Sophie studies me again, that perceptive gaze seeing more than I intend to reveal. "You're full of surprises lately, Christian Hawthorne."
"Is that good or bad?" I ask, genuinely curious about her assessment.
She considers for a moment, then smiles—a real smile that reaches her eyes and does strange things to my heartbeat. "Good, I think. Surprising, but good."
I hold up the snowflake ornament she created for me. "Shall we find this a place of honor?"
Her nod is eager, almost childlike in its enthusiasm. As we approach the tree together
Her nod is eager, almost childlike in its enthusiasm. As we approach the tree together, I'm struck by how natural this feels—Sophie in my space, the two of us about to share a simple, domestic activity I've never participated in before. The designer who decorated my tree did so in my absence, presenting the finished product for my approval. I've never actually hung an ornament myself. Never seen the point.
Yet here I am, opening the box of ornaments purchased from Winter Wishes, watching Sophie's face light up as she examines each piece.
"You chose all my favorites," she says, picking up a hand-painted glass globe with a winter scene inside. "How did you know?"
"I paid attention," I tell her simply. And I did. I noted which pieces she touched most gently in the shop, which ones her eyes lingered on, which designs she described with particular pride. Details matter in business. They matter even more with Sophie.
We begin decorating the tree, adding her handcrafted ornaments among the designer's perfectly coordinated baubles. The contrast should bother me—the disruption of the carefully planned aesthetic, the introduction of elements I didn'tpersonally select or approve. Instead, I find myself enjoying the transformation, the way her pieces bring warmth and character to the previously immaculate but soulless display.
"This one needs to go higher," Sophie decides, standing on tiptoe to reach an upper branch. The movement causes her dress to ride up slightly, revealing more of her legs. I force myself to look away, to respect the boundaries that exist between us despite the intimacy of having her in my home.
"Allow me," I offer, taking the ornament from her hand. Our fingers brush, and I see her breath catch slightly. Not immune to me, then. Good.
As I place the ornament where she indicated, Sophie studies the tree with her head tilted to one side. "It's coming together, but it's still missing something."
"What?" I ask, genuinely curious about her artistic assessment.
"Heart," she says simply. "Your designer did a beautiful job, but it's all so…perfect. Christmas trees should have personality, history, meaning."
"Like your grandmother's tree," I suggest, remembering our dinner conversation.
She nods, seemingly pleased that I recalled this detail. "Exactly. Every ornament told a story."
"And what story does this tell?" I gesture to the ornament she made for me—'Thaw'—now hanging prominently near the center of the tree.
Her eyes meet mine, steady and sincere. "That's up to you, Christian. What story do you want it to tell?"
The question feels weighted, significant beyond the simple decoration of a Christmas tree. What story indeed? The man I was before Sophie—controlled, isolated, secure in my carefully ordered existence—would have no use for sentimental ornaments or the stories they might tell. The man I'm becomingin her presence…I'm less certain of his priorities, his desires, his boundaries.
"Perhaps," I say carefully, "a story about change. About unexpected connections."
Her smile is soft, approving. "I'd like that story."
We finish decorating in comfortable silence, the tree transforming with each addition. When the last ornament is placed, I step back to observe the result. It's no longer the pristine, magazine-worthy display the designer created. It's warmer, more eclectic, more alive. Like my life since Sophie entered it.
"Beautiful," I say, not looking at the tree but at her.
She catches my gaze, a blush coloring her cheeks as she recognizes the true object of my comment. "Yes, it is."
"Dinner should be ready," I tell her, reluctantly breaking the moment. "Shall we?"
I guide her to the dining table, my hand at the small of her back—a touch that's become familiar between us. I pull out her chair, pour more wine, serve the first course that Martin prepared before leaving. Throughout, I maintain the careful balance between host and suitor, between the controlling man I've always been and the more adaptable one Sophie seems to bring out.
"This is delicious," she says after tasting the scallop appetizer. "Did you cook it?"
I shake my head. "My chef did. My culinary skills are limited to coffee and scrambled eggs."
"The great Christian Hawthorne admits to a limitation?" She grins, teasing me. "I should record this moment for posterity."
