Page 6 of His for Christmas
"No fake snow," Holly promises with a laugh. "I prefer natural materials anyway—pine, holly, berries. Things that smell like Christmas, not chemicals."
I find myself cataloging these preferences, filing away the information for future reference. She likes natural materials. Authentic experiences. Her laugh is unguarded, genuine—rare in my world of calculated social interactions.
James lingers unnecessarily, asking questions about her previous projects. When Holly mentions working for the Harrimans last year—old money, respectable but nowhere near my league—he seems impressed. If he only knew the caliber of projects she'll be associated with after working for me. The Sterling name will open doors that the Harrimans couldn't even approach.
My phone vibrates in my pocket—no doubt Patricia with something urgent. I ignore it, unwilling to leave my vantagepoint. Holly has moved to the windows now, studying the garden view while making notes. The winter light illuminates her profile—the gentle slope of her nose, the fullness of her lower lip, the way she absently tucks her hair behind her ear when concentrating.
When she reaches up to measure the window height, her sweater rides up slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin at her waist. My body responds instantly to even this innocent glimpse, desire coiling tight and immediate. I force myself to remain still, to maintain the professional distance required. But my mind has already stripped away the modest sweater, already imagined how that skin would feel under my hands.
I've seen enough. More than enough. I step into the doorway, making my presence known with deliberate footsteps. James and Elena immediately straighten, their expressions shifting to professional deference.
"Mr. Sterling," Elena acknowledges with a nod before quietly exiting. James hesitates, glancing between Holly and me before following Elena out.
Holly turns, her clipboard clutched to her chest in what I'm beginning to recognize as a defensive gesture. Her cheeks flush immediately upon seeing me—a reaction I find immensely satisfying.
"Mr. Sterling," she says, her voice steady despite the color in her cheeks. "I didn't expect you until tomorrow's presentation."
"Dominic," I correct her again, moving further into the room. "And it's my house, Holly. I go where I please in it."
She straightens her shoulders slightly. "Of course. I was just finishing the measurements for the ballroom."
"And your impressions?" I ask, approaching until only a few feet separate us.
"It's a magnificent space," she says, her professional mask slipping into genuine enthusiasm. "The proportions are perfectfor a dramatic central display without overwhelming the architectural details."
I allow myself to move closer, watching her pulse flutter visibly at the base of her throat. "And what would you create, if given complete freedom? If budget and practicality were no object?"
The question seems to surprise her. She blinks, then looks around the room with fresh eyes. "Something that brings the winter woods inside," she says finally. "Not literally—no tacky artificial trees. But the essence of it. Crystal and silver catching light like ice on branches. White flowers and evergreens. A night sky effect on the ceiling with thousands of tiny lights."
The vision she describes resonates with something inside me. Not the gaudy Christmas spectacles my previous decorators created, but something elegant, almost primal in its connection to nature.
"Interesting," I say, allowing a hint of approval to enter my voice. "I look forward to seeing your formal presentation tomorrow."
She nods, still clutching her clipboard. "Nine o'clock, Ms. Winters said."
"Eight," I correct. "I've moved some meetings to accommodate a more detailed discussion."
"Eight," she repeats, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip nervously.
The small gesture sends a jolt of heat through me. I need to leave before I do something inappropriate—like back her against the nearest wall and discover if she tastes as sweet as she looks.
"Don't let me interrupt your work," I say, turning toward the door. "But Holly?"
"Yes?"
I look back at her over my shoulder. "The collection room remains off-limits unless you're personally accompanied by me. Is that clear?"
Her flush deepens. "Crystal clear."
I nod once and exit, feeling her eyes on my back as I walk away. The possessive feeling has only strengthened after watching her work. Holly Parker's precision, her attention to detail, her genuine appreciation for beauty—all qualities I value. All qualities I want to possess.
By Christmas, I decide as I return to my office, she won't just be decorating my home.
She'll be living in it.
The mistletoe hangs discreetly in the archway between the main hall and the library—Holly's next destination according to her meticulous schedule that Patricia obtained for me. Not obvious enough to seem deliberate, just a small sprig among the greenery that the previous decorator left behind. I check my watch: 4:45 PM. She'll be passing through any minute now, measuring the connecting spaces before ending her day. I position myself in the library, ostensibly reviewing documents but entirely focused on the doorway. Some might call this calculating. I prefer to think of it as creating opportunity.
I've never orchestrated a "chance" meeting with a woman before. Women typically come to me, drawn by power or wealth or both. I've never needed to pursue, never wanted to. But Holly Parker is different. The strange pull she exerts demands action rather than patience.
