SEVEN WAYS TO LOSE YOUR LOVER
copyright Alesia Holliday, Berkley Sensation, 2006

Chapter 1

In case you’ve ever wondered, desperation smells exactly like purple passion fruit warming body oil.  Fruity and a little rancid. 

I stood next to the sixty-four cases of virulently purple bottles and wondered again why I’d ever thought moving to New York was a good idea.  Then, soul-searching moment for the day over, I called for answers.  “Solstice?  Why do we have sixty four cases of this stuff?  I asked you to order sixty-four bottles, not cases.”

Solstice wandered into the cramped back room, weaving her way around the stacks of boxes and racks of delicate silken lingerie, biting her lip and blinking. 

Solstice -- real name Susan – was my assistant manager.  (Midwesterners who migrate to the City tend to rename themselves.  I’m not really sure why.  Adopted personas manifesting as symbols of surreal expectations?  Or just the grownup version of announcing “My new name is Princess Jessica” over your breakfast cereal?)

Solstice twirled a strand of blue hair past her multiply-pierced ear.  You shouldn’t judge a book by its pierced and tattooed cover, but her overall look was a cross between Goth grunge and flower child.  Which somehow, on her, worked.

“Um, huh?  What stuff?”

I sighed and rolled my eyes, praying for patience -- or at least the restraint not to grab her by the beaded camisole and shake her.  “The stuff.  The DreamGlow passion fruit body warming lotion.  Didn’t you notice when the delivery came that it was a little bit more than our usual order?”

Solstice glanced at the boxes.  “Oh, yeah.  Well.  I was kind of on the phone when it came, dude.  Why’d you order so much?”

“I didn’t – I just said – oh, forget it.”  I rubbed my temples, hoping that DreamGlow had a vendor-friendly returns policy.  It would take five years for us to sell sixty-four cases of that stuff.  And I was racking up the screw-ups pretty fast lately, for somebody who wanted to own her own boutique some day.  We won’t even go into the brilliant “buy matching lingerie for your pet” idea.  Evidently only a few high-profile celebs think dressing up their dogs is a good idea. 

Of course, the seven dollar and thirty-four cent balance in my savings account isn’t helping with the business-owner dream, either.

Luckily, Mrs. P was taking some time off.  Maybe I could fix it before Sensuality’s tiny whirlwind-of-energy owner came back to work.  At seventy-three, she had more energy than I did, even on one of my triple latte days.

The front door chimes rang.  “Helloooo, dears!  I’m baaa-aack.  Did you miss me?”

Solstice grinned and rushed out to meet Mrs. P and, probably, tell her all about the overflowing bounty of body oil.  I clenched my teeth and did a slow ten-count, then trudged after her.  Mrs. P was the closest I’d come to family for a long time.  I hated to let her down.

Again.

Even reeking of passion fruit-flavored desperation, I had to smile when I reached the front of the shop.  I’d spent the past four years turning Sensuality into a shopper’s paradise – lingerie in a rainbow of  rich fabrics and textures, quirky and unique gifts, and a carefully-selected assortment of products to help today’s busy woman celebrate her own sensuality.  The walls were painted with a warm and glowing shade of darkest peach, and the lighting was the closest I could get to candlelight without invoking that pesky fire code.  All designed to make the shopper look and feel her best in our store.

(Okay, I sound like our website.  So sue me.  I designed that, too.)

It was the closest I’d ever come to having something of my own, and I didn’t want to lose it.  At least, not until I was ready to leave on my own terms, walking straight from here to my very own boutique.

“Uh, oh.  Shane’s got that dreamy look on her face again.  Either she’s dreaming up a new promotion to make my store even more successful, or she got lucky last night!”  Mrs. P’s voice broke into my reverie, and I felt the tips of my ears turn red as she and Solstice giggled.  She was the exact age grandma would have been, but the contrast between Gran’s homespun homily and Mrs. P’s city sophistication was like apples to apple martinis.

No “housecoats” here.  My boss was a tiny, white-haired walking fashion statement.  Today she favored a gossamer-thin sapphire blue overshirt over an emerald-green dress.  She couldn’t wear her beloved high heels any more, per doctor’s orders, so she’d ordered a few dozen pairs of sneakers to be specially designed, heavy on the bling.  She wore the pair embossed with green Swarovski crystal peacocks today. 

I glanced down at my jeans and simple tank top and wondered when my sense of style for the business would carry over into my personal style.  Or, really, when I’d gain a sense of personal style. 

Any.  At all.

“Shane never gets lucky, Mrs. P, she lives for the store, don’t you know?” Solstice said, making me cringe.  “If I had that cute, all-American thing going on like she does, I’d get lucky all day long.”

I walked over to the best boss I’d ever had and gave her a big hug, shooting a scowly face at Solstice over Mrs. P’s shoulder.  “How was Florida?  Was your sister in St. Augustine glad to see you?”

Mrs. P. hugged me back, then laughed.  “I think she was glad to see my backside walking out the door, honestly.  She acts like an old woman, and she’s two years younger than me!  Just because I wanted to walk all around the city and the Fort for a bit, you’d think I’d dragged her on a forced march.”  She set her enormous purse down on the sales counter, bright eyes scanning the room for changes, problems, or the tiniest speck of dust, knowing her.

I folded my arms across my chest and grinned at her.  “Um, a ‘bit of a walk’?  This wasn’t one of your ten-hour days, was it?  In the hot Florida sun?”

She wouldn’t meet my gaze, but I could see the corners of her lips twitching.  “Let’s just say that the sight of the alligators ripping their lunch apart at the alligator farm, combined with the hundred-degree heat, may have been a bit much for her.  I may not be invited back for years.”

“Like, why’d you go to Florida in September, anyway?  Isn’t that a winter thing to do?”  Solstice said, moving to the side of the door to let three women enter the store.  Tourists.  All of them clutching cameras and shopping bags.  I did a mental eye roll, from the lofty superiority of my almost four-year tenure as a New Yorker. 

As tempting as it was to use the shoppers as an excuse to avoid mentioning the body oil problem, I put on my responsible store manager hat and motioned Mrs. P. to follow me into the back room.  “Solstice, you’ll stay and help these ladies find what they need, right?”

“Sure,” she replied, meandering over to the one carrying the most shopping bags.  Solstice may be on a different plane of existence from most people most of the time, but she has an uncanny knack for parting shoppers with lots and lots of money.  Which is why she’s assistant manager.

Mrs. P brushed by me, carrying her things, and looked around with a distracted air.  “Right.  Well, Shane, we need to talk.  I’m afraid we have a big problem.”

“I know.  I just got here and found the boxes.  Don’t worry at all; I’ll fix it.  I’m sure DreamGlow will be glad to take the return.  It’s all unopened, and it’s not like we kept it hanging around for eight months and then tried to send it back.  I’ll--”

She cut me off, looking puzzled.  “DreamGlow?  What are you talking about?”

“The body oil.  We got sixty-four cases instead of sixty-four bottles, and I’m really sorry, but I think there was a mix-up with the order.”  I never, ever blamed Solstice for anything when talking to Mrs. P, because I was in charge and should be the one to take the blame. 

At least, that’s what Good Shane thinks.  Bad Shane wants to sit on the floor and screech that it’s not my fault.  Maybe with a little kicking and floor-pounding thrown in, for good measure.  Repressed toddlerhood trying to rear its red-faced head? 

I shoved the silly pop psychology out of my head and focused on Mrs. P.

She waved her hand dismissively.  “Oh, no problem.  Stuff like that has happened to me more times than I want to count.  No, this is a really big problem.  My darling Lizzie needs help.”

“Lizzie, your niece?”  I asked.  Lizzie, who makes movie stars and pop princesses look like amateurs when it comes to shopping?

I’d heard stories about Lizzie, but never met her, which was fine with me.  I had zero in common with a trust-fund socialite.

Mrs. P dumped a pile of royal-blue satin garters off of a chair and sat down.  “Yes, my only niece.  My late brother’s girl.  She’s in a terrible pickle, I’m afraid.”

I leaned against the corner of the desk and looked at her.  “What’s wrong?” 

She sighed.  “She’s involved with an awful man, and she can’t find a way to break up with him, the poor girl.  She’s too delicate for direct confrontation.”

The Lizzie Winstead-Smythe I routinely saw on Page Six seemed to be about as delicate as an out-of-work fashion model at a sample sale, but I figured it would be better not to mention that.

“Well, I’m sorry she’s in a bad relationship, but . . . um . . . I guess I don’t understand what that has to do with me.” I said.

“You have to fix it,” she said, perched on the edge of her chair and smiling up at me.

My mouth fell open a little, but I snapped it shut.  Last time I checked, fixing Mrs. P’s niece’s love life was so not in my job description.  Dealing with an overstock on body oil?  Check.  Lizzie’s bad boyfriend?  Not so much.

I tried to explain this in a tactful way.  “I don’t – I’m not sure I understand—“

She made a little tch tch sound.  “Of course you understand.  You see, I know all about you.  You’re The Breakup Artist.”

And here I thought passion fruit body oil was all I had to worry about . . .

Copyright 2006 Alesia Holliday, Berkley Publishing