"Thank you for inviting me," she replies, glancing around with undisguised curiosity. "This is…wow."
I follow her gaze, seeing my home through her eyes—the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing panoramic views of Evergreen and the surrounding mountains, the minimalist furnishings in shades of gray and white, the artwork worth millions displayed with careful precision.
"Let me show you around," I suggest, offering my hand.
She hesitates only briefly before placing her fingers in mine. A small victory that feels disproportionately significant.
I guide her through the main living areas—the formal living room with its massive fireplace, the dining room where our meal awaits, the professional-grade kitchen that I rarely use myself. Throughout the tour, I'm hyperaware of her presence beside me, the subtle scent of her perfume, the warmth of her hand in mine. Having her in my space feels right in a way I didn't anticipate. Asif she belongs here. As if the penthouse has been waiting for her presence to make it complete.
A dangerous line of thinking for a man who's prided himself on emotional independence.
"It's beautiful," Sophie says as we complete the tour, "but not very…lived in."
The observation is accurate, if unexpectedly perceptive. "I travel frequently," I explain. "And when I'm here, I'm usually working."
"No personal touches," she notes, glancing around. "No photos. No mementos."
"I don't collect sentimental items," I tell her, though the statement feels hollow even to my ears.
She studies me, those blue eyes seeing too much. "No connections to the past. No reminders of what can be lost."
Again, her insight cuts directly to truths I rarely acknowledge even to myself. I release her hand, moving toward the bar to pour us each a glass of wine. The distance is necessary, a moment to regain my equilibrium.
"White or red?" I ask, deflecting.
"White, please," she says, allowing the subject change but watching me with an understanding that's both comforting and unsettling.
I pour two glasses of an exceptional Chablis, handing one to her. Our fingers brush during the exchange, a small contact that sends electricity up my arm. Her effect on me is unprecedented, uncontrolled. Fascinating and concerning in equal measure.
"I brought you something," she says, offering the small gift bag she's been carrying. "A thank you for dinner the other night."
The gesture catches me off guard. I'm accustomed to being the one who gives gifts, who creates obligation through generosity. Being on the receiving end feels…unfamiliar.
"You didn't need to do that," I say, accepting the bag with what I hope appears as casual grace rather than the awkwardness I feel.
"I wanted to," she counters, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Go ahead, open it."
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, I find a hand-painted ornament—a crystal snowflake with intricate silver wirework creating a pattern unique from any in her shop displays.
"I made it specifically for you," she explains, a hint of nervousness in her voice. "After our dinner conversation. It's called 'Thaw.'"
I examine the ornament more closely, noticing how the crystal appears to be melting slightly at the edges, the rigid geometric pattern softening into something more organic. The symbolism isn't lost on me.
"It's beautiful," I tell her, meaning it. "Thank you."
Our eyes meet over the ornament, and something passes between us—understanding, connection, an acknowledgment of the changes already occurring beneath the surface of who we are separately and who we might become together.
"I thought we could hang it on your tree," she suggests. "It looks like it could use something a little less…perfect."
The observation makes me smile despite myself. "I had the same thought." I gesture toward the coffee table where the box of her shop ornaments waits. "Great minds think alike."
Her eyes widen slightly at the coincidence, then narrow in suspicion. "Did you have someone from my shop select those?"
"I chose them personally," I assure her, leading her toward the Christmas tree. "Yesterday afternoon, while you were in the back creating this, apparently."
She laughs, the sound lightening something in my chest. "Lily didn't tell me you'd been in."
"I asked her not to," I admit. "I wanted it to be a surprise."
