Page 34 of His for Christmas
"We should get back to work," she murmurs eventually, though she makes no move to disentangle herself from my embrace.
"We have time," I assure her, pressing a kiss to her temple. "The world can wait."
She props herself up on one elbow, studying my face with surprising intensity. "Who are you?" she asks, the question catching me off guard. "The Dominic Sterling I researched before taking this job doesn't postpone meetings to lie by a fireplace in the middle of the day."
The observation is uncomfortably accurate. I don't recognize myself in my recent actions either—the possessiveness, the rearranged schedules, the middle-of-day indulgences that would have been unthinkable just weeks ago.
"Perhaps I'm discovering who I am," I reply, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in that gesture that's become habit between us. "With you."
She smiles, but there's uncertainty beneath it. "Is that a good thing? This version of yourself?"
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "It's unfamiliar territory. I've built an empire on control, on never allowing emotion to dictate action. Yet here I am, arranging my entire schedule around the possibility of seeing you smile."
My admission seems to both please and trouble her. "This is happening so fast," she says, echoing a concern she's voiced before. "Sometimes I feel like I'm being swept away in a current too strong to resist."
I trace the curve of her cheek with my thumb, considering her words. "Would you resist it if you could? Return to being just my decorator? To professional distance and formal interactions?"
"No," she admits after a moment's hesitation. "That's what terrifies me. I don't want to go back. Even knowing how irrational this is, how little time we've known each other—I can't imagine walking away from whatever this is between us."
Satisfaction blooms in my chest at her words. "Then don't fight it, Holly. Let it carry us both."
A distant sound—a door closing somewhere in the house—breaks the intimacy of the moment. Holly tenses slightly, reminded of the world beyond our firelit sanctuary.
"We should dress," she says, regret evident in her voice as she sits up, reaching for her scattered clothing.
I allow it, though part of me wants to pull her back into my arms, to extend this interlude indefinitely. As I watch her dress, each piece of clothing rebuilding the professional facade she presents to the world, I'm struck by a realization that should disturb me more than it does: I don't just want Holly Parker in my bed, in stolen moments by fireplaces. I want her in my life completely, permanently.
The intensity of this desire—this need—is unprecedented in my experience. And for the first time in my adult life, I'm not entirely certain how to achieve what I want.
Chapter
Nine
HOLLY
My phone buzzesfor the third time in five minutes, vibrating insistently against the library table where I've been sketching designs for the children's wing Christmas display. I've been ignoring it, focused on creating something magical for the children's hospital charity event Dominic hosts each year, but the persistent notifications finally pull my attention away from the colored pencils and paper before me.
Three texts from Megan, my closest friend since college:
*Are you still alive or has your billionaire locked you in his tower?*
*Girls' night planning committee DEMANDS your presence. Annual Christmas party this Saturday at Nora's. No excuses this time.*
*Seriously, Holly, we're starting to think you've been replaced by a very convincing robot. CALL ME.*
Guilt washes over me as I realize how completely I've disappeared from my friends' lives these past two weeks. Megan's texts have gone answered with increasingly brief replies. I've missed our weekly Sunday brunch twice. The last time I spoke with any of my friends was a hurried five-minutecall with Nora over a week ago, during which I was so distracted by preparing for my evening with Dominic that I barely registered her news about a promotion.
My thumb hovers over the call button beside Megan's name. It's nearly five—Dominic will expect me in his suite for dinner at seven, as has become our routine. The thought sends a now-familiar flutter through my stomach, but it's accompanied by something else today—a faint resentment at how completely my life has been subsumed into his. Two weeks ago, I would have immediately accepted the party invitation. Now, my first thought is how Dominic will react.
Before I can overthink it, I press the call button.
"She lives!" Megan answers on the second ring. "I was about to file a missing persons report."
"I've been busy," I reply, smiling despite my guilt. "The Sterling mansion is enormous, and Christmas is less than two weeks away."
"Mmhmm," she hums skeptically. "And does 'busy' have a name, specifically Dominic Sterling? Because I've heard some interesting rumors about you being spotted having dinner with him at Aureole last weekend."
I flush, remembering the evening well—Dominic's hand on the small of my back as we entered the exclusive restaurant, the way the maître d' practically bowed in his presence, the heated looks exchanged across the table that had nothing to do with the flames from the tableside dishes.
