Page 9 of His for Christmas
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning. I should step back, establish professional distance. Instead, I find myself swaying slightly toward him, drawn by something I can't name or resist.
"Mr. Sterling?—"
"Dominic," he corrects, the word a command rather than a request.
"Dominic," I repeat, hating how breathless I sound. "Yesterday was…unexpected."
A hint of a smile touches his lips. "But not unwelcome."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No. Not unwelcome."
The admission costs me something—a piece of my professional armor, perhaps. But denying it would be a lie, and somehow I sense that Dominic Sterling would see through any deception instantly.
His eyes hold mine, the blue darkening to something stormy and intense. For a moment I think he might kiss me again, right here among the ribbons and sample garlands. Part of me—a part growing larger by the second—hopes he will.
Instead, he reaches past me to pick up a swatch of the burgundy velvet. His arm brushes mine in the process, and even this casual contact sends electricity racing along my nerve endings.
"I look forward to seeing this vision realized," he says, rubbing the fabric between his fingers before setting it down. "You have free rein to transform the house, Holly. Don't hold back."
The way he says my name makes it sound like an endearment, a secret between us. I swallow hard, nodding. "I won't."
He steps back, breaking the spell of proximity, though his eyes remain fixed on mine. "I have meetings for the rest of the day, but I'll check your progress tomorrow. Perhaps we can discuss the library decorations in more…detail."
The emphasis on the word makes my cheeks heat again. The library—where he kissed me. Where he might kiss me again.
"Of course," I manage.
He nods once, then turns and walks toward the door. I allow myself to watch him go, admiring the confident set of hisshoulders, the powerful line of his back beneath his perfectly tailored suit. At the doorway, he pauses and looks back over his shoulder, catching me staring. Instead of embarrassment, I feel a strange thrill at being caught, at the appreciation that flashes in his eyes before he disappears into the hallway.
When he's gone, I sink into the nearest chair, my legs suddenly weak. What is happening to me? I've never been affected by a client like this before. Never found myself counting the hours until our next interaction, anticipating the next look or touch.
The ribbon mock-up sits abandoned on the table. I need to finish it, need to remember why I'm here. This job could launch my career to a new level, put my small company on the map for the ultra-wealthy clientele I've been trying to reach. I can't afford to be distracted by magnetic blue eyes and kisses that leave me sleepless.
But as I pick up my scissors again, I know I'm lying to myself. The prospect of seeing Dominic tomorrow excites me more than any professional opportunity. And the most terrifying part is that I don't want that feeling to stop.
I carefully cut the ribbon, trying to focus only on the task at hand. But in the back of my mind, a countdown has begun—the hours until tomorrow, when I'll see him again.
The library feels different today. I've been arranging small vignettes on the tables—antique ornaments nestled among leather-bound books, delicate branches with crystal droplets that catch the afternoon light. It's my favorite kind of decorating, these subtle touches that don't announce themselves but transform a space nonetheless. But I can't shake the feelingthat the room is waiting for something. For someone. I adjust a crystal ornament, angling it to better catch the light, and try to ignore the way my eyes keep drifting to the archway where Dominic kissed me. The mistletoe is gone now—I removed it myself this morning, telling myself it was to prevent any more "misunderstandings." But the memory lingers in the air like a ghost, making my fingers clumsy and my focus scattered.
This room matters to him. I can tell by the carefully chosen volumes, the worn leather of certain favorites, the way every item seems personally selected rather than purchased en masse by an interior decorator. The library reveals more about Dominic Sterling than perhaps any other space in this massive house. It feels intimate, despite its grandeur.
The hair on the back of my neck rises suddenly, a primitive warning system alerting me to his presence before I hear or see him. My hands still on the arrangement I'm creating. He's watching me. I know it with a certainty that should be disturbing but instead sends a thrill through my body.
I turn slowly, finding him in the doorway. Today's suit is navy, making his eyes appear even more intensely blue by comparison. He steps inside and closes the door behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds final, like the period at the end of a sentence.
"Your concept is coming together nicely," he says, nodding toward the vignettes I've arranged.
"Thank you." I straighten, trying to project professional confidence despite the flutter in my stomach. "I thought we could focus on the literary aspect of Christmas for this room—Dickens, traditional carols, the stories that form our holiday traditions."
He moves further into the room, his eyes never leaving mine as he approaches. "I appreciate the intellectual approach. Mostdecorators would have draped every surface with tinsel and called it festive."
"That's not my style," I reply, proud that my voice remains steady despite his proximity.
"No," he agrees, coming to stand beside me at the table. "Your style is much more…penetrating."
The double meaning isn't lost on me. Heat blooms in my cheeks, spreading down my neck.
"May I?" he asks, gesturing to the arrangement I'm working on.
