Two hours later, I return with a dress bag and a box of shoes that cost more than my monthly rent. My stomach churns with guilt, but also...anticipation. The dress is beautiful—deep emerald green velvet that hugs my curves without being too revealing, a sweetheart neckline that shows just enough collarbone to be elegant without making me feel exposed.
I hang it on my closet door and stare at it. Tomorrow night, I'll walk into Christian Hawthorne's world wearing a dress he paid for. The symbolism isn't lost on me.
"It's just business," I repeat to my empty apartment.
But as I get ready for bed, another thought creeps in: What if I want it to be more? What if some foolish, reckless part of me is curious about what it would be like to have those intense gray eyes focused solely on me for more than just a charity dance or a business transaction?
I shake my head, banishing the thought. Men like Christian Hawthorne don't seriously pursue women like me. They might play with us, maybe even bed us if we're willing, but we don't fit into their world long-term. We're novelties—the sweet small-town girl who makes Christmas ornaments by hand, quaint and charming until the novelty wears off.
I crawl under my covers, trying to focus on the business angle. This is about exposure for my shop. About sales and connections. About growing my grandmother's legacy into something that could sustain me beyond just breaking even each month.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is Christian's face as he said, _"You could be."_ Two words, an infinity of possibilities, and all of them terrifying.
"Just business," I whisper into my pillow. "Just one night."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I swallow it anyway. It's safer than the alternative—safer than admitting that part of me wants to see what happens when Christian Hawthorne looks at me across a crowded room full of people far wealthier and more sophisticated than I'll ever be.
Part of me wants to be chosen, even if it's just for one night.
And that's the most dangerous thought of all.
Six weeks ago, I stood behind a curtain at the Evergreen Community Center, trying not to hyperventilate while the event coordinator pinned a number to my dress like I was livestock at a county fair. "It's just a dance," she'd assured me with a pat on my arm. "And it's for the children's hospital." Right. Just a dance being sold to the highest bidder. Perfectly normal Friday night activity. My palms were so sweaty I kept wiping them on the blue satin of my dress, probably leaving damp patches that made me look like I'd been nervously groping myself.
"Sophie Winters, you're up in two minutes," a volunteer with a clipboard announced, giving me a once-over. "Remember to smile. The more they bid, the more the kids get."
No pressure or anything.
I'd only agreed to this "Dance with a Local Entrepreneur" auction because the organizer was my grandmother's oldest friend, and she'd cornered me after church with guilt trips about the pediatric wing needing new equipment. What was I supposed to say? "Sorry, kids with cancer, I'm too socially awkward to be auctioned off like a prize heifer"?
So there I was, in a dress I'd splurged on at Nordstrom Rack, trying to convince myself that whoever won the dance would be a nice, normal local business owner who'd do a quick waltz and forget about me.
"And next up, we have the owner of our town's beloved Winter Wishes gift shop—the talented and charming Sophie Winters!"
The spotlight hit me like an accusation as I stepped through the curtain. The room was bigger than I'd realized, filled with round tables of Evergreen's wealthiest citizens in their finestattire. I tried to smile naturally while my heart hammered so hard I was sure the front row could see it pulsing through my dress.
"Sophie handcrafts the most exquisite Christmas ornaments and gifts," the auctioneer continued. "Her shop has been a town treasure for over thirty years, first run by her grandmother and now by this lovely young lady. Who'll start the bidding for a dance with our local artisan? Remember, all proceeds benefit Children's Memorial Hospital."
I scanned the crowd, trying to focus on familiar faces. The hardware store owner. My dentist. The real estate agent who'd sold me my apartment. Normal people who wouldn't make this weird.
"Five hundred dollars," called a voice from the back. The optometrist. Nice man. Safe choice.
"Seven-fifty," countered the bank manager.
I relaxed slightly. This was going as expected. A polite bidding war between local businessmen, none of whom were looking for anything beyond community goodwill and a tax write-off.
"One thousand," offered the owner of the golf course.
And then a voice cut through the murmurs—deep, authoritative, and completely unfamiliar.
"Twenty thousand dollars."
The room went silent. My eyes darted to the source, and my breath caught in my throat.
He sat at a table near the center of the room, though "sat" feels too passive a word for how he occupied the space. Dark hair, impeccable suit, a face that belonged on the cover of Forbes—all sharp angles and cold perfection. I'd never seen him before, but everyone knew who Christian Hawthorne was. His company had a corporate headquarters on the outskirts of town, but he wasn't one of us. He existed in a different orbit entirely.
And he was staring directly at me with eyes like steel.
"Twenty-five thousand," the golf course owner tried, voice wavering.
