Christian Hawthorne didn't even look away from me. "Fifty thousand."
The auctioneer's gavel nearly slipped from his hand. "F-fifty thousand dollars from Mr. Hawthorne!"
I stood frozen under the spotlight, feeling like a rabbit who'd just locked eyes with a wolf.
"Going once..." the auctioneer called, scanning the room.
No one moved.
"Going twice..."
Christian Hawthorne's lips curved into the ghost of a smile.
"Sold! For fifty thousand dollars to Mr. Christian Hawthorne!"
The crowd erupted in applause, but it sounded distant, underwater. I was led off the stage to a small area where the winners were meeting their "prizes." My legs moved on autopilot.
And then he was there, standing before me, taller than I'd realized, his presence swallowing all the air in the room.
"Miss Winters." His voice was like expensive whiskey, smooth but with a burn. "Christian Hawthorne."
"I know who you are," I managed, then winced at how that sounded. "I mean—thank you for your generosity. The hospital will be very grateful."
He extended his hand, and I placed mine in it without thinking. His fingers closed around mine—warm, firm, with calluses I didn't expect from a man who probably signed papers for a living.
"Shall we?" He nodded toward the dance floor, where other couples were already moving to a waltz.
I followed him, hyperaware of every eye on us. Of course they were watching—the town's billionaire recluse had just paid fifty thousand dollars to dance with the Christmas shop girl.
His hand settled at my waist, the heat of it burning through the thin satin of my dress. My own hand trembled as I placed it on his shoulder, solid as granite beneath his tailored jacket. He pulled me closer than was strictly necessary for a waltz, close enough that I caught his scent—something woodsy and expensive and unmistakably male.
"You're shaking," he observed, his mouth close to my ear as we began to move.
"Everyone's staring," I whispered back, focusing on not stepping on his undoubtedly costly shoes.
"Let them." His grip tightened fractionally. "I paid for this dance. I intend to enjoy it."
We moved in silence for several moments, his lead so confident that my body followed without conscious thought. It was like being caught in a current—powerful, inevitable, and strangely exhilarating.
"Why me?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. "Why fifty thousand dollars?"
His eyes locked with mine, searching for something I couldn't name. "Because you looked like you didn't want to be up there. Because you made those ridiculous ornaments hanging around the room. Because when they called your name, you blushed the color of a winter sunset."
I couldn't breathe. No one had ever looked at me the way he was looking at me now—like I was a puzzle he intended to solve, then keep all the pieces for himself.
"I should thank you," I said, desperate to break the intensity. "For the donation."
"I don't want your thanks." His thumb moved almost imperceptibly against my waist. "I want your number."
The music was ending. Three minutes that felt like three hours and three seconds simultaneously.
"I—this was for charity," I stammered, pulling away as the last notes faded. "Just a one-time thing."
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe even disappointment. But then his expression smoothed back to unreadable perfection.
"Everything has a price, Sophie Winters," he said, releasing me. "I'm simply good at determining value."
I managed a shaky curtsy—why, I have no idea, like we were in some Jane Austen novel—and fled, feeling his gaze burning into my back until I disappeared behind the curtain.
