"Seven o'clock," she confirms quietly.
I leave without looking back, though it takes considerable willpower. The shop is indeed busy now, customers pretending not to stare as I exit. Let them stare. Let them talk. By tomorrow, everyone in Evergreen will know that Sophie Winters is off-limits to men like "Ben."
That she belongs to me.
Even if she isn't ready to admit it yet.
Chapter
Ten
SOPHIE
The carChristian sends is not the Bentley from last night but a sleek black Mercedes, driven by a different chauffeur who introduces himself as Thomas. I slide into the back seat, smoothing the midnight-blue dress I chose after agonizing over my limited wardrobe options. The box that arrived at my apartment an hour before pickup—a designer dress in deep crimson with a note reading "Wear this"—sits untouched on my bed. A small rebellion, perhaps childish, but necessary. If I'm going to confront Christian Hawthorne about his possessive behavior, I can't be wearing a dress he commanded me to put on. I need whatever scraps of independence I can muster, even if they come in the form of fabric and color choices.
The drive to Archer's is short but gives me time to rehearse what I need to say. "Don't smile at them like that, Sophie. Not when you're mine." His words from this afternoon echo in my head, both thrilling and infuriating me in equal measure. The possessiveness in his voice, the heat in his eyes when he gripped my arms—it sent shivers down my spine even as my brain screamed warnings about red flags and controlling behavior. I can't keep vacillating between desire and common sense.Tonight, I need to draw clear boundaries, even if part of me wants to surrender completely to whatever this is between us.
Archer's is the most exclusive restaurant in Evergreen, a converted mansion on the edge of town that requires reservations weeks in advance—unless you're Christian Hawthorne, apparently. Thomas pulls up to the entrance, where a valet opens my door before I can reach for the handle. The restaurant glows with warm light against the winter darkness, intimidatingly elegant. I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders. I can do this. I can stand my ground with the most powerful man in town, even if he makes my knees weak with a single glance.
Christian waits in the lobby, his back to me as he speaks to the maître d'. My heart does a traitorous little flip at the sight of him in a perfectly tailored suit, dark hair still slightly damp as if he showered just before coming. When he turns and sees me, something flashes in his eyes—surprise, quickly followed by appreciation, then a hint of displeasure.
"Not the dress I sent," he observes as I approach, his tone neutral but eyes assessing.
"No," I agree simply, refusing to apologize or explain.
He studies me for a long moment, then offers his arm. "You look beautiful regardless."
I place my hand on his sleeve, hyperaware of the solid muscle beneath fine fabric. "Thank you."
The maître d' leads us not to the main dining room but up a private staircase to a small room with a single table overlooking the restaurant's winter garden. A crystal chandelier casts soft light over white linens, silver, and the dozen white roses arranged as a centerpiece—a miniature echo of the floral explosion in my shop.
"The private dining room, as requested, Mr. Hawthorne," the maître d' says with a slight bow. "Chef Michel has prepared the special menu you discussed."
Of course he has. Christian probably planned this dinner with the same strategic precision he applies to business acquisitions. The thought both impresses and unnerves me.
Christian holds my chair, his hands lingering briefly on my shoulders as I sit. The casual possessiveness of the gesture stiffens my resolve. I need to speak up before I lose myself in the romance of the setting, in the intoxicating presence of the man now seated across from me.
A waiter appears with champagne, pouring without asking if we want it. Christian raises his glass. "To new beginnings."
I lift mine but don't drink immediately. "What kind of beginning are we talking about, exactly?"
His eyes hold mine over the rim of his glass. "The only kind that matters. One that continues."
The intensity of his gaze makes my stomach flutter, but I push through it. "We need to talk about what happened today."
"Which part?" he asks, though I suspect he knows exactly what I mean.
"The part where you dragged me into my own workroom to warn me about smiling at other men." I set my champagne down untouched. "The part where you acted like you have some claim on me after one kiss and a few conversations."
His jaw tightens slightly, the only visible sign that my directness has hit a nerve. "I don't appreciate watching men flirt with you."
"And I don't appreciate being treated like property," I counter, my voice steadier than I feel. "I'm not your possession, Christian. I'm not something you can acquire or claim or own."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?" he asks, leaning forward slightly. "Treating you like an acquisition?"
"Aren't you? 'You're mine, Sophie.' 'Don't smile at them, Sophie.' 'Wear this dress, Sophie.'" I mimic his commanding tone. "You don't get to dictate who I talk to or how I interact with customers in my own shop."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—not anger, exactly, but a fierce intensity that makes my breath catch. "The man wanted more than a Christmas ornament."
