundantly clear that's not his primary purpose. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping to see you. Heard through the grapevine you were back on the Benet after that thing with David ended."
David. Another name for my mental file. Ex-boyfriend, apparently. Recently enough that "Ben" here feels it's appropriate to reference.
"I've been single for months," Sophie corrects him, arranging ornaments in a display with unnecessary focus. "And very busy with the shop."
"Too busy for dinner?" he asks, reaching across the counter to touch her hand. "I always regretted not asking you out in high school. Maybe it's not too late?"
The touch ignites something primal in me—a visceral reaction I can't control. My vision narrows, focusing on the point where his fingers rest on Sophie's skin. My skin. My territory. Mine.
Before I'm fully conscious of moving, I'm beside them, my presence an intrusion impossible to ignore. Sophie's eyes widen in surprise. Ben turns, irritation flashing across his features at the interruption.
"Sophie," I say, my voice controlled despite the rage building beneath the surface, "I believe you mentioned showing me those special-order designs in the workroom."
Her brow furrows in confusion—no such conversation occurred—but something in my expression must warn her.
"Right," she says carefully. "Ben, would you excuse me for a minute? Lily can help you with ornaments for your mother."
Ben glances between us, understanding dawning. "Sure," he says, stepping back. "We can catch up later."
The suggestion that there will be a "later" for them nearly snaps my restraint. I place my hand at the small of Sophie'sback, guiding her toward the workroom with firm pressure. She allows it, though I feel tension in her posture.
The moment the workroom door closes behind us, she turns to face me. "What was that about? I don't recall any special-order designs."
"Who is he?" I demand, not bothering with pretense.
She blinks, taken aback by my directness. "Ben? Just someone I went to high school with. His family owns the hardware store downtown."
"And David?" The name tastes bitter on my tongue.
Her eyes narrow slightly. "My ex-boyfriend. We broke up six months ago. Why are you asking?"
"You smiled at him," I say, the words coming out harsher than intended. "When he touched your hand."
Understanding dawns in her expression, quickly followed by indignation. "I was being polite. It's called customer service."
"It looked like more than that." I step closer, unable to maintain distance when jealousy courses through me like poison. "He wants you."
