Page 40 of His for Christmas
A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts. "Come in," I call, turning from the window.
Holly enters, tablet in hand, her expression professionally neutral. "I have the final budget for the gala for your approval," she says, her voice giving away nothing of her inner thoughts.
I gesture for her to approach. "Show me."
She crosses to my desk, setting the tablet before me and leaning in to navigate through the spreadsheet. I breathe in her scent—vanilla and something floral, now as familiar to me as my own cologne—and watch the pulse beat at the base of her throat. When my hand covers hers on the tablet, she stills momentarily before carefully sliding her hand away.
That small retreat speaks volumes.
"Everything seems in order," I say, scrolling through numbers I barely register. "You've been thorough as always."
"Thank you." She steps back, maintaining a professional distance. "The installation is on schedule. Everything will be ready for the gala."
"And after the gala?" I ask, watching her face carefully. "What then, Holly?"
A flicker of uncertainty crosses her features. "The children's event, then the Christmas Eve staff party, then?—"
"I'm not asking about the schedule," I interrupt, rising from my chair to eliminate the desk barrier between us. "I'm asking about us."
She doesn't back away as I approach, but I can see the internal retreat in her eyes. "Dominic, I don't think this is the time?—"
"It's exactly the time." I stop directly before her, close enough to touch though I deliberately refrain. "You've been distant since our discussion about Saturday's party. Your body responds to me the same way, but your mind is elsewhere. I want to know where."
Her eyes widen slightly at my directness. "I've been thinking," she admits after a moment's hesitation. "About how quickly this has happened. About what it means."
"And your conclusions?" I keep my voice neutral despite the tightening in my chest.
"I don't have any yet," she says, meeting my gaze with surprising steadiness. "That's why I need some space. Some time to think without..."
"Without what?" I press when she trails off.
"Without you overwhelming everything else," she finishes quietly.
The words land like a physical blow, confirming my worst suspicions. She's pulling away, creating distance, preparing her exit. The familiar cold certainty settles in my chest—the knowledge that everyone leaves eventually, that attachment leads inevitably to loss.
"I see." I step back, giving her the physical space she seems to crave. "Then by all means, take your time on Saturday. Think thoroughly about what you want, Holly."
Relief crosses her face—relief at my apparent understanding, my seeming willingness to give her space. She doesn't recognize the danger in my calm, doesn't hear the determination beneath my reasonable tone.
"Thank you," she says softly. "I just need to clear my head. To make sure this is?—"
"Real?" I supply. "Sustainable? Worth the disruption to your carefully ordered life?"
She nods, looking grateful for my articulation of her concerns. "Exactly."
"I understand completely." I move to the window again, turning my back to her in a calculated display of acceptance. "Take your Saturday. Consider your options carefully."
I hear her soft footsteps as she crosses to the door, pausing there briefly. "Dominic?"
"Yes?" I don't turn around.
"I'm not pulling away because I don't care," she says, her voice gentle. "I'm pulling away to make sure I understand what caring about you means."
The door closes softly behind her. I remain at the window, watching snow transform the landscape, erasing boundaries and definitions beneath its smooth white surface.
She's wrong about one crucial detail. I'm not giving her space to think, to question, to potentially decide against what I know is right for us both. I'm giving her enough rope to recognize how tightly she's already bound to me—how impossible it would be to untangle her life from mine now that I've claimed her so thoroughly.
By Sunday morning, Holly Parker will understand exactly where she belongs. And it isn't at her small apartment with dying plants, or at parties with friends who could never provide what I can offer. It's here, with me, permanently and irrevocably.
