Page 5 of His for Christmas
Patricia buzzes again. "Sir, the Tokyo team is requesting confirmation of your availability for the morning call."
"Confirm it," I reply. "And bring me everything we have on Holly Parker's previous clients. Contact information, project details, everything."
"The event planner?" Patricia doesn't hide her surprise. "Is there a problem with her credentials?"
"No problem. Just do it."
I disconnect and stare out at the falling snow, watching it transform my precisely maintained grounds into something softer, less controlled. Holly Parker has walked into my house and disrupted my carefully ordered world in less than a day. Anyone else would be removed immediately.
But Holly isn't anyone else. She's mine. The thought forms with a certainty that should alarm me. I've never been a man who forms attachments easily—or at all. Attachments are vulnerabilities. Vulnerabilities are unacceptable.
Yet as I return to my desk and force myself to focus on the Kyoto numbers, one thought remains constant beneath the calculations: Holly Parker belongs to me now. She simply doesn't know it yet.
I pull up the security feed from the east wing, watching her measure windows in the guest bedroom, her movements precise and professional. She tucks her hair behind her ear again, a gesture I'm beginning to recognize as a habit. My body responds to even this distant image of her, desire pooling low and insistent.
Mine, I think again, the word settling into my consciousness with immovable finality.
By the time the snow stops falling, Holly Parker will be in my bed. Not as a temporary diversion, but as something I've never sought before—something permanent. Something kept.
I close the security feed and turn to the Tokyo proposal. Focus returns with practiced ease, but beneath it runs a current of anticipation unlike anything I've felt in years.
Tomorrow can't come soon enough.
She measures each room twice. I've been watching Holly work for the past hour through the security feeds, fascinated by her methodical precision. Most decorators I've hired rush through the mansion, dazzled by its grandeur, eager to start hanging expensive baubles. Not Holly. She documents every dimension in a leather-bound notebook, taking photos from multiple angles, occasionally closing her eyes as if visualizing the finished space. When she smiles to herself—a small, private expression of satisfaction—something tightens in my chest. I switch off my monitor. I need to see her in person.
"I'll be touring the east wing," I inform Patricia as I pass her desk. "Hold my calls."
She glances up from her computer, her expression carefully neutral despite the irregularity of my announcement. "Of course, sir. Shall I inform Ms. Parker you'll be checking her progress?"
"No," I say, already walking away. "I'd prefer to observe without interruption."
The east wing houses the ballroom where my company's annual Christmas gala is held. It's the most challenging space to decorate—thirty-foot ceilings, historical architectural details that can't be altered, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the snow-covered gardens. According to the security feed, Holly has been working there for the past twenty minutes.
I take the less-traveled service corridor, nodding briefly at the housekeeper who passes with fresh linens. The woman looksstartled by my presence in this part of the house. I rarely walk these halls, preferring the direct routes between my office, bedroom, and private collection.
The ballroom doors are partially open. I approach silently, positioning myself where I can see without being immediately noticed. Holly stands in the center of the vast space, her head tilted back to study the ceiling. Sunlight streams through the windows, catching in her hair and revealing strands of copper among the brown. She's changed since this morning into a simple gray sweater that hugs her curves and dark jeans that emphasize the generous flare of her hips.
"Fifteen-foot garlands minimum," she murmurs to herself, making a note. "Custom sizing for the window treatments."
She moves to the grand piano in the corner, running her fingers lightly across its polished surface. The touch is gentle, almost affectionate. I wonder if she plays or simply appreciates the craftsmanship. Her fingers linger on the keys without pressing them, and I'm struck again by the delicacy of her hands—strong enough to work with tools and materials all day, yet feminine with short, unpolished nails and a single silver ring on her right hand.
Two of my household staff enter with a stepladder she must have requested.
"Where would you like this, Ms. Parker?" asks James, my groundskeeper's son who helps with interior maintenance during winter months.
"By the east windows, please," she answers with a warm smile. "And please, call me Holly."
James returns her smile with too much enthusiasm for my liking, taking an extra moment to adjust the ladder position. "Will you need any help reaching the higher areas? I'm happy to assist."
"That's kind of you," Holly says, oblivious to the appreciation in the young man's eyes. "I might take you up on that when the actual installation begins."
I feel my jaw tighten. James is twenty-three, attractive enough in a boyish way that would appeal to many women. I make a mental note to reassign him to the exterior decorations, far from Holly's daily work.
The other staff member, an older woman named Elena who oversees the housekeeping team, asks about the cleaning schedule around the decorations.
"I design everything with maintenance in mind," Holly assures her. "No loose glitter, no delicate pieces at risk of breaking during routine cleaning. And I'm happy to adjust anything that causes problems for your team."
Elena's normally reserved expression softens. "The last decorator used that spray snow that got everywhere. Took us weeks to clean it all."
