Page 54 of His for Christmas
“My assistant,” he admits, reaching for another box. “I delegate.”
Even personal ones?”
He gives a small shrug. “There aren’t many personal ones.”
The honesty stings. That kind of loneliness shouldn’t sound so matter-of-fact. I reach for his hand before I can stop myself. “Well, this year’s different. You’re wrapping at least one yourself.”
His fingers close around mine, warm, strong. “Is that so?” His voice drops, dark and teasing. “And what makes you think I haven’t already handled certain…personal gifts?”
My pulse skips. “Have you?”
He leans in, breath warm against my ear. “Christmas is about surprises, sweetheart. And I’m very good at them.”
The words—and the way he says them—send a shiver down my spine. I turn my head slightly, catching his gaze. “I do love a good surprise.”
“Do you?” His hand slides to tuck my hair behind my ear, fingers lingering just long enough to make me forget how to breathe. “Then I’ll tell you this much. Tomorrow night. That green dress you think I haven’t noticed. And a surprise I’ve been planning since last week.”
My heart races. “That sounds…intriguing.”
“It’s just the beginning,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking my jaw. “Because Christmas Day? I plan to make you forget your own name.”
Heat flashes through me, low and dizzying. “That’s…quite the plan.”
His smile turns slow, wicked. “I plan carefully.”
And just when I’m sure he’s about to kiss me, he pulls back. Calm. Collected. The devil in a cashmere sweater.
“Now, the ribbon,” he says smoothly, picking up the velvet strip like we weren’t seconds away from setting the room on fire.
I can’t help laughing. “You’re playing with fire, Mr. Sterling.”
“Maybe,” he says, brushing my fingers as he takes the ribbon. “But you make it worth the burn.”
We finish the wrapping together, shoulders touching, fingers brushing, both pretending it’s just paper and tape when we both know it’s not.
Later, the mansion glows like something out of a dream. Thousands of lights, gold and soft, wrapping the halls in warmth. I’m alone now, finishing the last touches on the grand centerpiece—a mix of evergreen, antique glass, and crystal snowflakes.
This house used to feel too big, too perfect. Now it feels alive. Like it’s breathing. Like it’s ours.
“It’s breathtaking,” comes a voice behind me—deep, familiar. “Though I can’t decide if I mean the decorations or you.”
I turn. Dominic stands at the base of the staircase in dark jeans and a black henley, every inch of him casual sin.
“I thought you were working,” I say, smiling before I can help it.
“I was. Then I saw you on the security feed,” he says, walking toward me. “And decided beauty like this shouldn’t go unappreciated.”
The fact that he watches me should feel invasive. But it doesn’t. It feels like being seen.
“The staff did most of it,” I say, though my voice is softer now.
He shakes his head. “The staff didn’t give this place a soul. You did.”
He touches my face then, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “The lights love you,” he murmurs. “They turn your eyes to gold.”
I swallow hard. “You’re poetic tonight.”
“You bring it out of me,” he says, his hand finding my waist, pulling me close. “Patience. Restraint. God help me, I’m learning both.”
