Chapter 6 #2
The clothing arrives—not from a store, as Holly likely assumes, but from the selection I keep for the occasional female guest. I've never had a woman stay often enough to warrant her own wardrobe.
Until now. I make a mental note to have Patricia arrange for a complete selection in Holly's sizes by the end of the week.
"There's a robe in the bathroom you can use," I tell her. "Breakfast will be ready in the morning room in fifteen minutes."
She nods, gathering the clothing with careful hands before retreating to the bathroom again.
I dress quickly in casual trousers and a cashmere sweater—weekend attire I rarely wear.
Today feels different. Less structured. The realization that I'm altering my routine for her registers, but I push the thought aside.
Twenty minutes later, we're seated in the morning room—a light-filled space overlooking the east gardens that I rarely use, preferring to eat at my desk most mornings.
Holly looks charming in the simple blue dress Patricia selected, her hair loose around her shoulders, face freshly washed and free of makeup.
There's something intimate about seeing her this way—unadorned, slightly shy in the morning light.
"I don't usually eat breakfast," she admits as the housekeeper serves us coffee and fresh fruit.
"A mistake I'll help you correct," I reply, watching her eyes widen slightly at the implication of future mornings together. "Breakfast is essential for proper functioning."
"You sound like a nutrition pamphlet," she says, a hint of teasing in her voice that pleases me. She's growing comfortable enough to show her personality rather than hiding behind professionalism.
"I'm very passionate about proper…nourishment," I return, letting my gaze drop deliberately to her mouth. Her lips part slightly, remembering, no doubt, exactly how passionate I can be.
The chef delivers our meal himself—something he does only for special guests.
Henri has been with me for eight years and knows my preferences intimately.
The spread he's prepared is impressive even by his standards—eggs Benedict, fresh pastries, smoked salmon, sliced fruit arranged like artwork on fine china.
"This is beautiful," Holly says, genuine appreciation in her voice. "But far too much food for two people."
"Henri likes to show off for beautiful women," I reply casually, watching her reaction from the corner of my eye as I pour her coffee. "When Alessandra used to stay over, he would practically empty the pantry trying to impress her."
There it is—the tiny flinch, the slight narrowing of eyes, the momentary stillness of her hand reaching for her fork. Jealousy. Exquisite and revealing. I hide my satisfaction behind my coffee cup.
"Alessandra?" Holly asks, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
"Mmm. A business associate from Milan." I deliberately leave the nature of our association ambiguous. "She has very refined tastes. Very demanding about getting exactly what she wants."
Holly nods, her expression carefully neutral now as she takes a too-large bite of pastry. "It's nice that your chef is so accommodating."
"Henri knows how to please me," I say, letting innuendo color the words. "As do all my staff. Satisfaction is paramount in my household."
Her cheeks flush again. She's remembering last night's satisfaction, as I intended. But there's also uncertainty in her eyes now, a question about her place in the hierarchy of women who have shared my bed. Perfect.
"My assistant will be arranging several details today," I continue, changing subjects with deliberate abruptness. "She'll need your measurements for the gala."
"The gala?" Holly looks genuinely confused.
"The Sterling Enterprises Christmas Gala. You're decorating for it, remember?" I take a bite of eggs Benedict, savoring both the perfect hollandaise and her obvious confusion. "You'll be attending as my guest, of course. Patricia will arrange for suitable attire."
"I can dress myself," she counters, a spark of independence flaring. "I have appropriate clothing for formal events."
I raise an eyebrow, letting skepticism show. "The gala requires something beyond appropriate, Holly. It's the social event of the season. Everyone who matters in this city will be watching us."
The implications land exactly as intended. Us. A public declaration of her status in my life.
"Is that wise?" she asks quietly. "I'm working for you. People will talk."
"People always talk," I dismiss her concern with a wave of my hand. "Let them. I've never particularly cared what others think of my personal choices."
"And is that what I am?" she challenges, finally meeting my eyes directly. "A personal choice?"
I hold her gaze, letting her see the intensity of my interest. "You are many things, Holly. Employee is rapidly becoming the least significant of them."
She swallows hard, dropping her eyes to her barely-touched food. "This is happening very fast."
"When I recognize what I want, I don't waste time," I reply simply. "Unlike Henri's eggs Benedict, some opportunities don't keep well if left unattended."
A text chimes on my phone—Patricia with an update on the Tokyo acquisition.
I check it briefly, then set the phone aside.
"Speaking of opportunities, I have a dinner meeting tonight with the head of Vantage Media.
Celia Williams—brilliant woman, absolutely ruthless in negotiations.
" I pause, watching Holly's expression carefully.
"She's also exceptionally beautiful. Former model. "
The jealousy flashes again—stronger this time, less controlled. Holly takes a sip of water, buying time to compose her features. "Sounds like an interesting evening," she manages.
"It could be," I agree, letting the possibility hang between us. "Unless I had a reason to reschedule."
Her eyes fly to mine, understanding dawning. I'm offering her a choice—stake her claim or allow me to spend the evening with another beautiful woman. It's manipulative, yes, but effective. I want to see how much she's willing to fight for this connection between us.
"Your business meetings are your own affair," she says finally, attempting dignity despite the hurt visible in her eyes. "I'll be working late on the library installation anyway."
Not the answer I was hoping for, but revealing nonetheless. She's still clinging to professional boundaries, still afraid to admit how deeply she's already involved. No matter. I have time to break down those remaining walls.
"Perhaps I'll check your progress when I return," I say, letting the matter drop for now. "The library is important to me. I want it perfect."
She nods, relief evident in the relaxing of her shoulders. She thinks she's maintained some control, some distance. She doesn't yet understand that this momentary retreat is merely strategic on my part. By Christmas, there will be no boundaries left between us—professional or otherwise.
And as for Celia Williams? I'll have Patricia cancel before Holly even leaves the house this morning. There was never any dinner meeting. But Holly doesn't need to know that. Not yet.
Meetings drain my patience on the best of days.
Today, with Holly's scent still clinging to my sheets and the memory of her body beneath mine fresh in my mind, the parade of lawyers and accountants seems particularly pointless.
I've built an empire that runs efficiently without my constant oversight—a fact I appreciate now more than ever as I find myself checking the time every fifteen minutes, calculating how soon I can reasonably end this discussion of quarterly projections.
By six, I've had enough. I dismiss the financial team with curt instructions to revise their proposal and exit my office before anyone can raise further questions.
Patricia gives me a knowing look as I pass her desk without stopping for my usual end-of-day briefing.
She's been with me long enough to recognize the signs of my focused interest in something—or someone—beyond work.
The household staff informed me earlier that Holly was working in the kitchen, consulting with the chef about the gala menu and decoration integration.
An unusual choice of location for the event planner, but Holly's thoroughness is one of her many qualities I admire.
She leaves nothing to chance, considers every detail that might enhance the overall experience.
It's a trait we share, though I apply mine to corporate takeovers rather than Christmas ornaments.
I find her exactly where expected, alone in the massive kitchen, papers spread across the center island.
She's changed from the blue dress into clothes from her own collection that must have been delivered at some point—simple black trousers and a cream sweater that somehow manages to be both modest and enticing.
Her hair is pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, exposing the curve of her throat where I left a small mark last night.
The sight of it—my mark on her skin—sends a surge of satisfaction through me.
She doesn't hear me enter, absorbed in whatever notes she's reviewing.
A half-empty mug of tea sits at her elbow, long forgotten judging by the lack of steam.
I watch her for a moment, appreciating the furrow of concentration between her brows, the way she absently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she works.
Such a simple gesture, yet endearing in its unconscious repetition.
"Finding everything you need?" I ask, breaking the silence.
She startles slightly, her hand instinctively covering her throat where my mark resides—an unconscious protection of something intimate, something between us alone. The gesture pleases me more than it should.