My Secret Santa's Secret Baby

I’d never worn perfume before, only able to appreciate it from afar or by way of the samples left in the fashion magazines I would secretly read at the library. It wasn’t that it was too expensive, particularly, for what it was. At least, that wasn’t the entire reason.

My folks were of the opinion that anything that was made by humankind to explicitly try and improve on divine creation was blasphemy. This included fancy clothes, perfume and make up, all of which dad thought were the exclusive domain of whores.

He often said he would be drawn and quartered by stampeding horses before he saw his beautiful daughter go down that sinful road. It was quite a production. The level of his traumatic performance reached Shakespearean levels. I could see him as King Lear, raging impotently against the storm, carrying much the same effect since I’d moved to the other side of the country.

The sensation came on suddenly. I felt an irresistible burst of raw, gleeful naughtiness as I sprayed a bit of the fragrance onto me right then and there. It wasn’t much.

I’d always heard not to put on too much perfume. It could make you very unpopular if you did. So, I just dabbed a bit on the tip of my finger and caressed it along the sides of my neck. Still, it was thrilling.

It felt interesting. Light and wet. I really didn’t have anything in my experience to compare it to, so it was an altogether new sensation.

Getting to work before most of the other employees had arrived, I got far into the manuscript. The process was assisted to no end by the fact that the story actually became genuinely engrossing in the last few chapters. I was actually edging on desperation to find out how it ended.

For all his indelicacies regarding sex and his liberal use of graphic violence, the author really did know how to craft a satisfying ending. A fact which went a long way in explaining why every one of his books spent nearly a year in the Top 10 of the New York Times bestseller list.

I was driven, shaken and moved all at the same time. As well as glad I’d gotten through the entire thing as fast as I did, with copious notes and everything.

Taking a moment to reset my mental gears, I set aside the manuscript and booted up my computer and prepared to write up my analysis, recommending that the company accept the book.

Despite the fact that Pigeon had been the author’s North American publisher for the last decade, it was far from a foregone conclusion that they would purchase this manuscript. There was no overarching contract. Every submission the department received got a separate deal, or not.

It was one of the ways that Simon managed to keep profits so high. Other publishers and even departments within the Pigeon building gave authors multi-book contracts. The problem with such an approach was there was no way to guarantee consistency, either in the quality of the work or with the tastes of the reading public.

Doing it Simon’s way made as sure as it was possible to be that a book was likely viable before the publishing process began. There were a few close shaves but the department, under his command, had never had a major flop.

This was something that not even the most successful producers in Hollywood could honestly claim. ‘Books are dead,’ my royal Scottish arse (or at least according to my father’s lore.)

Working with a laser focus worthy of a champion programmer, I had the report finished just before 3:00. The rhythm of the printer was music to my ears as it dished out the pages.

I might have gone a bit overboard with what I had written, but I was so excited about the book that I just couldn’t stop. Nor did I see anything that didn’t seem absolutely vital during my multiple attempts at cutting back my report. Though that could have said more about me than the seemingly stellar quality of my prose.

Gathering the pages all up together, I put one of those paper clamps on the upper left-hand corner. Sam had informed me that staples had been banned from the building sometime before I was born, following a very costly worker’s comp settlement.

With a breath of courage to settle my rioting nerves, I headed for Simon’s office to deliver my handiwork. My heart was pounding, and, despite the inopportune timing, my panties were drenched.

“Come in,” he called, in response to my rapping upon his chamber door.

It could well have been my imagination, but it seemed as though he was checking out my breasts. It was no great surprise, since most guys I encountered did that, out of shock at their sheer size, if nothing else.

Simon’s look was something new, though. Not puzzled or even ogling but admiring. It was as if he was looking at me purely for the aesthetic value, like I was a beautiful statue carved out of marble.