Page 52 of His for Christmas
Baking has always beenmy stress reliever, my comfort activity when life gets overwhelming. Today, though, I'm baking not from stress but from a place of contentment I didn't expect to feel so soon after the turbulence of the past week. The mansion's kitchen is ridiculously over-equipped—three ovens, two massive islands, and appliances that would make professional pastry chefs weep with envy. I've commandeered one island and one oven for my Christmas cookie project, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon filling the air as the first batch nears completion.
These aren't just any Christmas cookies. They're my grandmother's recipe, made exactly as she taught me—rolled to precisely a quarter-inch thickness, cut into perfect stars and bells, baked until the edges are just turning golden. The staff have given me space to work, Henri the chef showing remarkable restraint in not hovering as I invade his domain. I suspect Dominic might have had something to do with that accommodation.
Dominic. Even thinking his name sends a warm flutter through my chest. Last night marked a shift between us—notjust physically, though that was profound in its tenderness, but emotionally. The way he looked at me, spoke to me, touched me…it was still unmistakably Dominic, still dominant and intense, but with a new awareness of me as a person to connect with rather than a prize to possess.
The timer dings, pulling me from my thoughts. I slide on oven mitts and retrieve the first tray of perfectly browned cookies, setting them on a cooling rack before sliding in the next batch. The kitchen is warm and fragrant, Christmas music playing softly from my phone, and for the first time since arriving at Sterling Mansion, I feel completely at ease. Not Holly the decorator, not Holly the lover, just Holly—making Christmas cookies because it brings me joy.
"I could smell these from my office," comes Dominic's voice from the doorway, startling me slightly. "An unexpected but welcome distraction from quarterly projections."
I turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, his appearance surprising in its casualness. He's shed his suit jacket and tie, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with dark hair, the top buttons undone to expose the hollow of his throat. It's a glimpse of the private Dominic few ever see—slightly disheveled, more approachable than the impeccable CEO who commands boardrooms.
"Your chef seemed scandalized that I wanted to bake them myself," I tell him with a smile, dusting flour from my hands onto the apron I borrowed from the kitchen staff. "Apparently, he could have produced five-star Christmas cookies with half an hour's notice."
Dominic approaches, studying the cooling cookies with interest. "I have no doubt Henri could create something technically perfect," he acknowledges. "But I suspect they wouldn't taste like memories the way these do."
The observation—so unexpectedly perceptive—warms me more than the ovens. "They're my grandmother's recipe," I confirm, surprised he understood the emotional component of baking. "Christmas wasn't complete without them when I was growing up."
"May I?" he asks, gesturing to a cookie that's cooled enough to handle.
I nod, watching curiously as Dominic Sterling—billionaire CEO, corporate titan, the man whose dominance in the bedroom makes me weak-kneed—carefully picks up a star-shaped cookie and takes a thoughtful bite. His expression shifts from polite interest to genuine pleasure.
"These are exceptional," he says, finishing the cookie in a second bite that seems almost indecently eager. "Simple but perfect."
"The secret is real butter and vanilla bean instead of extract," I confide, absurdly pleased by his enthusiasm. "And patience. My grandmother always said you can't rush Christmas cookies."
"Wise woman," he observes, reaching for another cookie. I playfully slap his hand away.
"Those need to cool, and you've already had one," I scold, the casual interaction feeling somehow more intimate than our passionate encounters. "Besides, don't billionaires watch their sugar intake or something?"
An unexpected laugh escapes him—a genuine sound I've rarely heard, rich and unguarded. "This particular billionaire has an excellent metabolism," he informs me, deliberately reaching past me for another cookie, his body brushing against mine in a contact that sends awareness flickering through me. "And remarkable self-control in most areas."
"Except Christmas cookies, apparently," I tease, turning to face him, our bodies now inches apart in the spacious kitchen that suddenly feels much smaller.
"And certain decorators," he adds, his voice dropping lower as his eyes hold mine. "My self-control seems notably compromised where you're concerned, Holly."
The playful moment shifts, the air between us charging with familiar electricity. But instead of immediately acting on it, Dominic surprises me again.
"Show me how to make them," he says, nodding toward the bowl of remaining dough on the island.
I blink in surprise. "You want to learn to make Christmas cookies?"
"I want to participate in something that matters to you," he clarifies, the simple honesty of the statement catching me off guard. "Even if it involves getting flour on a three-thousand-dollar shirt."
Something melts inside me at this evidence of his effort to connect, to share experiences rather than simply possess my time and attention. "Alright," I agree, moving back to the island. "But fair warning—my grandmother was a perfectionist about her cookies. No sloppy cutting or uneven thickness permitted."
"I think I can handle exacting standards," he replies with a hint of dry humor that makes me smile.
What follows is possibly the most surreal thirty minutes of my life—teaching Dominic Sterling to roll cookie dough to precise thickness, to cut clean shapes without dragging the cutter, to transfer the delicate forms to baking sheets without distortion. He approaches the task with the same focused intensity he likely brings to corporate acquisitions, his hands surprisingly deft as they follow my instructions.
When flour dusts his cheek after an overzealous rolling effort, I laugh and reach up without thinking to brush it away. His hand captures mine before I can withdraw, holding it against his face in a gesture that transforms from playful to intimate in an instant.
"You're full of surprises today," I murmur, my pulse quickening at the heat in his eyes.
"As are you," he returns, turning his head to press a kiss to my palm. "I've never made cookies before. Not even as a child."
The casual revelation of this gap in normal childhood experiences tugs at something in my chest. "Never?"
He shakes his head slightly. "The kitchen was staff domain. Christmas was…formal in my household."
