The Peppermint Schnapps Predicament

by Clare London

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  FRANKIE

  BILL

  FRANKIE

  BILL

  FRANKIE

  BILL

  FRANKIE

  BILL

  FRANKIE

  About the Author

  By Clare London

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  The Peppermint Schnapps Predicament

  By Clare London

  Frankie Faraday is a promising young salesperson at Mason’s Emporium. Bill Mason is his boss, the son of the store’s founder, and the object of Frankie’s long-suffering, deeply devoted crush. Bill is steady and sober; Frankie is frivolous and flaky. Or so they seem to each other, until the night of the annual inventory, when they’re trapped together in the Seasonal Gifts storeroom, with nothing but candy and peppermint schnapps to sustain them until they’re rescued. And then the real truths—and something definitely more intimate—emerge!

  To Lillian, for channeling Frankie so well.

  FRANKIE

  I GUESS you might say my current predicament is punishment for my sins.

  What sins? you ask, amazed that a cute twink like me with such angelic features and a sweet, sunny disposition could be so debauched.

  Oh, but I admit it! I throw my hands in the air and proclaim my dissolution. This afternoon, Greed and Lust led me to a moment’s weakness, yet who can blame me? It’s Friday, it’s later than the usual clocking-off time because of the annual inventory at Mason’s Emporium—here in the Seasonal Gifts and Festivities department—and it’s the end of a too-long, loathsome week in retail. Why wouldn’t I look for some distraction and delight to lift my weary spirits?

  As usual, my eyes were drawn irresistibly to Bill Mason, manager of SG&F, son of the original founder of the store, and my current supervisor. All hail the Supreme Being of Boy Crushes, who obviously influenced the staff rota on my behalf! Bill Mason, a Channing Tatum lookalike right down to the mischievous smile, and not forgetting to linger on the very finest musculature, all wrapped in an appealing package of checked flannel shirt and ass-hugging jeans. Bill Mason, always strong, steady, and self-disciplined, with a bossy bark to his minions that fair makes my balls clench in ecstatic fright. Bill Mason, working so close to me while we check inventory that I can smell the shampoo he uses—masculine and musky, just like him—and occasionally brush my hand against his brawny body on the pretext of helping carry a box or two. Or four, in his case. Oh, see those biceps strain.

  When Bill strode off to the overflow storeroom at the back of the warehouse, I—poor infatuated fool that I am—trotted after him like a sheep, blithely shackled for shearing. I shuffled into the room virtually on his heels, so when he turned to catch the door, I got in his way. Like, right up in his face, much to his righteous shock. By the time we’d done the yelp of surprise from him and the “Sorry! Sorry!” from me, the door had slammed shut behind us.

  And now I’m in The Predicament. Just like I said before, although in a rather roundabout way. There’s no door handle on the inside, you see. It fell off last week and Mikey from Maintenance hasn’t gotten around to fixing it yet, with Christmas being our busiest season and all. Besides, everyone in the warehouse knows to keep the door propped open when they use this particular room.

  Except me, obviously.

  Oh, Mr. Disturbance and Subversion, that’s me.

  And looks like I’ve brought Bill Mason down to my level.

  BILL

  SHIT!

  How the hell did I get stuck in the store room with Frankie Faraday?

  Not content with stepping on my damn heels when I was shifting the boxes of giant blue baubles into position, he then let the door close behind us. Didn’t have the common sense to keep out of my way or shift something against the frame to keep the door open.

  All I could do was watch the last sliver of light from the main warehouse vanish through the gap. Then it slammed shut. Frankie was far up into my personal space, head bobbing between me and the door, a wide, startled expression on his face as he realized what was happening. Not so much a deer in headlights as a faun in the spotlight. His mouth in a perfect O, his groomed eyebrows in a V of confusion—yeah, a whole alphabet of disaster.

  Shit! Again.

  I feared he was going to be trouble the minute he volunteered for the inventory. Not that Mason’s is homophobic, sexist, ageist, or against lively, chatty young guys wearing eyeliner and purple glitter varnish. They have their place—just not in the stockroom on one of the busiest and toughest-working days of the store’s year.

  And now we’re in this predicament.

  And it’s all Frankie’s fault.

  You think he’d know how we operate by now—he’s been at Mason’s for over a year—though I admit he’s been a godsend on the shop floor. No one knows as much about the products as he does, and the customers love that chatty attention. And for some reason I wasn’t previously aware of, sales of fluffy tree ornaments have doubled in just one month. Then one of the girls pointed out it might be because Frankie’s been wearing one of the baby reindeer on the lanyard around his neck—against company policy, I hasten to add. At one stage there were rumors he was chatting to it. When I asked him to remove it, the rest of the staff looked aghast, as if I’d suggested disemboweling the guy. And probably the baby reindeer as well.

  Good grief. I’m just trying to run an efficient business here.

  And who knew Frankie would be dogging my heels like a puppy for the whole of today? A very cute puppy, admittedly, with those mischievous blue eyes and that special, cutesy spin on his heels when he crosses the warehouse floor. Those dreadful but ridiculously amusing stories he tells, and the way he alliterates everything he can. So damn melodramatic! Waves his hands all over the place. Giggles. I ask you! Who giggles beyond the age of six? Cute eyes, admittedly. Did I say that before? And then there’s that tantalizing smell of lemon soap that seems to waft around after him like a trailing cloud of fresh, flaky fruitiness….

  Jesus. The alliteration is contagious.

  Anyway, now we’re locked in a room barely bigger than a cupboard together. Alone.

  He’s still staring at me, as if he’s waiting for me to…. What? Magic up a key from somewhere? Or, more usefully, an ax?

  He flinches, his eyes blinking too fast, and a flush appears on his cheeks. Jesus, did I say that aloud? He runs a hand through his hair. Delicate fingers. No decent strength in those wrists, I’d bet. It makes his hair tumble softly over his forehead, despite the product I’m sure he puts on it. Or maybe the product is there to make it look that way.

  A waft of that soap teases my nose. Very fresh.

  Shit. And I said that a hundred times already, right? I bet he cries easily. Bet he blubs like a baby when he realizes we’re stuck in here. Oversensitive kid like him, I can so easily see him panicking.

  I thump on the door a few times, yelling for someone to come and open up, but I can’t hear anything going on out there. Nothing but silence, in fact. What’s that all about?

  And, just like a bolt from the blue, I remember I said the rest of the staff could clock off early.

  FRANKIE

  “MR. MASON, are you crying?”

  “Jesus, of course not.”

  Bill has gone very pale, and his eyes look suspiciously shiny. It’s startling, when he’s usually so bronzed and beaming with health. It happened very quickly, as if a Shocking Thought had suddenly hit him. He’s breathing way too quickly for my liking.

  “Look, there’s no need to panic,” I say.

  “Am not!” he barks back.

  You a
re so, I think, but who am I to take pleasure in another’s visit to the self-denial department? I’m just concerned for him.

  “Sorry. I just… I don’t like confined spaces,” he says, all nicely gruff.

  “Sit down and rest a minute.” I pull over a packing case that’ll do as a seat and brush off the dust. I hover near him as he sits down heavily. “Someone will come and let us out in a minute. They’ll soon notice we’re missing.”

  He snorts. “I don’t think so.”

  “All right, no need for rubbing salt in this minor minion’s wound. They’ll notice you’re missing and track you to the store room.”

  “No, you don’t understand. They won’t.” His skin’s regaining some color, but there are beads of sweat on his forehead, and those grim yet gorgeous green eyes are still troubled. “I told them they could go home when we finished the baubles. I was bringing the last boxes in here for storage.”

  “Them? You mean the packers?”

  “And the office staff. Supervisors. Even the cleaners.”

  Deep breath, Frankie. Let me clarify this conundrum. “You mean everyone else in the warehouse will have gone by now?” I knew we’d almost finished, but… they’ve gone already? Meanwhile, Bill’s taking my question as rhetorical—or he’s too deeply pissed off to reply—as I’m met with stony silence. “Well, someone may still be dragging their heels out there. My turn to call.”

  Bill’s answering look is very fierce, like he thinks I’m a total idiot, but while there’s life, right? However, even with my ear pressed to the door, I can’t hear any noise from outside in the warehouse, nor can I see any shadow of movement in the tiny gap at the bottom of the door. Despite that, I cry “Help!” and pummel my fists against the solid wooden surface as if hammering for my life.

  “Jesus. Put some effort into it, why don’t you? You’re stroking the damn thing like it’ll bite you.” Bill’s gruff words are right next to my ear. I didn’t hear him approach. Must be the sweat I’d worked up, affecting my delicate hearing. He nudges me aside and beats on the door for a few minutes more. The noise is astoundingly loud compared to my modest knocking, but I stay close by, for moral support. Or to watch the play of Bill’s muscles across his shoulders, and the corded veins along his forearms.

  Be still, my hopeful heart!

  But we both know the staff leave work on a Friday night with the speed of a meteor falling.

  After a tense moment’s silence—and some titillating, shallow panting—he asks testily, “Don’t you have a cell?”

  “Of course I do.” I have an extremely attractive cell, as it happens, in a sparkly paisley cover, with a generous selection of apps. I’m also extremely well connected on all forms of social media. It’s just… “It’s in my jacket, back in the office.”

  Bill glares at me.

  I clear my throat. “What about yours?”

  He’s still glaring, but I didn’t miss the flicker of distress across his face. “In my office. Also. I didn’t bring it to inventory taking because all the people I needed to deal with were already here.”

  “But now they’re not.”

  “No. They’re not.” His grumpy reply is more like a growl.

  Well. I suppose it must be said. “I’m desperately sorry. This is all my fault.”

  “That’s okay,” Bill says, fairly graciously. But from his expression, it’s so patently not. “I expect the night staff will find us eventually.”

  “How long do you think…?”

  His body tenses, and not for any excitingly sexy reason. “No damn idea. The security staff come on shift at ten.”

  “Ten?” That must have sounded squeaky because he winces.

  “We rely on the cameras until then. And there’s usually someone working late—”

  “Like you,” I say softly and blush. Me? Stalking his whereabouts at all hours?

  “Yeah.” He lets a sigh escape, just a small, tight one. “After ten, one of the guys will make a regular circuit of the whole building. They’ll be sure to find us then.”

  I risk a quick peer at his overall demeanor. The panic seems to have abated. The anger has deflated like a burped balloon.

  “Are you expected anywhere else tonight, Mr. Mason? Wife? Children?” Fishing much?

  There’s a brief pause. “No.”

  “I just wondered—”

  “Best make ourselves comfortable,” he all but barks at me. I can’t help the shiver, but he probably thinks it’s to do with the air in here. Cool is a good strategy when you’ve got boxes of consumable treats and delicate decorations. Not so great for trapped employees dressed in delicate fabrics. My nipples are already nudging the front of my shirt.

  Bill turns away from me to stare at the door. Right. Message sent and received. I’m not that oblivious to my inferiority. He is my boss, remember?

  I just have to keep my nerve. Probably need to watch my mouth. Let’s face it, there aren’t many parts of my body I have complete control over. But this is a serious situation—my whole career, nay, my life, could rest on this! I will resist my usual embarrassing trick of gabbling my life history to anyone who stays still long enough to listen.

  Pas de problème. As they say in gay Par-ee.

  No problem at all.

  BILL

  I WONDER if Frankie has a battery compartment I can turn off?

  “…And Auntie Veronica said there were vacancies at Mason’s Emporium, and Mr. Mason Senior was such a gentleman to his customers, she’d put in a good word for me. That was a rewarding and robust fifteen months ago, you know, or did I say? Oh heavens, not that you’re not a gentleman, that wasn’t meant as any kind of aspersion on the next generation, my whole family has total respect for the Mason hierarchy—”

  “That’s—” I attempt to interrupt and fail.

  “—and then the interview process was just perfect for me, have you ever heard that from HR? I meant to drop them a formal email with bullet points but, to be honest, I’m always so busy, especially at this time of year. But I shop here myself so often, you see, and so I could talk about almost any department with full enthusiasm—”

  “Yeah?” I’ll bet.

  “—and it’s just my way, to throw myself into work when I’m coping with a dire disappointment, whether the loss of my previous job at that call center—I mean, who really wants quantity over quality?—or those romantic troubles I had with the restauranteur who actually turned out to work at my local kebab stand. I’d always wondered why his cologne smelled so strongly of chili, if you know what I mean, and have I already told you about his weird way of—?”

  “Yes. Please. No more.” It surprises me to see my hand clapped over his mouth. He’s still talking, his lips soft and warm against my palm. After a startled second, he flushes and nods, and I take my hand away.

  “Sorry. I gabble when I’m nervous. God, how mortified am I?”

  I’m assuming that’s rhetorical, but I smile to show I didn’t mean to be rude. For the record, I don’t know how it happened—you know, how Frankie ended up sitting close to me on the packing case with his head virtually resting on my shoulder. There are several other packing cases he could have used.

  Not that I’ve raised any complaint. He wriggles too much, but the pressure from his leg against my thigh, the soft brush of those fresh-smelling curls against my cheek, the brief gusts of breath on my neck when he turns his head….

  No. No complaint. Maybe I’m already going stir-crazy.

  “We should look for something to help us,” he says suddenly, jumping up so quickly the case rocks. “What’s in all the boxes? Not just baubles?”

  “No. Um. There are other seasonal gifts. Candies. Chocolate. Toys.”

  “Uh-huh.” Frankie’s rummaging through some of the boxes. “Food, that’s good. Though we should continue to hammer on the door every hour or so, in case someone comes by. We can’t afford to be left here overnight. The supplies may run out.”

  “Supplies?” Overnight? I reali
ze I have no idea how long we’ve been here so far. No clock, no cell phone, no concept of time passing. Should I have been logging the minutes with scratches on the wall?

  “Are you panicking again?” he asks, a hand on my arm. “Look what I’ve found.”

  I know it’s just a distraction technique, but I feel absurdly grateful. He has an open box of crispy chocolate Santas, and he’s shredding the paper off them like he’s stripping the whole cast of Magic Mike Live.

  “Frankie, are you eating the stock?”

  His words are mumbled around a Santa’s head. “Well, I don’t know about you and your fancy expense-account meals, Mr. Mason, but I’m starving. And I’d rather eat these than starve to death in a moldy old storeroom.”

  “Starve to death?” I said he was melodramatic, didn’t I?

  He gives one of those graceful shrugs but quickly drops his gaze to another box. “Oh my God, look what else is here!”

  “The Healthier Living gingerbread house,” I read. There’s a huge box full of them between the baubles and the opened box of Santas.

  “You know that range was never gonna sell, don’t you?” he says as he unwraps one.

  “Oh yeah?”

  He holds it up with fingertips, his pert little nose screwed up as if it’s something gruesome from a local dumpster. “That dull, muddy shade of cookie dough? Without any colored button sweets or marshmallow frosting? What fool thought that would attract customers at this time of year?”

  Silence for an awkward second, probably as he realizes what he’s said.

  “Me,” I say. “That fool would be me.”

  “Oops. My big mouth again.”

  “Inventory is a tricky system to get right,” I admit grudgingly. “Especially on stocking stuffers.”

  “Heavens, yes. Finding goodies to stuff—” He pauses for a millisecond, a too-innocent gaze on me. “—into a stocking can so often be tricky.” And then he outright giggles.