SHOP 'TIL YULE DROP
Novella: A PUBLICIST AND A PEAR TREE
copyright Alesia Holliday, Dorchester Publishing, 2004

Twelve Shopping Days Left

From:        KatieC@Today.msn.com
To:            LeahD@M&MPublishing.com
Sub:          Author publicity
Date:        December 13, 2004

Leah,

You’re terrific!!  I’m just dashing off a note to say that we got your packages on the M&M authors and they’re fabulous!!  We’re going to highlight a different one of your December release authors on each of the remaining days until Christmas here on the Today show.  I’ll trade off interviews with Matt and Ann.  You should come to the set with your authors – we’ll do lunch.

And I know NBC is always looking for talented publicists, so if I can coax you away from that corner office at M&M . . .

Later! 

Katie

- - - -

From:        TheRipster@RegisandKelly.com
To:            LeahD@M&MPublishing.com
Sub:          books ‘n stuff
Date:        December 13, 2004

Leah – I simply must have a science fiction book discussion on my show!  It’s hot – it’s sexy – just like me!  Let’s take your three lead authors and focus a special Christmas Reading on Other Planets with Ripa Book Club around them.  How does Monday look?

Call me!

Kelly

- - - -

From:        sue.b.marcus@nytimes.com
To:            LeahD@M&MPublishing.com
Sub:          The List
Date:         December 13, 2004

Leah,

You did it again!  All top 15 slots on the Friday fiction bestsellers List will be filled with M&M authors!  How do you do it?  That’s 17 weeks in a row!

Sue

- - - -

From:        JimBishop@publishersweekly.com
To:            LeahD@M&MPublishing.com
Sub:          interview
Date:        December 13, 2004

Leah,

We’d like to interview you for an article on the Top Ten Publicists in Publishing Today for a January issue.  (You’re number one, of course!)

We want to capture the flavor of the exotic books you promote, so we’re going to fly you to Tuscany for a week in a a villa for the photo shoot.  (On our dime, naturally.)

Call me – let’s schedule.

And congrats!

Jim

“Leah?  Leah?  LEAH!”

“Wha- . . . Wha’ happened?  When?  Did Katie call?”  I snapped to attention, if you could call yanking my head up off my desk and discovering that drool had plastered three phone messages to my face ‘snapping.’

“Katie who?  Were you asleep?  At your desk?  Really, Leah, I’d hope I could expect more of you.”

The Bitch Queen (or BQ, as I not-so-fondly called her) who was, sadly, my boss and M&M’s Vice President of Publicity, stood glaring at me, tapping her ridiculously pointy shoe.  Since the pointy toe came back in style, Selena Evans – fashionista wanna-be – had looked more and more like her idol, the Wicked Witch of the West.  (I wonder if she got all teary-eyed when she went to see Wicked on Broadway.)

“Leah?  Did you hear me?”  Oh, oh.  She was PO’d now.

“I’m sorry, Selena,” I said, peeling Post-It notes off my woefully inadequate cheekbones.  (I look exactly like Claudia Schiffer, except for her cheekbones.  And her extra seven inches in height.  And her blonde hair.)

“I wasn’t sleeping.  I was thinking about the plans for the marketing tie-ins for the fall line.”  It was almost true, even.  I’d been dreaming about the Jimmy Choo pink and crystal stilettos I planned to buy with the enormous raise I’d get for having fifteen authors on the NY Times list.

And shopping is kind of like marketing, right?

“I need those PR plans for the June books on my desk by five o’clock tomorrow, Leah.  I don’t care about the marketing tie-ins, yet.  Anyway, you know perfectly well that marketing and merchandising tie-ins are my exclusive purview.”

She turned on her 3-inch heels and brushed an imaginary speck off of her size-two skirt, then marched off to wherever she stored her Prada broomstick, no doubt.

I briefly contemplated shooting a rubber band at the back of her pointed head and was just reaching for my stash when she stopped in mid-stride and looked back at me over her shoulder. 

“Just because we worked a little late last night is no excuse to slack off today, Leah.  If this job is too much for you, I have the resumes of at least one hundred girls on my desk.  I’m sure one of them would be able to stay awake at her desk.”

Parting shot delivered with consummate Cruella de Vil malice, she finally stalked off.

I stared blearily around at my ‘corner office.’ Ha.  Third cube on the left was more like it.  A four-by-six beige-on-beige space where the bulk of our authors’ vastly-over-inflated hopes for national TV spots, European book tours, and full-page ads in USA Today came crashing down to earth – or, to be specific – to my mud-colored carpet with the double-espresso stain in the corner.

Well, at least if I had to fall asleep at my desk after working until two in the morning on a Sunday night and then hoofing it back here at eight a.m., I had great dreams.

I looked at the piles of paper threatening to collapse my desk under their weight and sighed.  Twelve shopping days till Christmas.  That meant only nine business days until our ten-day holiday break.  Or – reality check – only nine days in which to do a month’s worth of work.

Coffee.  I had to have caffeine to deal with this.  A nice gingerbread latte from Starbucks might help, plus it would be festive.  I grabbed my new Chanel clutch (well -- new to me – thank God and Santa Claus for e-Bay) and headed for the elevator.

Luckily, Selena wasn’t lurking around playing hall monitor, as she loved to do.  As the elevator doors started to close behind me, I heaved a sigh of relief.

Escape.

“Hold the elevator!”  A slender hand and arm weighted down with bracelets dripping Swarovski crystals stopped the motion of the elevator doors, and Gillian and Devon pushed their way into the elevator with me. 

If there were anything harder to stomach pre-caffeine than assistant editors, I hoped never to see it.  These two were among the worst we’d ever had during my three years’ tenure at M&M.  Gillian had recently graduated from Harvard and managed to work that fact into all conversations approximately once every ten minutes.  Devon (and Jenny in HR told me that Devon’s real name is Donna; talk about pretentious) had so many trust funds she couldn’t keep them all straight.

Of course, that was a much better way to be able to afford to work in NY publishing than my route – the ‘live on coffee and Ramen noodles diet in order to be able to afford a tiny apartment you share with three other girls’ plan.

Devon lived on Central Park West with her parents, naturally.  Not a lot of Ramen noodles there. 

My envy-induced sulking didn’t preclude me from listening in on their conversation, natch.

“Can you believe these authors?  I’m raking in the loot!”  Devon rubbed her hands together and chortled. 

“I got six boxes of Godiva just this morning.  I love the holidays.  Who needs to shop for gifts when you’ve got authors?”

They snickered, and Gillian’s eyes widened in an exaggerated expression of shock and dismay.  “What?  You recycle?”

Devon brushed her fake blonde hair off of one Armani-clad shoulder.  “Recycle?  Please.  I have recycling down to an art form.  I’ve got a stack of nametags in my desk, already made out to friends and family.  Usually I don’t even have to rewrap.  As if I’d ever eat all that chocolate.  Can you imagine the hours of Pilates I’d be forced to endure?”

The elevator doors stopped, and the doors opened about a half-second before my hands could reach her throat.  Probably a good thing, since murdering editors tends to give you a bad rep in the very, very small world of NY publishing.  The Deadly Duo was headed to Starbucks, too, so I paused to let them get ahead of me.

Way ahead.

Gillian glanced back at me and stopped dead.  “Leah, why on earth do you have writing all over your face?”

My mouth fell open.  The message slips.  Great.  ‘Her face was an open book’ takes on a whole new meaning.

I grabbed a tissue out of my purse and scrubbed at my cheek, which was probably the color of Santa’s suit by then.  Gillian and Devon walked on toward Starbucks, cackling loudly.

I dumped the tissue in the nearest of the wastebaskets discreetly placed at the edge of the lobby’s marble floor.  One Publisher’s Square, as everybody called our building, was all about tasteful displays of power and money.  The pianist serenading us with a Muzak-ized version of The Twelve Days of Christmas grinned at me as I passed.  I could feel my face get even hotter, so I started power breathing.  Relaxation exercises never worked for me, but they were at least a distraction.

The festive joy of the holiday decorations that festooned the lobby mocked my Grinchy mood.  I sneered at the tinsel and poinsettias, feeling my heart shrink three or maybe even four sizes smaller on the spot. 

A friendly voice broke into my scowling thoughts.  “Tired of hearing about how people at Harvard celebrate Christmas?” 

I smiled up at the welcome sight of Sarah Mitchell, my favorite editor and best friend, who’d clearly encountered the evil twins.  “No, this time it was how the rude and inconsiderate authors were burying them under an avalanche of expensive chocolate gifts, which they were then forced to recycle as presents for unsuspecting relatives.”

I may have sounded just the teensiest bit bitter, because Sarah started laughing.  “Not much chocolate on publicity row this year?”

“Ha!  Three cards.  That’s it.  And two of those were e-cards.  Can you believe it?  Nothing says Happy Holidays like the supreme effort of sending an e-card.”  I snorted in disgust and realized we’d reached the front of the line of crazed caffeine addicts.

“Tall gingerbread latte, please.”

The barrista was used to my ten a.m. fixes.  “No whip?”

“Today I want whip.  No, extra whip.  And cinnamon.  In fact, give me a chocolate croissant.”

Pete recoiled in mock horror as he rang up two days’ worth of calories on his tinsel and lights-decked register.  “What’s the occasion, Leah?  Big celebration?  Did you finally land a national TV spot for one of your science fictoids?”

I bared my teeth, but before I could actually bite him, Sarah cut in.  “Leah’s got the Grinchies, Pete.  She’s drowning her crabbiness in cinnamon whip.”

After Sarah paid for her tall Americano, we headed back to the elevators.

“Hey, this might cheer you up, Leah.  My brother’s in town for two weeks, and I’m having a little party Friday.  Can you make it?”

“Party.  Paaarty.  Gee, the word sounds familiar, but I can’t quite grasp the concept.  The BQ has me working so many hours, my social life died a slow and hideous death along with my ficus.  Can you elaborate?”

“Food.  Drinks.  Music.  Be there.  Eight o’clock.  And I heard that Howard isn’t all that happy with the BQ, so maybe she’s piling on the work to try to impress him.”

The elevators opened on our floor and I trudged off, waving at Sarah as she headed for the editorial side of the floor.  “I’ll try to make the party, but don’t count on it.”

Interesting about what she said, though.  Howard was the President, CEO, and King-on-Throne of M&M Publishing.  If he so much as slanted an eyebrow in Selena’s direction, she’d have me jumping through hoops from now till the Fourth of July. 

Back in cube sweet cube, I slumped in my chair, sipping latte.  OK, can’t put it off any longer.  I touched my mouse and morosely watched my Josh Duhamel screensaver dissolve into a list of my new e-mails.  Josh’s pixels were the closest I’d been to a man’s bare chest in a long, long time, if you don’t count the hairy guy at the gym who always flashes his paunch at any woman within a ten-foot radius.  (And that’s just sick and wrong.)

It’s eleven, Leah.  We’ve come to the conclusion of the  e-mail avoidance portion of our entertainment. 

“All right, already,” I muttered, responding to my own thoughts, thus cementing my title as Nutjob of the Season.  I scanned my . . . OMIGOD!  Three hundred and sixty-seven new e-mail messages?  Since two o’clock in the morning??

That’s averaging four thousand e-mails per week, which means I should be dead before I’m thirty. 

Way before.

Also:  Don’t these people have lives??

I slumped further down in my chair, until my face was practically level with my keyboard.  No messages from Katie, Kelly, or any other morning talk divas, I noticed, as I did a quick scan.  I reviewed the list of senders and felt my forehead getting scrunchier and scrunchier.  Could twenty-six-year-olds get Botox?

Seventeen new messages from Glenwood E. Hamilton, III, our newest author.  The ink on his contract wasn’t yet dry, but he was already demanding a conference call and a written report of my publicity plans for his book.  He thought Good Morning America would be the perfect spot for his book tour kickoff.

Great.  Perfect.

Except for the part about Good Morning America.  Or the part about a book tour.

First, Diane Sawyer at GMA wasn’t really known for reviewing science fiction mass market originals with titles like Head-Banging Artichoke Babes from Outer Space.  (Not that I – a mere P.R. slut – would ever presume to question editorial’s brilliant choice of book titles, of course.  But, please.)

Second, M&M didn’t send first-time authors on book tours.  These days, we rarely sent any authors on book tours, unless they were New York Times best-sellers.  Book tours cost a lot to put together and were spectacularly ineffective for authors who weren’t ‘names.’  The horror stories I’d heard from our authors who’d set up their own tours were scarier than a one-armed bikini waxer.  These poor authors, drunk on the euphoria of a first published book, would hit all of their local bookstores on a series of weekends.  They reported hours of isolation, broken only by the thrill of directing people to the bathroom. 

So, Glenwood the Third was in for a big letdown.  As usual, it fell on my shoulders (or typing fingers, to be precise) to toss a little reality his way.  Authors rarely complained to their editors about anything, and Selena considered herself to be entirely too far up the food chain to talk to writers.  I once heard her brag that she hadn’t spoken to an author in three years. 

My phone rang, and I glared at it but picked up anyway. 

“Leah speaking.”

“Hello, darling.  It’s Mom.  We are so excited to come visit New York at Christmas!  Are you excited?  Do you have our reservations confirmed?  Daddy wanted to call, but I told him that our big girl living in the big city could take care of things all by herself.  We’re just so proud of you, dear.  Do you carry that pepper spray we gave you for your birthday?”

Mom paused for a breath, and I felt the smile spread all over my face.  It may be totally uncool to have Midwesterners for family, but I adored my parents and was so looking forward to spending the holidays with them here, for the first time ever.  Since September 11^th, Mom and Dad thought New York was the center of all evil in the country, and that my daily commute was an obstacle course of muggers, terrorists, and flashers.  I’d tried to explain that security was in place, and New York was as safe as good old Columbus, Ohio.  They clung to their view of “The Big Apple,” as Dad insisted on calling it, though, and nothing was going to convince them any differently.  The pepper spray was stuffed in my desk drawer somewhere, because I’d been afraid I’d spray it in my own eyes if I ever tried to use it.

“Yes, Mom.  I’m very safe.  Your hotel is set; I just quadruple-checked your reservations this morning.  I’m sorry you can’t stay with me, but my roommates haven’t decided yet if they’re going out of town or not for the holidays.”

My three roommates had been friends in college and spent most of their time making me feel like an outsider.  They were nice enough, but every other sentence was an inside joke or gossip about some person I’d never met.  I would have minded more if we ever saw each other, but they were all serious party girls and my twenty-four/seven workaholic lifestyle meant I generally left for work around the time they got home.  They all worked as bartenders in various oddly-named clubs, like Puce and Redundancy.  I’d found them through a roommate-wanted ad.  The rent was reasonable enough and none of them were terrible slobs, so it was good enough for now.  Someday, though . . .

I sighed.

“What’s the matter, dear?  Would you rather come home for the holidays?  I can fix up your room for you.”  Mom wouldn’t hesitate to bail on plane tickets and reservations if she thought she could get me back to Ohio for some TLC. 

That’s Tender Love and Claustrophobia, in case you don’t have an overprotective mother.  Speaking of which, Claus-trophobia fits me in so many ways.  Is there a SantaClaus-trophobia?

I shook my head and laughed.  “No, Mom, I am not homesick, and I don’t want to come home to Ohio.  I was thinking about my roommates.  They’re a little tiring sometimes.”

“What’s wrong?  Are they dopers?  Are they crack addicts?”  My mother saying the word “dopers” has to be one of the funniest things in the world.  This is a woman who thinks you can overdose on Vitamin C and get high.  We mainlined orange juice in Ohio. 

“Yes, Mom.  It’s a problem when I keep tripping over their used needles in the morning.”

“What?”  Now she was hyperventiliating.

“Mom, Mom.  Calm down.  I was kidding.  They’re perfectly nice and definitely not dopers.  They just tend to leave decisions till the last minute.  I’ll probably find out on Christmas Eve whether or not they’re leaving town for the holidays.”

I took a sip of rapidly-cooling latte.  “What about you?  Are you packed?  Are you excited?”  Getting Mom talking about packing was a sure-fire way to distract her from the phantom drug dealers in my neighborhood.

“I’m almost packed!  I just need an evening gown – you know, just in case we decide to go to a ball while we’re there.  Did your sister call you?”

“Ball?  What ball?  Mom, I told you we would just be casual and hang out.  You definitely do not need an evening gown.  And, no, what’s up with Mindy?”

My sister was about eight months pregnant, due in late January, so there was no problem with my parents coming to visit at the holidays.  Well, no problem if you don’t count my brother’s wife, Trina, who was about seven months pregnant with twins.  Mindy and Trina had been playing a game of Whose Pregnancy Symptoms Are the Worst? for the past few months that was driving everyone else in the family insane. 

Dad said he’d actually left the dinner table during a discussion of whose Braxton-Hicks contractions were more painful.  (I don’t know – something about fake contractions that make you think you’re having the baby, but you’re not. They start tossing around phrases like cervical dilation and uterus and I tune out.  I mean, yuck.)

“Mindy’s having contractions.  The doctor said not to worry, they’re just those Haxton Bricks again.  Whatever those are.  I tell you, when I had you kids, there wasn’t all of this silliness.  You just went in, got drugged up, and pushed the baby out.”

My mom snorted.  “Can you imagine your father participating in a hot tub birth?  That’s Trina’s latest notion.  Your brother said he almost threw up watching the video.  No wonder, if you ask me.”

Mom wasn’t a big fan of natural childbirth.  Me, neither, if it ever came to that.  Do they have pregnancy tests that come packaged with the epidural?

“Mom, is everything OK?”

She sighed.  “Yes, dear.  It was just a little vomit.  Even your big baby of a brother can -”

“No, Mom.  Not Josh.  Is everything OK with Mindy?” 

“Oh.  Yes, she’s fine.  Everything is on track for January twenty-second.  You better believe I’ll be camping out in the hospital with her.  It’s going to be fun to be awake for an actual birth – I missed all of my own.”

The New Message counter on my screen flashed in my eyes . . . . 368, 369, 370 . . .  “Mom, I love you, but I have to get to work.  I have a kajillion e-mails to answer.  I’ll call you soon and we’ll confirm the details again.  I can’t wait to see you and Dad!  Love to Mindy and Trina and the babies.”

“Bye, honey.  See you soon.”

As I replaced the phone in its cradle, I grinned and shook my head.  My family is the least dysfunctional family I know.  No divorces, no drinking problems, no adultery, no nothing.  You’d think I had to be in denial, but we’re like some weird throwback to the Fifties.  None of my friends could believe I’d never been in therapy.   I almost felt left out enough to go find a shrink, until I calculated how many pairs of shoes I could buy with the cost of weekly couch sessions.  Trust me, I can lie down on my own couch and talk about my childhood, while I admire my well-shod feet.

I looked at the screen again.  No magical elves had cleared out my e-mail inbox while I talked to Mom.  I sighed again and glanced at my watch. 

Hey – almost lunch time.  I need to do my Christmas shopping. 

I logged off my computer, guilt seeping out of my pores, and snagged my bag from my desk drawer.  I still hadn’t found gifts for Mom and Dad, and they’d be here in ten days. 

As I lurked in front of the elevator doors, sneaking glances down the hall toward Selena’s office, I thought about what to get Mom that would scream I Heart NY and be fun for her to show off to all her friends.  She adored kitschy stuff, but I’d already splurged on the three-foot tall neon-orange lava lamp shaped like the Statute of Liberty for her birthday.  How could I top that?

“Leah!  Where are you going this time?  It’s harder and harder to find you at your desk these days!”  Selena had snuck up on me from behind.  What was she doing on that side of the hallway?

“Um, I . . . er, my parents are coming for the holidays and I thought I’d take an early lunch to do some shopping.  I was here until two this morning working on the PR plans, Selena.  It’s not really fair to -- ”

She cut me off with a Look.  “Again, Leah, any time you think you can’t handle this job, please let me know.  I’m sure I can find a qualified candidate.”

Just then, Howard’s secretary rushed into sight and hurried toward us.  “Selena, Selena.  Howard’s been trying to reach you about Alexis Day and her PR opportunity at the hospital.  He needs to see you in his office right now.”

Saved by the CEO.  Whew.

Selena speared me with a glance.  “Don’t think this conversation is over.  I’ll catch up to you later.  If you can be bothered to make it back to work after lunch.” 

She stalked off down the hall toward Howard’s secretary just as the Ding heralding the arrival of the elevator sounded.  Oh, fine.  Now it finally gets here.

* * *

I put my feet on automatic pilot and took off down Madison Avenue.  I planned on turning off toward Tiffany’s but had to fight my way out of the surging crowd of holiday shoppers.  One woman wearing a full-length fur and a rabid expression actually snapped at me when I crossed in front of her.  I started humming Tis the Season to be Greedy and kept walking.

In spite of my earnest words to Selena earlier – and they were the truth, I was woefully behind on my To-Buy list – I had to visit my necklace before I could even think of shopping.  I slowed my steps in front of the blue and white-draped window and sighed. 

There it was, in all of its sparkling glory.  It wasn’t the most expensive piece in the store – not by a long shot.  It wasn’t even the most beautiful.  But there was something about the tiny gold star, with a single diamond suspended in its center, that drew me hypnotically to the display window again and again.  Surrounded by bigger, bolder, and brasher pieces, my necklace was the Charlie Brown Christmas tree of jewelry.  A gossamer-light chain laced through the pendant, fragile as moonlight on Christmas Eve snow.  Fragile as hope; ephemeral as dreams.

I shook my head, impatient with my flight of poetic stupidity.  Dreams weren’t ephemeral, they were idiotic.  And I’d seen how well hopes worked out the last time I’d hoped for jewelry at Christmas.  I could still envision the shock on Mickey’s face when I mentioned the diamond ring I was so sure he’d gotten me for Christmas. 

“Ring?  But, but, we’re just having a bit of fun here, aren’t we?  I mean, the sex is fine and all, but it’s not like we want to settle down and make babies.  We’re not even thirty yet!”

The Sex Is Fine And All – what could ever top those immortal words of holiday cheer?

As I slumped further down inside my coat, trying to pretend my ears weren’t going to freeze and fall off any second in the December chill, a lightbulb flashed in my head. 

Sadly, it wasn’t a euphemism for a magnificent epiphany about the nature of love and loss.  It was an actual lightbulb.

A huge one. 

A flashbulb, to be exact.  On an enormous camera.  Right in my face.

Blinking through the giant purple and red spots obscuring my vision, I said, “What?”

I kept blinking, eyes watering, and one of the giant spots started to look like a man. 

It figures.

As my poor retinas struggled to focus, the photographer’s features came into view.  He leaned against the window, still holding the evil camera, and grinned at me.

“Sorry.  I didn’t mean to blind you.  Got caught up in the moment and forgot I had the super-sized flash on – to use technical photographer’s jargon.  It’s for the inside shots but, well, I saw you through the window and had to come outside and capture you.”

I blinked again, but this time from his words.  Did he just say he had to capture me? 

Thoughts of raiding space pirates danced through my head, as I gave him the quick no-I’m-not-really-checking-you-out once-over. 

Holy Artichoke Babes, the man is totally hot.

(OK, I really needed to quit thinking in phrases parodying my current books, but it was a hazard of the trade.)

From his tousled, sun-streaked dark hair (and trust me, with the fortune I pay at the hairdressers, I know the difference between real sun and the bottle – this guy was no Miss Clairol) to the tips of his scuffed boots, the man was a total yumfest.  He stared at me with green eyes the exact color of the emerald half-moon earrings I’d coveted last Christmas.

He pushed away from the wall and stepped nearer.  “Miss, are you OK?  Again, sorry about the flash.  But I really need to ask your permission to use you.”

Use me, oh, please use me.  My thoughts circled madly around the ways I’d love for him to do just that and – WHAM! -- my nipples got hard.

OK, so eight months without sex has turned me into a shameless nympho.  Any minute now I’ll be humping his leg like a crazed poodle.

I made some kind of weird gargling noise and pretended I was coughing.  “Er, Um, I mean, who are you, and what are you talking about?”

The Mad Flasher/User reached a hand out toward me, and I backed away fast, desperately rummaging around in my bag.

“Look, buddy, I warn you that I’m a native New Yorker, and I know how to use this.”  Triumphant, I closed my fingers closed around my weapon, whipped it out of my bag, and brandished it in front of his face.

There was a small silence, as we both looked at my spare bottle of deodorant.

He grinned again.  “I’m glad to know that.  I’d hate to have taken the picture of a stinky subject.  You smell pretty good from here, though.”

I shoved the Extra-Strength Super Dry back in my bag, feeling my cheeks blaze to the color of Santa’s suit.  “I was going for the pepper spray, but it’s actually back in my office drawer.  Anyway, you’re not going to accost me right here on the street, are you?  And what are you talking about with capturing and using?”

I glared at him when his grin widened.  Damn if he didn’t fill out those faded jeans really, really well, too.   (OK, I wasn’t only looking at his grin.  So sue me.)

“I was talking about your permission to use your photograph in a shoot I’m doing for the store.  Christmas at Tiffany’s and all that hoopla.  But I like the way you put it better.  Not the accosting part, but the capturing and using sounds . . . intriguing.”

He shifted his camera to his left hand and held out his right.  “Luke Mitchell.  Photographer.  Rude and insensitive flash-shooter-offer.  All-around nice guy.  And you are?”

“Annoyed.  Perhaps you could give someone warning before you take her picture?  What if I’d had some kind of heart condition, and that hideous flash caused me to have an infarction and die right here on the street?”  I folded my arms across my chest and glared at him.  Not that I really knew what an infarction was, but it sounded bad. 

Anyway, I had no time for this, no matter how gorgeous he was.  It’s not like he could be in serious contention as a dating prospect, either.  The timing was all off.  There were only twelve days until Christmas; not nearly enough time for him to date me and dump me on Christmas Eve.  Then it would be another entire year until next Christmas; way too much time for us to stay together so he could dump me by Christmas Eve.

Like every guy I’d ever dated had done.

Not that I’m bitter.

Luke broke into my calendar-centric musings.  “Well, you look pretty good for somebody who’s in imminent danger of infarcting, um . . .  I didn’t catch your name?”

“No, you didn’t, because I didn’t give it.  I don’t want to be part of your book or your hoopla, or whatever.  I’m a publicist; the last thing I need is to be part of somebody else’s publicity.  Sorry to be rude, but I have to go.”  I almost hated to cause the smile to fade from his lovely face, but I had to get back to reality.  I still hadn’t done any shopping, and Selena was undoubtedly sitting outside of my cubicle with her stopwatch.

As I turned away, he touched my arm.  “Look, I know I was rude, but I . . . I saw you staring at that necklace with a look of sadness on your face, and I felt it clear through to my gut.  That’s how I know when I capture the truth in a shot – I feel it in the pit of my stomach.”

“So, I’m like nausea?”  I tried to stop the smile twitching at the edges of my lips, but he saw it and muttered something.  (I could have sworn it was No, more like heartburn, but I might be wrong.)

“Look, Miss, um . . .”

“It’s Leah, OK?  Just Leah.”

“Look, Just Leah, the expression of longing on your face perfectly captures the essence of holiday shopping.  Or what holiday gift-giving ought to be about.  An Audrey-Hepburnesque innocence and wistfulness.”

“What?”  He had to be kidding.  Talk about PR-Speak – Hepburnesque??

He rolled his eyes.  “Hell, I don’t know what that means, either.  It was in the catalog copy, and I thought I’d give it a try.  My sister says women love that flowery stuff.”

I laughed.  “Nice try, but I’m afraid I can’t.  Good luck with your shoot.”

“At least take my card.  I’m in town for two weeks for this shoot and to visit my sister.  If you change your mind, or if you’d like to have a drink or dinner and talk about old Hepburn movies or something, give me a call.”  He pulled a crumpled card out of the pocket of his faded leather jacket and pressed it into my hand. 

I shook my head and opened my mouth to refuse, but he pressed his finger against my lips, then jerked it away, eyes widening as a tiny spark of static jumped between us.  It fireballed into a sizzling current of electricity that shot through my body all the way to my toes.  Every nerve ending on my body stood at attention.  All from one touch. 

Just think if we were naked, said the wanton seductress who lived deep inside my brain.

Yeah,I live  too deep inside your over-active brain.  Why don’t you let me out to play now?  I’ll bet this guy is off the charts on the Orgasmotron, said Seductress-Leah.

I felt heat shooting to my cheeks this time.  Luke still stood as if frozen in place, and then he slowly brought his finger to his mouth and pressed it against his own lips, as if he were tasting my mouth with his own.  The sensuality of it sparked the heat racing down to an area approximately in the center of my new silk panties. 

Gotta go, gotta go, my rational side said.

Wanna come, wanna come, the rest of me said.

I stuffed Luke’s card in my bag and took off, almost running, down the sidewalk.  I definitely didn’t have time to get flustered over a case of the lusts for some guy who was only in town for two weeks. 

What could it hurt, though, really? my rational side said.

“Traitor,” I muttered, as I shoved my way through the crowds and considered my worthless lunch hour.  I hadn’t bought any presents, and now I was going to be late for the afternoon staff meeting.

Deck the freakin’ halls.

Read A PUBLICIST AND A PEAR TREE in the SHOP ‘TIL YULE DROP anthology, coming from Dorchester Publishing in October, 2004!