Page 15 of His for Christmas
Her skin is warm against mine, her fingers slender but strong. She doesn't pull away from my touch, instead allowing me this extended contact under the pretense of examining the ornament.
"I've been thinking about your design concept for the library," I say, still holding her hand in mine. "The literary Christmas theme. I'd like you to expand on it."
"In what way?" she asks, her voice slightly breathless.
"I want it to be more personal. Incorporate elements that reflect my specific interests, not just generic Christmas literary references."
She nods, finally slipping her hand from mine to place the ornament on the table. I immediately miss the contact. "I can do that. I'd need to know more about your preferences, though."
"Another reason for dinner tonight," I say, watching her expression carefully. "To discuss the more…personal aspects of the design."
A slight flush colors her cheeks. We both know dinner will involve much more than design discussions, but the professional pretense allows her to maintain the illusion of boundaries.
"I should get back to cataloging these," she says, gesturing to the remaining boxes.
"Of course." I step back, giving her space. "I'll be in my office if you need anything. Anything at all."
She returns to her work, but I notice her hands aren't as steady as before. Satisfaction curls through me at the physical evidence of my effect on her. I move to the connecting door between the antechamber and my office, leaving it partially open.
Throughout the day, I find reasons to check her progress. Each time, I stand a little closer, touch her hand a little longer, let my gaze linger on her mouth a bit more obviously. By mid-afternoon, the tension between us is palpable. She drops an ornament hook when our fingers brush reaching for the same piece, her composure visibly fracturing.
"Sorry," she murmurs, bending to retrieve it at the same moment I do.
Our heads nearly collide. I catch her shoulders to steady her, my hands lingering longer than necessary. She looks up at me, her pupils dilated, her lips slightly parted.
"Careful," I murmur, my voice dropping to a register I reserve for bedrooms. "These are irreplaceable."
"The ornaments," she says, almost to herself. "Right."
But we both know I'm not talking about the ornaments. I'm talking about this moment, this building tension between us that grows with each hour she spends in my orbit.
By late afternoon, she's arranged a trial display on a small table—the antique ornaments nestled among leather-bound books and sprigs of evergreen. The effect is stunning—elegant, thoughtful, a perfect blend of history and seasonal warmth.
"Beautiful," I say, genuinely impressed. "You understand how to highlight the essence of each piece."
"Thank you," she says, her professional pride evident despite the undercurrent of tension between us. "I'll recreate thisarrangement in the library tomorrow, with some additional elements."
"You've finished just in time," I note, glancing at my watch. "It's nearly six. You should go home and change before dinner."
"Change?" She looks down at her outfit, suddenly self-conscious.
"Not that you don't look lovely," I assure her, my eyes deliberately traveling the length of her body. "But I thought you might want something…special for tonight."
The implication hangs between us. This isn't just a business dinner, and we both know it.
"What should I wear?" she asks, surprising me with her directness again.
"Whatever makes you feel beautiful," I reply honestly. "Though I've always been partial to green."
She nods, gathering her things. "Eight o'clock. Your private dining room."
"My driver will collect you at seven-thirty," I inform her. "The address in your employee file is current?"
She pauses, obviously surprised by this arrangement. "Yes, but I can drive myself."
"I insist," I say, my tone making it clear this isn't negotiable. "I don't want you concerned with driving home afterward. We have much to discuss, and the evening may run late."
The implications of my words aren't lost on her. Her cheeks flush again, but she nods. "Seven-thirty, then."
