Heart Note

by Cassandra O'Leary

  Heart Note: A Christmas romcom novella

  Spritzer Chicks, Volume 1

  Cassandra O'Leary

  Published by Cassandra O'Leary, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  HEART NOTE: A CHRISTMAS ROMCOM NOVELLA

  First edition. November 6, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Cassandra O'Leary.

  ISBN: 978-1386430445

  Written by Cassandra O'Leary.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Two weeks ago...

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt of Girl on a Plane

  Aussie slang and phrases in Heart Note

  About the Author

  Thanks to all the fabulous spritzer chicks who I worked with years ago, the women who instilled in me a love of fine perfume...but also a hatred of working retail hours. You rock!

  And to my husband. You have my heart, always.

  Two weeks ago...

  “I can’t do it.” I blinked and eyed the crowd seated before me. There was no need for me to be up here on a platform in front of them. All their eyes on me.

  I don’t want to do it. Please don’t make me.

  They were all staring at me. I ran my sweaty hands down my skirt, sneaky style. But I didn’t want to draw attention to my hips. I hugged myself around the waist.

  “Of course you can do it. Do I have a volunteer?” The mean-eyed corporate trainer with the beaky nose and badly fitting navy suit shrugged and let out a shrill laugh. “Trust. It’s crucial in a team environment.” She scanned the crowd looking for willing victims. No such luck.

  Beaky woman piped up again. “If I don’t have a volunteer, Lily here will fail the assessment. She won’t be able to start her new job.”

  “I don’t mind, really. I’ll do something else.” Anything else. A new job even. No worries...

  “Come on, people. I’m sure someone can catch her. She’s not that fat.” The horrible woman cackled.

  Oh. My. God.

  Boiling hot shame roiled through my belly and I bit my lip, hoping to slide right through the floor and into a parallel universe.

  And then it happened. Just like something out of a movie. He stood up in the middle of the rows of seats, all the new staff around him staring with expressions ranging from mild interest to obvious relief.

  I was nervous enough already, now he had to volunteer to help me like some sort of overly handsome dark knight to my damsel in distress. I was no damsel, but in distress? Check!

  He moved into the aisle and began a slow, silent march to the front of the room where I stood.

  If I fell, would he catch me?

  Would I want him to let go?

  Would I be too heavy and crash straight through his arms and onto the floor like a baby elephant?

  Questions raced through my mind as I stood tall and concentrated hard on a square air-vent on the far wall, with two evenly spaced steel bolts and a long line underneath. If I squinted, it almost looked like a smiley face. But I didn’t want to look all squinty. What if he took one look at my squinty face and sat down again?

  I glanced at him quickly, so as not to look like I was looking. But I was. He’d made his way almost to the front of the room.

  Oh no. He was coming this way. What was his name? I couldn’t remember. We’d all introduced ourselves briefly in a horrible ‘getting to know you’ game a few days ago, but it was a blur.

  He was so good-looking my tongue had gone all thick and rubbery. I couldn’t remember my own name. But his was Chris...something.

  Christos! That’s right.

  I stood on the podium in front of a room full of fresh-faced new retail staff, half perky and excited, half bored out of their gourds, staring at me as if I was a museum exhibit. Only Christos volunteered to help me. He volunteered to catch me. He sauntered towards my spot at the front of the room. My knees quaked. For real.

  Christos. A gorgeous Greek-god-like name for a gorgeous Greek-god-like man. Or a fallen angel, some sort of demigod. Or part demon maybe. I shook my head, the fanciful ideas getting in the way of the important work of real-life ogling. Today he was wearing a fine black wool sweater and dark denim jeans, which hugged some truly impressive thighs. I don’t know when I’d ever been impressed by a man’s thighs before, but I was now. Mightily.

  And I was staring with intent. I wouldn’t have had to spell out my intent, if it came to the point. I’m sure my goo-goo eyes conveyed the message, loud and clear.

  I remembered now, he would be a security officer at the same store where I was going to work. I snapped my eyes upwards before he arrested me for most likely illegal thoughts about a colleague... Not helping my distractedness. I could have dealt with Christos snapping handcuffs on my wrists.

  Yes, sir.

  He sauntered some more, coming right up to the baby-poo-brown carpet square in front of the podium, and me. Only about thirty centimetres separated us, but honestly it felt like less. A beat of my heart, no more.

  “Hi.” He said the short word with a depth of feeling and throatiness, leaving me temporarily speechless. His eyes were so dark. Penetrating. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded, furiously, so as not to give the wrong idea. The wrong idea being that I didn’t want him to catch me.

  The trainer, who I’d momentarily forgotten even existed, cleared her throat. “Right! Are we ready? As I was saying, trust is super important between team members. This exercise is a great bonding activity!”

  I don’t know why the woman was so excited about corporate training, but she was just so damned perky, or evil, I wasn’t sure which. I didn’t know whether to laugh or vomit. I settled for swallowing hard, ignoring the dry-throat syndrome Christos induced.

  He raised one eyebrow and quirked the corner of his mouth, sending me into a head spin I didn’t quite recover from before he spoke. “Turn around.”

  Whoosh! My underwear went up in flames.

  Okay, not quite, but I was worried the smoke alarm on the ceiling would go off. I did enjoy being bossed around by the right man.

  I turned on the podium so my back was to him. Suddenly, my spidey sense tingled. Or maybe it was my pheromones sparking with his. He was so close behind me I could feel his body heat emanating towards me, massaging the back of my neck. Or it could have been his fingers. Oh! It was his fingers.

  And his scent...honeyed cinnamon and lemongrass wrapped around my olfactory gland and made it very happy indeed. A good-looking and a good-smelling man—a rare and delicious combination.

  With a tap on my shoulder, he rumbled, “I’m right behind you.” His hands were gone. A whoosh of cool air followed.

  This was it.

  Crunch time.

  I had to trust Christos.

  I had to fall.

  I closed my eyes, scrunching my eyelids tight so not even a sliver of light got past them. I let my head tip back. My body dropped low and lax, my knees bent, my heart pounded in my ears. And I pushed off.

  I fell.

  Into his arms.

  His strong, reliable arms were wrapped around my waist. His chest was pressed to my back and oh, yes. He had me. But I was possibly having a heart attack.

&
nbsp; “My heart,” I said, and he smiled. Perfectly straight white teeth flashed at me, while some kind of rampantly handsome smile lines danced on his face.

  Dazzling. Dazzled. Dazed?

  Whatever the proper word for what I was feeling, I was in a kerfuffle. Understatement of the millennium.

  “I’m here,” he mumbled, only for my ears. “Trust me.”

  Oh, hubba hubba.

  Something warm and lovely swelled under my breasts. Maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Chapter One

  “Experience the rush of pure Christmas pleasure... Heart-mas.” Heart-mas, Heart-mas, Heart-mas...

  The words echoed, and were followed up by a thumpity, thump sound to mimic a heartbeat, then a screeching violin note to finish. The stupid ad played over and over again on the flat-screen TV monitor directly overhanging Harrison’s department store perfume counter.

  The same ad was playing on a whole wall of TV screens beside the escalators and the central gold-bauble-bedecked Christmas tree near where I stood. I was ready, perfume spritzer in hand, to spray any unsuspecting customers who came my way. I had now heard the ad approximately eleventy billion times since I started work here two weeks ago, and I tell you, familiarity breeds contempt.

  The video matched the voice-over in being annoying. It featured a wraith-like poppet of a supermodel in a low-cut, bright-red jumpsuit and reindeer antlers dancing in slow motion. She still managed to look fabulous.

  It wasn’t fair. If I wore the same outfit I’d look like an overgrown pre-schooler in a Christmas play with a slight weight problem. Not that I was fat, I was simply naturally endowed with ‘womanly curves and child-bearing hips’, as my gran used to say. Urgh.

  The Heart-mas scent was the big promotional drawcard of the season and we had been instructed to promote the hell out of it, whether we liked it or not. I did not. The top note of the perfume was suffused with something I can only describe as skanky old socks, while the middle note, or Heart Note, reminded me of blue cheese.

  I hadn’t been able to stand the scent on my skin for long enough to discover whatever the delightful base note could be. It didn’t improve on closer acquaintance. I spent a good ten minutes in the staff bathroom yesterday, scrubbing the offending odour from my wrist.

  I glanced across the cosmetics floor and my gaze was hooked on a vision of beauty. The Greek-Australian security guard, Christos. Causer of fake heart attacks and truly exceptional partner in trust exercises demanded by staff trainers.

  Hello! I squinted at him across the floor. I’d love to make his closer acquaintance. I sighed as he turned and strode off, talking on his walkie-talkie the whole time and looking important. His furrowed brow made him look both angry and sexy. Sexy-angry?

  Hello, Mr Sangry. At least he had something to do apart from make up new words.

  The day had started like any other day on the department store cosmetics floor, which was to say, slow as a wet week. It was only the start of November, but apparently it was Christmas time in retail land. Shoppers hadn’t quite caught on yet.

  So, at nine o’clock opening time, the polished marble tile floors echoed with the lonely clicks of spritzer-chick heels, as we roamed the department with perfume bottles and cards printed with images of roses or the curling script of the perfume’s name. Chicks like me, working their way through university or saving their pennies, one fragrant spritz at a time.

  My brand new black pencil skirt and slightly puffy white blouse were starchy and scratchy, but my make-up was expertly applied, eyebrows appropriately arched and unruly auburn curls tamed (for now) into swishy submission in a low ponytail tied with a black satin bow. Dare I say, the outfit actually looked good on me. It was a 1940s look, flattering my hips rather than accentuating any lumps and bumps. Paired with my Mary Jane heels, I thought it worked.

  I gave up on spritzing non-existent customers for now, and strolled back towards what I dubbed Perfume HQ. The square arrangement of glass and chrome counters surrounding a central column, cash register and wrapping area was a scent-lovers’ paradise. Hundreds of different perfumes were here from Paris, London, New York and around the world. All packaged in shiny boxes and glittering glass bottles. I loved it. I would have loved it more if it had been my own perfumery. One day, hopefully. It was my long-term goal.

  I craned my neck around the towering display of fragrance gift sets I had so carefully arranged yesterday. Perfectly wrapped and be-ribboned, resplendent in their Christmassy gold paper and red-velvet bows. The pyramid-shaped display on the low table in the aisle seemed precarious to me, but what did I know? I knew perfume, but I wasn’t the visual merchandising expert. She’d suggested it, so I’d gone along with the idea.

  Speak of the devil...

  Lynda ‘with a Y’ McCauley, Visual Merchandising Manager, was out and about. I noted heads ducking behind nearby make-up counters, staff pretending to rearrange stock in low cabinets. Hiding, basically.

  Lynda was not a woman to be crossed. She’d have you re-wrapping hundreds of already beautifully wrapped gift sets before you could say ‘management track control freak’.

  “Good morning, Petal. How are we today?”

  I narrowed my eyes an infinitesimal amount. I hated when Lynda called me Petal. Hated it with the loathing usually reserved for stinky-cheese perfume. My name was Lily Lucas, as she was well aware. The name tag pinned to my blouse stated my first name anyway. I blinked slowly and allowed a polite but non-committal smile to cross my dial. Maybe Lynda was being funny, trying to be my friend. I was the new girl, after all.

  Tilting my chin in her direction, I tried to strike up a conversation. “I’m fine, thanks. Just getting started on the new displays.” I waved my arm vaguely at the stack of newly arrived perfumes and body creams lying on the wrapping table behind me.

  Unfortunately, the gentle waving action of my arm sent a breeze rippling towards the pyramid-shaped stack of boxes, which were not, in fact, actual presents but pretend packages. They were quite hollow. Lightweight.

  They toppled and fell like a stack of dominoes, clunking on the table and down around my feet. I kept my eyes up, pressing my lips together to keep from laughing, or crying. As a final death knell, the Perspex sign behind the display fell down with a low wallop.

  I met Lynda’s accusatory eyes, steely grey and mean with it. She glanced down at the floor and muttered something under her breath, which may have been something derogatory about lazy retail workers. I crossed my arms over my stomach.

  Lynda looked up and leaned right over the counter, her claw-like hands gripping the chrome edge. Her jet black bob swung over the super-wide shoulder pads of her 1980s-style Chanel power suit. She partly bared her teeth in what may have been a smile. “I’m glad you said you’re just getting started, because the display wasn’t much good, was it? Piss. Weak. Do it again.”

  My stomach dropped and the delicious latte I’d downed on the walk to work turned sour and squelchy in my gut. Lynda was evidently in a mood, again. But I bit my tongue to stop myself swearing and surveyed the mess.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lynda turn and march off, clacking across the floor on her stunningly high Louboutins, towards the other new girls at the manicure bar.

  One of them, Petula, I’d met in training. She was a qualified hairdresser/make-up artist who looked like a Bollywood movie star. Petula caught my eye and raised her eyebrows in alarm. Petula...Petal... I think Lynda had me confused with the other new hire across the floor. At least I’d give Lynda the benefit of the doubt and assume so.

  With a sigh, I turned to the scattered boxes, plus the other pile of products to be arranged. My Thursday offsider, the reliable Gillian, would be in at ten, so she could help. But since I was the counter manager, I’d have to come up with the overall plan.

  The direction from Lynda had been vague, to say the least. “Festive. But not hideous with gold baubles everywhere.” Right.

  I lifted my head to examine the ceiling
decorations and couldn’t help but notice the sheer volume of gold baubles dangling overhead from garlands of pretend pine leaves. They threatened to fall and poke my eyes out any second.

  With my eyes trained above, I didn’t notice I’d stepped on a slippery satin ribbon, which skated across the floor, taking me with it.

  Woah!

  I let out a gasp and then an unladylike cry of pain as the hard floor met both my arse and the back of my head. Pleased to meet you, clunk. Likewise, crack!

  I stared up at the baubles and the lights above, blinking stupidly. I should get up. Really, I should. Only I suddenly wanted to curl into a ball right there and have a little nap.

  I sat up part-way, leaning on my elbows. I grabbed a handful of perfume spritz cards that were by my side.

  “Problem?”

  The gruff and quite frankly lady-parts-spasm-inducing voice of senior security guard and all-round hottie, Christos, caused me to drop the pile of spritzer cards. They fell to the floor like a randomly shuffled deck of cards. I was feeling pretty randomly shuffled too, when I glanced up and met his eyes.

  He was all stunning in a Zeus-like way, clad in a perfectly fitted grey suit and white shirt (courtesy of the men’s fashion department on the fourth floor). His brown eyes reminded me of half-melty chocolate buttons. Of course he had the type of thick, velvety looking hair I itched to run my hands through. I stared. I couldn’t help it.

  “Baubles,” I babbled.

  “Excuse me?” Christos arched one dark, manly eyebrow. It really was manly. He had a thoughtful expression on his face too, like the famous sculpture, The Thinker. You know, the naked, muscular one? Anyway, Christos had his Thinker face on and I paused to admire him. He tilted his head to one side and waited me out.

  Then he reached over and extended an excessively masculine hand in my direction. I grabbed hold and warmth wrapped around me. I let him help me to my feet because I couldn’t manage in my tight skirt. I didn’t mind the excuse to touch him, either. I stumbled, grabbing hard onto his forearm before I righted myself and leaned back against the counter.