"I was nervous," she whispers. "Everyone was watching."
"They'll be watching at the gala, too." I'm at the end of the counter now, nothing between us. "When I walk in with you on my arm."
Her eyes widen. "On your arm? I thought I was going to set up a display booth?"
"You are." I take another step closer. "And then you'll join me for the evening. As my guest."
"That wasn't part of the offer."
"It is now."
She backs up until she hits the shelves behind her. I don't crowd her further, but I don't retreat either. The space between us is electric, charged with something neither of us is acknowledging out loud.
"Mr. Hawthorne?—"
"Christian," I say, the edge in my voice unmistakable.
"Christian," she corrects, swallowing hard. "I don't think this is a good idea."
"Why not?" I counter. "Afraid of me, Sophie?"
"No," she says, lifting her chin with unexpected defiance. "I'm afraid of what you represent."
I raise an eyebrow. "And what's that?"
"Complications." She takes a breath. "You're not the kind of man who does anything without an agenda. I run a small business in a small town. I make Christmas ornaments and snow globes. I'm not…in your world."
I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo. "You could be."
The invitation—the implication—hangs heavy between us. Her pupils dilate, her breathing quickens. She wants this, wants me, despite her protests. I can read people like balance sheets; Sophie Winters is an open book with dog-eared pages.
"One evening," I continue, voice lowering. "A few hours of your time. In exchange, I introduce your work to people who can afford to buy it by the crate. People who summer in places where your little parade has never been heard of."
She hesitates, her business sense warring with her caution. I decide to push a little harder.
"Unless, of course, you're content to stay small forever. To hide your talent in this little shop, in this little town."
Her eyes flash. "That's not fair."
"Life rarely is." I reach out, not touching her but letting my hand hover near her face. "Success requires risk, Sophie. You took a risk when you danced with me at the auction. Take another one now."
She closes her eyes briefly, and I know I've won.
"Saturday at seven?" she asks, her voice small but not defeated.
"My driver will collect you." I pull my hand back, not wanting to spook her now that I've secured what I want. "Wear something appropriate for the occasion."
"I don't exactly have a wardrobe full of gala attire," she admits, a thread of embarrassment in her tone.
I reach into my jacket and extract my credit card, placing it on the counter. "Problem solved."
"I can't accept that?—"
"You can, and you will." My tone makes it clear this isn't negotiable. "Consider it an investment in my guest's appearance."
She doesn't take the card, but she doesn't throw it back at me either. Progress.
"I'll see you Saturday, Sophie." I step back, giving her space to breathe. "Don't disappoint me."
