Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
HOLLY
I can't focus on the garland measurements.
I've been staring at the same numbers for five minutes, my mind wandering back to yesterday's kiss like a tongue returning to a sore tooth.
The velvet ribbon slips through my fingers for the third time as I try to create a mock-up for the main staircase.
It shouldn't be this difficult. I've decorated dozens of staircases for clients just as demanding as Dominic Sterling.
But none of those clients pressed me against their hard body and kissed me senseless under the mistletoe.
None of them looked at me afterward like they were memorizing the taste of me.
And none of them are currently standing in the doorway, watching me work with those intense blue eyes that seem to see right through my carefully maintained professional facade.
I didn't see him arrive. Didn't hear him.
But I felt him—a prickling awareness at the back of my neck that spread across my skin like a physical touch.
Now I'm hyperaware of his presence, my body reacting in ways my brain is desperately trying to override.
My cheeks are warm. My pulse beats too fast. The simple act of measuring ribbon has become complicated by hands that won't stay steady.
"The presentation went well," he says, his deep voice carrying across the room. "Your vision for the ballroom impressed Patricia."
I glance up briefly, then back down at my work, afraid my eyes will betray how much his presence affects me. "Thank you. I'm glad she liked the concept."
This morning's presentation had gone surprisingly smoothly, considering I barely slept last night, replaying our kiss on mental loop.
I'd explained my vision for each room, displayed material samples, and outlined the timeline.
Dominic had watched me the entire time with that unnerving intensity, asking occasional questions that revealed his keen eye for detail.
Ms. Winters had taken notes, her face betraying nothing.
Now he moves into the room, each step deliberate, like a predator who doesn't need to rush because his prey isn't going anywhere. I focus on the velvet ribbon, measuring the length needed for a perfect swag between balusters.
"The gold and burgundy theme for the main staircase," he says, now close enough that I can smell his cologne, "it complements the wood tones well."
"That's the idea," I manage, proud that my voice sounds almost normal. "The existing architecture should be enhanced, not overshadowed."
He's standing beside me now, his presence taking up more space than his physical body.
I make the mistake of looking up at him.
His suit today is charcoal gray, the white shirt beneath providing stark contrast to his tanned skin.
His hair is perfectly styled except for one rebellious strand that falls across his forehead, making him look slightly less untouchable.
I have the insane urge to reach up and brush it back.
"You understand balance," he observes, his eyes never leaving my face. "A rare quality."
The compliment warms me more than it should. I return to my work, carefully cutting the ribbon at the marked length. "Excess is easy. Restraint takes skill."
"Indeed it does." Something in his tone makes me look up again. The heat in his eyes contradicts his controlled expression. "Though restraint has its limits."
My scissors slip, nearly cutting the ribbon at the wrong angle.
I set them down before I can ruin the expensive material.
"I should have mock-ups for all the main areas by tomorrow," I say, desperately reaching for professionalism.
"The tree delivery is scheduled for Friday, and the installation team can start on Monday. "
"Your hands are shaking," he notes, his voice dropping lower.
I clench them into fists, then deliberately relax them. "I'm fine."
"Are you?" He steps closer, not touching me but near enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You seemed distracted during the presentation this morning. Your mind kept…wandering."
The knowing look in his eyes makes my stomach flip. Does he realize I spent the entire presentation trying not to stare at his mouth, trying not to remember how it felt against mine?
"I was focused on communicating my vision clearly," I counter, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "This project is important to me."
"Just the project?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning. I should step back, establish professional distance. Instead, I find myself swaying slightly toward him, drawn by something I can't name or resist.
"Mr. Sterling—"
"Dominic," he corrects, the word a command rather than a request.
"Dominic," I repeat, hating how breathless I sound. "Yesterday was…unexpected."
A hint of a smile touches his lips. "But not unwelcome."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "No. Not unwelcome."
The admission costs me something—a piece of my professional armor, perhaps. But denying it would be a lie, and somehow I sense that Dominic Sterling would see through any deception instantly.
His eyes hold mine, the blue darkening to something stormy and intense. For a moment I think he might kiss me again, right here among the ribbons and sample garlands. Part of me—a part growing larger by the second—hopes he will.
Instead, he reaches past me to pick up a swatch of the burgundy velvet. His arm brushes mine in the process, and even this casual contact sends electricity racing along my nerve endings.
"I look forward to seeing this vision realized," he says, rubbing the fabric between his fingers before setting it down. "You have free rein to transform the house, Holly. Don't hold back."
The way he says my name makes it sound like an endearment, a secret between us. I swallow hard, nodding. "I won't."
He steps back, breaking the spell of proximity, though his eyes remain fixed on mine. "I have meetings for the rest of the day, but I'll check your progress tomorrow. Perhaps we can discuss the library decorations in more…detail."
The emphasis on the word makes my cheeks heat again. The library—where he kissed me. Where he might kiss me again.
"Of course," I manage.
He nods once, then turns and walks toward the door.
I allow myself to watch him go, admiring the confident set of his shoulders, the powerful line of his back beneath his perfectly tailored suit.
At the doorway, he pauses and looks back over his shoulder, catching me staring.
Instead of embarrassment, I feel a strange thrill at being caught, at the appreciation that flashes in his eyes before he disappears into the hallway.
When he's gone, I sink into the nearest chair, my legs suddenly weak. What is happening to me? I've never been affected by a client like this before. Never found myself counting the hours until our next interaction, anticipating the next look or touch.
The ribbon mock-up sits abandoned on the table.
I need to finish it, need to remember why I'm here.
This job could launch my career to a new level, put my small company on the map for the ultra-wealthy clientele I've been trying to reach.
I can't afford to be distracted by magnetic blue eyes and kisses that leave me sleepless.
But as I pick up my scissors again, I know I'm lying to myself. The prospect of seeing Dominic tomorrow excites me more than any professional opportunity. And the most terrifying part is that I don't want that feeling to stop.
I carefully cut the ribbon, trying to focus only on the task at hand. But in the back of my mind, a countdown has begun—the hours until tomorrow, when I'll see him again.
The library feels different today. I've been arranging small vignettes on the tables—antique ornaments nestled among leather-bound books, delicate branches with crystal droplets that catch the afternoon light.
It's my favorite kind of decorating, these subtle touches that don't announce themselves but transform a space nonetheless.
But I can't shake the feeling that the room is waiting for something.
For someone. I adjust a crystal ornament, angling it to better catch the light, and try to ignore the way my eyes keep drifting to the archway where Dominic kissed me.
The mistletoe is gone now—I removed it myself this morning, telling myself it was to prevent any more "misunderstandings.
" But the memory lingers in the air like a ghost, making my fingers clumsy and my focus scattered.
This room matters to him. I can tell by the carefully chosen volumes, the worn leather of certain favorites, the way every item seems personally selected rather than purchased en masse by an interior decorator.
The library reveals more about Dominic Sterling than perhaps any other space in this massive house.
It feels intimate, despite its grandeur.
The hair on the back of my neck rises suddenly, a primitive warning system alerting me to his presence before I hear or see him. My hands still on the arrangement I'm creating. He's watching me. I know it with a certainty that should be disturbing but instead sends a thrill through my body.
I turn slowly, finding him in the doorway. Today's suit is navy, making his eyes appear even more intensely blue by comparison. He steps inside and closes the door behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds final, like the period at the end of a sentence.
"Your concept is coming together nicely," he says, nodding toward the vignettes I've arranged.
"Thank you." I straighten, trying to project professional confidence despite the flutter in my stomach. "I thought we could focus on the literary aspect of Christmas for this room—Dickens, traditional carols, the stories that form our holiday traditions."