As I reach the door, she calls out, "This is just business, right? A professional courtesy?"
I turn, taking in the sight of her—flushed, breathless, beautiful in her confusion—and allow myself a small, predatory smile.
"Of course," I lie. "Just business."
I leave her standing there, surrounded by her handcrafted treasures, knowing that by Saturday night, she'll be mine. The most precious acquisition of all.
Chapter
Two
SOPHIE
My closet has officially declaredwar on me. I'm standing in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by every piece of clothing I own, and nothing—absolutely nothing—screams "appropriate for billionaire's fancy gala." The black dress I wore to my grandmother's funeral? Too somber. The blue sundress from my cousin's wedding? Too casual. The red sweater dress I save for Christmas dinner? Too festive. Too small-town. Too…me.
Christian Hawthorne's platinum credit card sits on my dresser, untouched, taunting me. I've been circling it for three days like it might spontaneously combust if I get too close. The idea of using it makes my stomach twist into origami shapes. I'm not the kind of woman who lets men buy her things, especially men like him—men with eyes that could freeze fire and thaw ice in the same glance.
"It's just business," I tell my reflection for the fiftieth time today. "A professional courtesy."
My reflection calls me a liar without saying a word.
I pick up a navy dress with a modest neckline and hold it against my body. It's the fanciest thing I own, bought onclearance for the chamber of commerce dinner last spring. It looked fine among local business owners and real estate agents. Among Christian's crowd? I might as well wear a potato sack with "small town girl" embroidered on it.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter, tossing the dress onto the growing pile on my bed. "I should just call and cancel."
But I know I won't. Not just because of the potential business opportunity, though that's what I keep telling myself. The truth skulks in the corners of my mind, refusing to step into the light: Christian Hawthorne scares me, and thrills me, in equal measure.
I close my eyes and he's there, looming in my shop after hours, his presence filling every inch of space not already crowded with my handmade creations. _"Because I want you there,"_ he'd said, his voice a low rumble that I felt in places I shouldn't be feeling anything related to a business contact.
The memory of his fingertips hovering near my face sends an electric current down my spine. He never actually touched me, but somehow the almost-touch was more intimate than if he had.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, startling me out of dangerous thoughts. It's Lily, my best friend and part-time shop assistant.
"Please tell me you've found something to wear," she says instead of hello.
I glance at the clothing carnage around me. "I'm considering a bedsheet toga at this point."
"Sophie! The gala is tomorrow!" Her exasperation crackles through the phone. "Tell me you at least used the credit card. Please tell me you're not still being stubborn about that."
"It feels wrong," I say, picking up a skirt only to toss it back down. "Like I'm being...bought."
"It's a business expense," Lily counters. "He's presenting you as a vendor at his fancy party. Of course he wants you to look the part."
"Is that all it is, though?" I sit on the edge of my bed, careful not to crush a blouse. "You didn't see how he looked at me, Lil. It wasn't...businesslike."
"Honey, the man paid a hundred grand to dance with you. I think we're well past 'businesslike.'"
I groan. "That was for charity."
"That was because you're gorgeous and he wanted to get his hands on you," she corrects me. "And now he's found a way to get you into his world. The question is: are you going to show up as yourself, or as some washed-out version in a sad navy dress?"
I glance at the sad navy dress. "How did you know it was navy?"
"Because I know you," she laughs. "Look, use the card. Get something that makes you feel beautiful. Show those rich snobs what Sophie Winters is made of."
After we hang up, I stare at the credit card for another ten minutes before finally picking it up. The weight of it is strange in my hand—heavier than it should be, like it's made of expectations instead of plastic.
I grab my coat and purse. The boutique in the next town over stays open until nine on Fridays. If I hurry, I can make it.
