Page 7 of Holiday Temptation

And judging by his reaction, neither has he.

Taking a deep breath, I steal a sideways glance at him. He's looking straight ahead, but there's a tension in his jawline and a faraway look in his eyes. Is he also replaying that moment? I shake the thought away, reminding myself that tonight is about bringing the holiday spirit into his life, not overanalyzing my growing feelings for him.

Dominic stops short as we approach the entrance of the brightly lit Community Center. There's a steady stream of volunteers bustling in and out, their breaths forming visible puffs in the chilly air. The vibrant energy emanating from the building contrasts starkly with the calm exterior he usually associates with the place.

"This isn't what I expected," he murmurs, eyeing the entrance with curiosity and skepticism.

I can't suppress a smile. "Just trust me on this one," I urge, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm.

He sighs but follows me willingly enough.

Inside, the large hall is transformed into a bustling workshop. Long tables are covered with piles of essentials while volunteers chat animatedly as they assemble care packages. The sound of laughter and camaraderie fills the space, enhancing the festive atmosphere.

We make our way to the check-in table, where a friendly woman with a clipboard greets us. "Emily! So glad you could make it," she exclaims, offering me a warm hug.

"This is Dominic," I introduce, gesturing to him. His reserved nod is met with a bright smile and a clipboard thrust into his hands where we sign in.

"We're creating care packages for soldiers stationed overseas," I explain, seeing his raised eyebrow. "Think of it as a little piece of home for those who can't be with their families this holiday season."

I pull out the hats and scarves I bought earlier at the market from a bag I'm carrying. "These," I say, holding them up for him to see, "are our personal touch. Handmade items to bring warmth and comfort."

Dominic takes one of the scarves, running the soft fabric through his fingers. "How did you get into this?" he asks, looking genuinely curious.

"One of my closest friends joined the military right after school. Every year, he'd tell me how much these packages meant to him and his unit. It's a tradition I've kept up ever since." My voice grows softer, the memory of my friend's grateful calls bringing a mix of happiness and nostalgia.

His gaze softens, and he nods in understanding. Without further prompting, we find an empty spot at one of the tables. Together, we start assembling the packages, methodically adding essentials like socks, lotion, a deck of cards, and, of course, the hats and scarves.

“This wasn’t what I expected from your holiday cheer challenge,” he admits after a few moments of working in silence.

"I think part of the cheer is making sure everyone feels it. Many of the soldiers are so young. Far from their families, often for the first time. And the holidays can be especially tough, making them feel even more isolated."

Dominic is quiet, carefully folding a pair of socks before placing them into the package. He pauses, his fingers brushing over a handwritten note one of the volunteers had slipped in earlier.

"People often forget," I continue, "that while we're celebrating, there's someone out there who's missing home."

I expect Dominic to give a brief nod, maybe make a comment on the nobility of service or the importance of the initiative. But instead, he surprises me.

"My father was stationed overseas when I was a kid," he starts, hesitating slightly. "He never made it back. A casualty of war." He swallows, visibly steeling himself. "Then, years later, my mother died after a long battle with cancer right before Christmas. So, for some, the holidays are just a stark reminder of loss. Of loneliness."

The unexpected revelation makes my heart ache, and I feel a flood of understanding. No wonder he keeps people at a distance. No wonder the holidays are a sore point for him.

Gently, I reach out, placing my hand over his. "Dominic, I'm so sorry. That's... unimaginable."

He glances down at our hands, then back to my face. After a beat, he gently pulls his hand away and shrugs slightly.

"That's just life, Miss Hart," he murmurs, his voice edged with that familiar steeliness.

There's a protective wall he's swiftly reconstructing, but rather than feeling rebuffed, I understand. It's his defense mechanism, a way to keep the world – and the pain – at bay.

"Everyone has their stories," I respond softly, trying to convey my empathy without pushing too hard. "Thank you for sharing yours."

He merely nods, avoiding eye contact as we both turn our attention back to the care packages. But as we work, I can't help but steal glances at him now and then, admiring how he takes such care with every item, ensuring each package is assembled perfectly. It’s clear that beneath the reserved exterior lies a man with a depth of feeling he rarely lets anyone see.

The room's lively energy continues to surround us, but in our shared space, there's a quiet respect for the revelations of the evening. Sometimes, moments of reflection and vulnerability emerge amidst the festivity and joy, leading to connections that might otherwise never have occurred.

And in these moments, the true spirit of the holiday season shines through.

A couple of hours later, we step out of the Community Center, the crisp night air a refreshing change. The streets, less crowded now, hum with a quiet energy. Instead of going straight back to our cars, I guide us toward a familiar park nestled between the city's high rises. The dim pathway lights guide us deeper into the greenery, the soft rustle of leaves creating a gentle backdrop. As we walk, I'm acutely aware of the warmth radiating from him, making the cold almost bearable.

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