Page 46 of His for Christmas
"I have plenty of work to occupy me," he says, though something flickers in his eyes at my characterization. "The Tokyo acquisition requires attention I've been…distracted from providing lately."
I study his face, searching for signs of the manipulation I've come to expect. "And you won't text me constantly? Won't send a car to 'check' on me? Won't manufacture some emergency to bring me back to the mansion?"
A flash of irritation crosses his features at my questions. "Do you really think so little of me?"
"I think you're a man who's accustomed to getting exactly what he wants," I reply honestly. "And right now, what you want is me, exclusively focused on you."
He doesn't deny it, which I find oddly reassuring—at least he's not lying about his fundamental desires. "I'm attempting to demonstrate that I can respect your independence, Holly. That I understand your concerns about my…possessiveness."
"I appreciate the attempt," I say, softening my tone. "I really do. But Dominic, one evening of restraint doesn't address the underlying issue."
"Which is?" he prompts, his eyes never leaving mine.
"That you see me as something to possess rather than someone to partner with. That your natural instinct is to control rather than to collaborate." I take a deep breath, forcing myself to continue despite the hardening of his expression. "That I'm afraid of losing myself in your intensity."
Silence stretches between us, taut with unspoken emotions. Finally, he nods once, a gesture that acknowledges my words without necessarily accepting them.
"Enjoy your party on Saturday," he says, his voice controlled again, the brief vulnerability tucked away behind his usual composed facade. "We'll talk when you return."
The implication is clear—this conversation isn't resolved, merely postponed. As he turns to leave, I feel a complicated mixture of relief and disappointment. Relief that he's apparently accepting my decision to attend the party, disappointmentthat we haven't truly addressed the fundamental issues in our relationship.
At the door, he pauses, looking back at me with an expression I can't quite decipher. "I meant what I said before, Holly. I've never felt this way about anyone. Whatever that means to you—whatever you choose to do with that information—it remains true."
Before I can respond, he's gone, leaving me alone with the carousel horses and my conflicted thoughts. His attempt at apology, his apparent concession about the party, should reassure me. Instead, I feel like I've just participated in another strategic move in a game whose rules I don't fully understand.
The carousel horse in my hand catches the light, its painted surface gleaming with miniature perfection. Beautiful, carefully crafted, designed to delight—yet ultimately an object, controlled by whoever holds it. I set it down more gently this time, suddenly eager to finish my work and find some space to breathe that isn't permeated with Dominic's lingering presence.
Saturday can't come soon enough. I need the clarity that only distance from his overwhelming intensity can provide. Need to remember who Holly Parker is when she's not being shaped by Dominic Sterling's powerful gravity.
The library is quiet at midnight, the only illumination coming from the fireplace and a single reading lamp beside the leather armchair where I've retreated. The children's hospital event preparations are complete, tomorrow's installation schedule finalized, and I've run out of professional tasks to hide behind. Sleep eludes me despite my exhaustion, my mind still cycling through the complexities of my relationship with Dominic. I'vebrought a book from the shelves—a collection of winter poetry that seemed fitting for both the season and my mood—but the words blur before my eyes, failing to capture my attention.
When the door opens, I know who it is without looking up. That awareness between us hasn't diminished despite our conflict. Dominic pauses in the doorway, clearly surprised to find me here.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice lacking its usual commanding tone. "I didn't expect anyone to be here this late. I can leave you to your solitude."
I look up, taken aback by his offer to withdraw. The Dominic I've come to know doesn't retreat from what he wants, doesn't yield space unless it's part of a larger strategy. But something in his expression—a weariness that mirrors my own—suggests this isn't calculation but genuine consideration.
"It's your library," I reply softly. "You don't need to leave."
He enters, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He's shed his usual armor—the impeccable suit replaced by dark lounge pants and a simple gray t-shirt similar to what he wore the night on the staircase. The casual attire makes him seem more approachable, more human, than the commanding presence in tailored suits.
"What are you reading?" he asks, moving to stand near the fireplace, giving me space rather than immediately closing the distance between us.
I show him the cover. "Winter poems. I thought they might help clear my mind."
"And did they?"
"Not really," I admit with a small smile. "I've read the same page five times without absorbing a single word."
A ghost of an answering smile crosses his face. "I know the feeling. I've been staring at acquisition documents all evening with similar results."
This acknowledgment of distraction—of being affected by our situation—feels like a small offering, a moment of honesty between us. Silence stretches, but it's less tense than earlier today, more contemplative.
"I couldn't sleep," I say finally, setting the book aside. "Too many thoughts."
"About us," he supplies, not a question but an understanding.
"Yes."
