Page 26 of His for Christmas
Once she's gone, I lean against the wall, closing my eyes briefly. How am I supposed to maintain professional boundaries when Dominic is systematically dismantling them with texts and gifts and gowns? When every space in this house holds memories of his touch, his voice, his possessive words?
I push away from the wall and head toward the library, determined to lose myself in work. The library team has made good progress—the shelves adorned with subtle greenery, the antique ornaments placed exactly as I designed. This room, at least, is coming together exactly as planned, even if nothing else in my life is.
"You're avoiding me."
His voice from the doorway sends a jolt through me despite my anticipation of this very moment. I don't turn immediately, using the seconds to compose my features into something resembling professional calm.
"I'm working," I correct, finally facing him. "Which is what you're paying me to do."
Dominic looks impeccable as always in a charcoal suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds final.
"You didn't respond to my text," he says, moving closer. "Or Ms. Winters' email about the gown."
"I've been busy." I gesture to the decorated library. "And I don't need a custom gown. I told you yesterday, I have appropriate clothing for formal events."
"The earrings?" he asks, ignoring my protest about the dress.
My hand goes instinctively to my pocket where the velvet box rests. "They're beautiful. And completely unnecessary."
"I disagree." Another step closer. "They're exactly necessary."
I force myself to stand my ground, though every instinct screams to either retreat or close the remaining distance between us. "Dominic, we need to talk about boundaries."
A slight smile curves his mouth. "An interesting topic to raise after last night."
Heat floods my face at the memory of exactly what happened last night—me wrapped around him in his kitchen, all thoughts of boundaries obliterated by his touch, his taste, his possession.
"That's exactly my point," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "This is happening very fast, and I have a job to do here. A professional reputation to maintain."
"No one questions your professionalism, Holly." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, the casual touch sending electricity through me. "The decorations areprogressing perfectly on schedule. Your team respects your leadership. Your attention to detail is impeccable."
His hand lingers, cupping my cheek. Despite my resolve, I lean into his touch slightly. "Then why do I feel like I'm losing control of everything?"
The vulnerability in my question surprises us both. His expression softens, something beyond desire flickering in his eyes. "Because you are. We both are." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "I've never invited a woman to the gala as my companion. Never sent a text wondering where someone went. Never found myself distracted in meetings because I'm thinking about whether someone liked the gift I sent."
The admission stuns me. This powerful, controlled man is admitting to the same confusing swirl of feelings overwhelming me. "I don't know how to do this," I confess. "Work for you and be with you at the same time."
"We'll figure it out," he says with that absolute confidence that simultaneously irritates and attracts me. "Together. But Holly—" He leans closer, his lips nearly brushing my ear as he speaks. "Don't try to establish boundaries I have no intention of respecting."
I should be offended by his presumption. Instead, a shiver runs through me at the promise in his words. Before I can respond, he presses a brief, hard kiss to my lips, then steps back.
"Wear the earrings tonight," he says, moving toward the door. "I want to see them on you when we have dinner in my suite. Eight o'clock."
It's not a request. We both know it. And despite all my internal lectures about boundaries and professionalism, we both know I'll be there.
As the door closes behind him, I press my fingers to my lips, still feeling the imprint of his kiss. So much for professional boundaries. I've already crossed so many lines with DominicSterling that I'm not sure I could find my way back even if I wanted to.
And that's the most terrifying part: I'm not sure I want to.
The main staircase garland is my masterpiece—thick, lush evergreen interwoven with burgundy velvet ribbon, gold beading, and tiny white lights that will create the illusion of stars falling from the upper landing all the way to the foyer. I'm perched precariously on the third step from the top, securing the garland to the banister with nearly invisible wire, when I hear footsteps approaching. Even before he speaks, I know it's Dominic. My body has developed a sixth sense for his presence—a prickling awareness that spreads across my skin like a physical touch.
"That looks dangerous," he observes, his voice carrying up the staircase.
I glance down to find him at the bottom of the stairs, hands in the pockets of his tailored trousers, watching me with those intense blue eyes. After our encounter in the library this morning, I've managed to avoid him for several hours, focusing on work with almost frantic determination.
"I'm fine," I assure him, turning back to my task. "I've decorated hundreds of staircases. Haven't fallen yet."
"I don't like the 'yet' in that sentence." His footsteps sound on the stairs as he begins climbing toward me. "Why isn't someone helping you?"
