Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
HOLLY
The precise placement of gold beaded garland requires total concentration.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I adjust the swag for the fifth time, pretending my mind isn't replaying last night's encounter in the kitchen on constant loop.
I've been at work since seven this morning, deliberately arriving before Dominic would be awake, leaving a note on his pillow about "early delivery schedules" rather than facing him over breakfast again.
Professional boundaries. That's what I need—clear delineation between Holly the decorator and Holly the…
whatever I am to him now. Lover seems inadequate.
Girlfriend sounds juvenile. And "woman Dominic Sterling has claimed as his personal property" is too unwieldy for casual conversation, even if it's the most accurate description.
"Ms. Parker? The floral delivery is here. Where do you want the poinsettias?" My assistant, Jen, stands in the doorway of the grand salon, clipboard in hand, mercifully interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
"Library, dining room, and main staircase, according to the placement chart," I reply, grateful for the mundane logistical question that grounds me back in my professional role. "Make sure they check each plant for brown spots before bringing them in."
She nods and disappears, leaving me alone with the garland and my unruly thoughts again.
This isn't me. I don't lose focus over men, don't let personal entanglements interfere with work.
I've built a reputation for being professional, reliable, discreet.
Yet here I am, jumpier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs every time I hear footsteps in the hallway, wondering if it's him.
The worst part is how desperately I want it to be him.
Despite my early-morning resolve to establish boundaries, despite recognizing the manipulation in his fake dinner meeting, despite knowing how quickly this is moving—I want him to walk through that door and look at me with those intense blue eyes that see straight through my professional facade.
"Get it together, Holly," I mutter to myself, aggressively fluffing a section of garland that doesn't need fluffing.
My phone buzzes with a text message. My heart leaps embarrassingly before I even check the screen. It's from him, of course.
*The empty bed was disappointing. The note was unnecessary. Next time, wake me.*
No greeting, no sign-off. Just direct statements that assume future nights together as a given. I should be irritated by his presumption. Instead, I'm fighting a ridiculous smile as I read the message again.
No. Boundaries. I set the phone down without responding and return to the garland, determined to focus solely on work for at least the next hour.
My resolve lasts approximately twelve minutes before my phone chimes again.
This time it's an email from Ms. Winters with "URGENT: Gala Approval Required" in the subject line.
I open it to find detailed information about a custom gown being designed for me to wear to the Sterling Enterprises Christmas Gala.
The sketches show an emerald green creation that would cost more than three months of my rent.
At the bottom is a simple note: "Mr. Sterling requests your sizing confirmation by noon for rush production. "
I close the email without responding, a mixture of emotions churning through me.
Irritation at his high-handedness. Uncertainty about what accepting such an expensive gift would mean.
And beneath it all, a completely inappropriate flutter of pleasure that he wants to present me so publicly as his chosen companion.
"Ms. Parker?" Jen again, appearing at my elbow. "These just arrived for you."
She holds out a small velvet box with no card or wrapping. I take it with a sense of inevitability, already knowing who it's from. Inside rests a pair of earrings—emeralds surrounded by diamonds, elegant and obviously expensive. Designed to match the dress I haven't even agreed to accept.
"There's no card," Jen notes, curiosity evident in her voice.
"There wouldn't be," I murmur, closing the box and slipping it into my pocket. "Thank you, Jen. Could you check on the team hanging wreaths in the east wing? Make sure they're using the reinforced hooks, not the temporary ones."
Once she's gone, I lean against the wall, closing my eyes briefly. How am I supposed to maintain professional boundaries when Dominic is systematically dismantling them with texts and gifts and gowns? When every space in this house holds memories of his touch, his voice, his possessive words?
I push away from the wall and head toward the library, determined to lose myself in work.
The library team has made good progress—the shelves adorned with subtle greenery, the antique ornaments placed exactly as I designed.
This room, at least, is coming together exactly as planned, even if nothing else in my life is.
"You're avoiding me."
His voice from the doorway sends a jolt through me despite my anticipation of this very moment. I don't turn immediately, using the seconds to compose my features into something resembling professional calm.
"I'm working," I correct, finally facing him. "Which is what you're paying me to do."
Dominic looks impeccable as always in a charcoal suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds final.
"You didn't respond to my text," he says, moving closer. "Or Ms. Winters' email about the gown."
"I've been busy." I gesture to the decorated library. "And I don't need a custom gown. I told you yesterday, I have appropriate clothing for formal events."
"The earrings?" he asks, ignoring my protest about the dress.
My hand goes instinctively to my pocket where the velvet box rests. "They're beautiful. And completely unnecessary."
"I disagree." Another step closer. "They're exactly necessary."
I force myself to stand my ground, though every instinct screams to either retreat or close the remaining distance between us. "Dominic, we need to talk about boundaries."
A slight smile curves his mouth. "An interesting topic to raise after last night."
Heat floods my face at the memory of exactly what happened last night—me wrapped around him in his kitchen, all thoughts of boundaries obliterated by his touch, his taste, his possession.
"That's exactly my point," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "This is happening very fast, and I have a job to do here. A professional reputation to maintain."
"No one questions your professionalism, Holly." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, the casual touch sending electricity through me. "The decorations are progressing perfectly on schedule. Your team respects your leadership. Your attention to detail is impeccable."
His hand lingers, cupping my cheek. Despite my resolve, I lean into his touch slightly. "Then why do I feel like I'm losing control of everything?"
The vulnerability in my question surprises us both.
His expression softens, something beyond desire flickering in his eyes.
"Because you are. We both are." His thumb traces my cheekbone.
"I've never invited a woman to the gala as my companion.
Never sent a text wondering where someone went.
Never found myself distracted in meetings because I'm thinking about whether someone liked the gift I sent. "
The admission stuns me. This powerful, controlled man is admitting to the same confusing swirl of feelings overwhelming me. "I don't know how to do this," I confess. "Work for you and be with you at the same time."
"We'll figure it out," he says with that absolute confidence that simultaneously irritates and attracts me. "Together. But Holly—" He leans closer, his lips nearly brushing my ear as he speaks. "Don't try to establish boundaries I have no intention of respecting."
I should be offended by his presumption. Instead, a shiver runs through me at the promise in his words. Before I can respond, he presses a brief, hard kiss to my lips, then steps back.
"Wear the earrings tonight," he says, moving toward the door. "I want to see them on you when we have dinner in my suite. Eight o'clock."
It's not a request. We both know it. And despite all my internal lectures about boundaries and professionalism, we both know I'll be there.
As the door closes behind him, I press my fingers to my lips, still feeling the imprint of his kiss. So much for professional boundaries. I've already crossed so many lines with Dominic Sterling that I'm not sure I could find my way back even if I wanted to.
And that's the most terrifying part: I'm not sure I want to.
The main staircase garland is my masterpiece—thick, lush evergreen interwoven with burgundy velvet ribbon, gold beading, and tiny white lights that will create the illusion of stars falling from the upper landing all the way to the foyer.
I'm perched precariously on the third step from the top, securing the garland to the banister with nearly invisible wire, when I hear footsteps approaching.
Even before he speaks, I know it's Dominic.
My body has developed a sixth sense for his presence—a prickling awareness that spreads across my skin like a physical touch.
"That looks dangerous," he observes, his voice carrying up the staircase.
I glance down to find him at the bottom of the stairs, hands in the pockets of his tailored trousers, watching me with those intense blue eyes. After our encounter in the library this morning, I've managed to avoid him for several hours, focusing on work with almost frantic determination.
"I'm fine," I assure him, turning back to my task. "I've decorated hundreds of staircases. Haven't fallen yet."
"I don't like the 'yet' in that sentence." His footsteps sound on the stairs as he begins climbing toward me. "Why isn't someone helping you?"