"I admit to several limitations," I counter, surprising myself with the candor. "Cooking. Patience with incompetence. Sharing what matters to me."
Her expression softens at the last item. "And yet here I am, in your home, eating your food, decorating your tree."
"As I said," I reply, holding her gaze. "Change. Unexpected connections."
She lifts her wine glass in a small toast. "To change, then."
I touch my glass to hers, the crystal producing a perfect clear note. "To connections."
As we eat, conversation flows more easily than I anticipated. Sophie tells me about her day at the shop, the custom orders she's working on for Christmas. I share details about a new business acquisition, careful to explain context rather than assume she follows financial news. She asks thoughtful questions, showing genuine interest. I find myself enjoying the exchange—the give and take, the mutual curiosity, the absence of ulterior motives that characterize most of my interactions.
It's refreshing. Engaging. Dangerously addictive.
By the time we finish the main course, I've learned more about Sophie Winters than I typically bother to learn about people I've known for years. Her favorite color (blue, but specifically the deep indigo of twilight). Her literary preferences (classic novels and contemporary mysteries). Her secret ambition to expand Winter Wishes beyond Evergreen someday, perhaps to a small chain of boutiques in similar resort towns.
"You could do it," I tell her, recognizing the business potential her artistic eye and quality products represent. "Your work is exceptional. The Benet exists."
"Maybe," she says, doubt creeping into her voice. "But expansion requires capital, business planning, risk assessment…all things outside my expertise."
I bite back the immediate offer to help—to fund her, advise her, clear every obstacle from her path. That would be the old approach. Control. Acquisition. Making her dependent rather than empowered.
Instead, I say, "You're more capable than you give yourself credit for. And resources exist for entrepreneurs with viable concepts."
She studies me over her wine glass. "That was very restrained of you."
"What was?"
"Not offering to bankroll me on the spot," she says with a knowing smile. "I could practically see you biting your tongue."
Her perception is uncanny, unsettling. "I'm trying to give you space," I admit. "To choose your own path, rather than clearing it for you."
Her expression softens, approval warming her blue eyes. "I noticed. Thank you."
Two simple words, but they affect me more deeply than praise for business achievements worth billions. Sophie sees my effort, recognizes the struggle against my natural instincts. Her acknowledgment makes the unfamiliar restraint worthwhile.
"Dessert?" I suggest, rising to clear our plates. "Martin prepared something chocolate, I believe."
"Let me help," she says, standing to gather her own plate and silverware.
"You don't need to?—"
"I want to," she interrupts gently. "Partnership, remember? Not control."
The correction is offered without heat, a reminder rather than a criticism. I nod, accepting her help, acknowledging the lesson embedded in this small domestic moment.
As we carry dishes to the kitchen together, I realize I've never done this with anyone before. Never shared the simple task of clearing a table, loading a dishwasher, working in tandem without hierarchy or agenda. It's strangely intimate, more revealing in some ways than the personal details we've exchanged over dinner.
Sophie Winters is changing me. One small moment, one shared task, one insight at a time.
And most surprising of all, I'm letting her.
I serve dessert—a decadent chocolate mousse with raspberry coulis that Martin has prepared and left perfectly plated in the refrigerator. Sophie's eyes light up at the sight, reminding me of her reaction to the soufflé at Archer's. She has a sweet tooth, I note, filing away the information for future reference. These small details about her preferences, her reactions, her likes and dislikes fascinate me in a way business dossiers and acquisition targets never have. I want to catalog every expression, every laugh, every subtle shift in her mood—not to exploit as I would in negotiations, but simply to know her more completely.
"This looks amazing," she says, picking up her spoon with obvious anticipation.
I watch as she takes the first bite, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation. The small sound of pleasure she makes stirs something in me that has nothing to do with dessert and everything to do with imagining other ways I might elicit similar responses.
"Good?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.
