It's a start. A beginning, as he said. One that continues.
And despite every warning sign, every red flag, every cautious voice in my head, I find myself hoping it continues for a very long time.
The first course arrives—a delicate arrangement of seared scallops that looks more like art than food. The tensionbetween us has eased somewhat after our confrontation, settling into something more cautious but also more honest. We talk about safer topics—the restaurant, the approaching holidays, my busiest season at the shop. Christian asks thoughtful questions about my work, showing genuine interest in the creative process behind my ornaments. It's a side of him I haven't seen much of—curious rather than commanding, attentive rather than assertive. I find myself relaxing into the conversation, the knot of anxiety in my chest loosening with each exchange that doesn't involve him trying to claim ownership of me or my choices.
"How did you learn to make them?" he asks, genuinely curious as he samples the scallop. "Was it always ornaments specifically?"
"My grandmother taught me," I reply, the memory warming me. "I spent every Christmas with her after my parents divorced. We'd sit at her kitchen table making ornaments for the tree—first simple ones from salt dough, then more complex designs as I got older. When I was in college, she suggested selling them at the town's holiday Benet."
Christian listens with an intensity that makes me feel like my words matter, like my history has value beyond small talk. "And Winter Wishes grew from there?"
I nod, taking a sip of water. "She owned a small stationery shop at the time. When she got too old to manage it alone, I came back to help. We gradually transitioned to focusing on the ornaments and gifts, since those were selling best. When she passed away three years ago, she left me the shop."
"You honor her legacy," Christian observes, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "That's…admirable."
The compliment feels genuine, lacking the calculated quality his praise sometimes carries. It emboldens me to ask something I've been wondering since our first meeting.
"What about your family?" I venture, treading carefully. "You never mention them."
A shadow passes over his face, subtle but unmistakable. For a moment, I think he might deflect or change the subject entirely. The silence stretches, weighted with something I can't name.
"I don't have family," he says finally, his voice neutral but his eyes revealing the cost of the admission. "Not in the traditional sense."
I wait, giving him space to continue or retreat as he chooses. After a moment, he seems to make a decision.
"My parents died when I was seventeen," he continues, focusing on his wine glass rather than meeting my eyes. "Car accident. There was no other family to speak of. I was on my own after that."
The simple statement carries volumes of unspoken pain. Suddenly, many things about Christian begin to make sense—his need for control, his intense self-reliance, his difficulty trusting.
"I'm sorry," I say softly, resisting the urge to reach for his hand. "That must have been incredibly difficult."
"It was a long time ago." He dismisses the sympathy with a small shake of his head, but I sense the wound isn't as healed as he pretends. "I learned to rely on myself. To build something from nothing."
"Your company," I supply.
"Hawthorne Enterprises didn't exist then," he says, something dark flickering in his expression. "I was a scholarship student about to start college with nothing but a small insurance payout and whatever I could carry in one suitcase."
The image is jarring—Christian Hawthorne, the commanding CEO who exudes wealth and power, reduced to a solitary teenager with a single suitcase. The contrast between that boy and the man before me speaks to a journey I can barely imagine.
"How did you go from there to…this?" I gesture vaguely at our surroundings, at him.
A hint of his usual confidence returns. "Determination. Strategy. An unwillingness to accept failure as an option." He pauses, then adds with surprising candor, "And a pathological need to control my environment so I'm never at the mercy of circumstance again."
The self-awareness in that last statement catches me off guard. Before I can respond, the waiter appears to clear our plates and bring the main course—perfectly cooked beef Wellington for Christian, herb-crusted salmon for me. We pause until we're alone again, the moment of vulnerability suspended between us.
"Sophie." Christian sets down his fork without tasting the food, his expression serious. "About today, at your shop."
I tense slightly, expecting him to justify his behavior or minimize my concerns. Instead, he surprises me.
"I owe you an apology," he says, the words clearly unfamiliar territory for him. "My reaction was…disproportionate."
I blink, not bothering to hide my surprise. "Yes, it was."
"I'm not accustomed to feeling..." He hesitates, searching for the right word. "Possessive. Jealous. It's not an emotion I've had much occasion to experience."
"Until me?" I ask softly.
His eyes meet mine, startlingly vulnerable. "Until you."
