Page 1 of His for Christmas
Chapter
One
HOLLY
My car lookslike a toy next to the gleaming gates of Sterling Estate. I check my lipstick in the rearview mirror one last time, smudging away a tiny imperfection with my pinky. The intercom crackles to life before I can even reach for it. "Name and business," demands a crisp female voice that sounds like it's never once cracked a smile. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "Holly Parker. I'm the event planner for the Christmas decoration project." The gates swing open without another word, inviting me into a world I've only ever glimpsed in magazines.
The driveway seems endless, curving between manicured evergreens dusted with the season's first snow. My ancient Honda chugs along, protesting each inch of the climb toward what looks more like a small country than a home. Dominic Sterling's mansion emerges from behind a copse of trees, and my breath catches. Sprawling white stone with massive columns and windows that catch the winter sun like diamonds. Someone has already wrapped the towering columns with tasteful greenery and white lights, but they look lonely without the full Christmas treatment.
I park where directed, in a spot that makes my car look even more pathetic next to the gleaming black luxury vehicles. My portfolio feels suddenly inadequate in my hands as I approach the front entrance – ten-foot-tall doors of polished wood and iron. This job could make my career or break it. Sterling Enterprises hires only the best, and somehow my portfolio impressed someone enough to get me here. I can't mess this up.
Before I can knock, one of the massive doors swings inward, revealing a woman who could cut glass with her cheekbones. Her ash-blonde hair is pulled back so severely I wonder if it's painful. She gives me a single up-and-down assessment, her pale eyes making me feel like I'm being scanned by some high-tech security system.
"Ms. Parker. You're three minutes early." She says this like it's neither good nor bad, just a fact to be documented. "I'm Ms. Winters, Mr. Sterling's executive assistant."
"It's nice to meet you," I say, extending my hand on reflex.
She looks at it for a beat too long before shaking it briefly, her grip cool and precise. "Follow me. Mr. Sterling is extremely particular about his Christmas décor. He entertains important clients during the holidays, and everything must be perfect."
Perfect. The word hangs in the air like a threat. I clutch my portfolio tighter as I follow her into the cavernous entry hall. Crystal chandeliers drip from ceilings that must be twenty feet high. The marble floor gleams so intensely I can almost see my reflection in it.
"The main areas requiring your attention include this entry hall, the grand salon, the formal dining room, Mr. Sterling's private study, the library, and the main staircase." Ms. Winters clicks across the marble in heels that must be five inches tall, never breaking stride. "We have twelve guest rooms that will need tasteful door wreaths and window dressings. The ballroomwill host the annual Sterling Enterprises Christmas Gala and requires special attention."
I'm scribbling notes frantically, trying to take in both her words and the spaces we're passing through. Each room is more opulent than the last – furniture that belongs in museums, artwork I recognize from art history classes, views of the snow-covered grounds that steal my breath.
"This is the grand salon," Ms. Winters announces, sweeping her arm toward a space that could comfortably fit my entire apartment four times over. "Last year's decorator used blue and silver, which Mr. Sterling found…uninspired."
I bite back a smile. Translation: the billionaire hated it. I make another note.
"The main tree will go here." She points to a corner with a vaulted ceiling. "Fifteen feet minimum. Mr. Sterling prefers noble firs."
"May I ask about his color preferences?" I venture, already envisioning possibilities.
Ms. Winters' lips thin slightly. "Traditional but not predictable. Luxurious but not gaudy. Festive but sophisticated."
So basically, perfect. Got it.
We continue through the mansion, my sensible pumps silent on plush carpets worth more than my yearly rent. The library steals my heart immediately – two stories of books with rolling ladders and reading nooks tucked between shelves. I imagine garlands woven with tiny lights draped along the shelves, perhaps vintage ornaments nestled between leather-bound volumes.
"Mr. Sterling spends considerable time here," Ms. Winters notes, catching my expression. "He's quite protective of his books."
The dining room could host forty people easily, with a table that stretches so long I wonder if guests need to shout to heareach other. The kitchen is a chef's dream, all gleaming copper and stainless steel. Upstairs, the guest rooms are each themed differently, like an exclusive boutique hotel.
"And what about Mr. Sterling himself?" I ask as casually as I can manage. "Will he want to approve designs before implementation?"
Ms. Winters' eyebrow arches slightly. "Mr. Sterling approves everything that happens in this house. He will meet with you tomorrow to discuss your initial concepts. I suggest you come prepared to impress. He's not a man who tolerates mediocrity."
My stomach tightens. I've decorated for wealthy clients before, but never anyone with the reputation of Dominic Sterling. His ruthless business acumen is legendary. People whisper about how he can destroy competitors with a single phone call.
"I understand," I say, straightening my shoulders. "I'll have preliminary concepts ready for him to review."
Ms. Winters gives me another assessing look, this time with the faintest hint of something that might be approval. "The staff will assist with implementation, but Mr. Sterling expects you to oversee every detail personally. You'll have access to the house from seven AM to nine PM daily until the project is complete."
As we circle back to the entryway, she hands me a security badge. "This will grant you access to the areas you're permitted to enter. Some rooms are private and off-limits."
My fingers close around the badge, and the reality of this job finally hits me. For the next few weeks, I'll be breathing the rarefied air of Dominic Sterling's world. Creating Christmas magic in his private domain.
"I won't disappoint him," I say, the words coming out more fiercely than I intended.
