by Clare London
“Excellent, Mr. Faraday.”
And then there’s a loud knock on the door.
There’s a second of shock; then we scrabble to stand. I’m buttoning my shirt back on as I yell out for help, and I can hear people pushing on the door. Apparently, something’s making it stick. A female voice gives a cry. A man snorts. But the door opens eventually. At the very last minute, Frankie grabs my arm and gestures wildly at my groin. Dammit, I left my fly open! I fumble to zip myself up.
“Thank God!” cries Emma, Dad’s PA. She’s silhouetted in the doorway, her eyes wide behind her latest designer specs. “We’ve been looking everywhere!”
“You missed me?”
She has the grace to flush. “Not exactly. Mr. Mason Senior was angry—well, you were late for the monthly budget presentation supper. Did you forget it was tonight? Anyway, we came looking for you. Terry here knew you’d been taking inventory.”
“How did you find us?” Frankie breaks in eagerly. “Did someone hear our hammering on the door? I suppose the police will have been called. My family will have filed a missing person report, I’ve been absent from social media for so long—”
“Three hours, Frankie,” I murmur in his ear. “We’ve only been in here three hours.”
Terry snorts again. “Nah, it was none of that. There’s a dirty great puddle oozing out under the door, stinking of toothpaste—”
“The schnapps!” Frankie hisses in my ear with glee.
“—and scraps of something in the puddle caught my torch. Metallic. Glinting.”
“A knife?” Emma all but yelps. She reads far too much crime fiction.
“Nah.” Terry holds out his hand, a pile of what looks like rubbish in his palm. “Silver paper. A bloody ton of it, all torn into bits.” He grimaces and tries to shake it off. “Sticky. Foul.”
“A coded message to attract our attention?” Emma asks breathlessly.
“No. Crispy Santa wrappers,” I reply sharply. “Did you expect us to starve to death?” Frankie squeezes my arm and makes a strange, strangled noise like he’s trying not to laugh.
“The chocolate ones? Is the stock compromised?” Emma looks briefly disappointed. “I think Mr. Mason Senior had plans to make them a Tasty Feature of the Week.”
“That’s a great idea. They’re definitely that.” My eyes cut to Frankie.
I wink.
His eyes widen, he flushes—and he starts giggling.
FRANKIE
I SUPPOSE you’re looking for a happy-ever-after epilogue sort of thing? Auntie V always sighs deeply at the end of a romance novel and delicately wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. That’s the sign of her greatest satisfaction.
Mine?
I’m standing in the Seasonal Gifts and Festivities department of Mason’s Emporium, supervising the hanging of banners announcing our New Year sale. Most of the stores in town run the gamut of sales and discounts from January through to December. But Mason’s will be holding a proper, credible, heart-lifting, value-for-money promotion.
I know, because I’m in charge of it.
I also know there will be none of those damn gingerbread houses in the sale. I donated them to the local playgroup, along with packets of cake topping and sugar for icing. Let those little horrors run riot with them! It’s the only way they’ll ever be edible.
The update on Mason’s? The inventory system has been overhauled. Many new product ranges will be starting next season, all of them appropriately classy and of the quality Mason’s should expect. Staff will be regularly and fully briefed about any changes, and also on the new performance-related bonus scheme. I also suggested to Bill an Employee of the Month campaign would be both beneficial and motivational. He suggested—with a sly look—that the reward should be a box of crispy Santas, but I thumped him on his solid, stupendous, stark-naked abs in reply.
Yes, we were in bed at the time. We’ve been on marvelously intimate terms since that night, though in places far more comfortable, I can tell you. Bill’s apartment is gorgeous, and has plenty of room for a large proportion of my shoe collection. We spent the minimum time with our respective families over the holiday season, then took plenty of time at his place for ourselves. It appears we both got exactly what we wanted for Christmas—and more besides.
I’m now halfway through the induction training for the Mason’s internship and have an ongoing invitation to attend the budget presentation suppers. I must say, the rest of management have taken to me better than I expected, though Bill reckons he should accompany me to a few more meetings, at least until they all stop staring at my hair. I thank daily the Gods of Beneficial Boyfriending who brought Bill to me. He bought me a new laptop for Christmas too. It’s exactly the spec I wanted, although I modified it with a pink cover and a delightful melody when it boots up. Oh, and a jeweled mouse from my mother.
And as for my brave lionheart Bill… the Floristry Department will open in two months’ time, under his management. We already have prebookings for several Spring weddings, including Emma’s. Bill pretends he’s not beside himself with excitement and joy, but I can tell by now.
“Here he comes!” one of the floor assistants hisses beside me. Mr. Mason Senior is doing the rounds of the store this morning.
Bill is with him. He’s wearing a heavenly gray Armani double-breasted suit, spanning his fabulous chest, with a purple necktie that brings out the dark blue of his eyes. I helped him choose that tie—it matches my new nail varnish. It will, of course, take me a while longer to train him up in all proper style matters.
Since he boldly told his dad about his plans to open a floristry department and pass much of the store management to his brother, Henry, so much has changed. Bill is much calmer and happier, though he can still bark when the situation calls for it. Mr. Mason Senior has a permanently stunned expression and has largely retired from day-to-day decision making.
And me? I’m just living this young gay boy’s dream.
Bill pauses in front of me while one of the assistants explains the new carousel arrangement in the department to Mr. Mason Senior. “Mr. Faraday.”
“Mr. Mason.” I nod back to him. It’s not exactly a secret we’re a couple, but we must act professionally on the shop floor, right? Apart from the time we acted not professionally at all on another part of the store floor….
Bill smirks. It’s a little unnerving that he can read my mind so well by now. “Will you join me this evening, Mr. Faraday?”
“Dinner? A movie?”
The smirk gets wider. “I was thinking… chocolate Santas and peppermint schnapps. On a tray. In bed.”
“Mr. Mason!” I protest, at the same time grinning and nodding. He can still make me blush, but that’s a good thing, right?
“Or we could sample the new Valentine’s range. There are some praline hearts that I’d like to try. I think you’ll love them.” The glance at my ass is quick but oh, so heated. “And after all, we know the perfect place to test them!”
CLARE LONDON took her pen name from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fueled family home, she juggles her writing with her other day job as an accountant.
She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with award-winning novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic, and sexy characters.
Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter-three stage and plenty of other projects in mind… she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fueled family home.
Clare loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her here:
Website: www.clarelondon.com
Email: [email protected]
Blog: www.clarelondon.com/blog
Facebook: www.facebook.com/clarelondon
Twitter: @clare_london
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/clarelondon
Amazon: www.amazon.com/author/clarelondon
By Clare London
72 Hours
Bite Night
Charlie Chuckles
Compulsion
Dancing Days
Footprints
Just-You Eyes
One Night Stand
The Peppermint Schnapps Predicament
Pop-Ups
The Right Choice
Sparks Fly
Then and Now
Timeslip
Touch
Where’s Santa?
Wishing on a Blue Star (Dreamspinner Anthology)
DREAMSPUN DESIRES
ROMANCING THE…
#19 – Romancing the Wrong Twin
#36 – Romancing the Ugly Duckling
LONDON LADS
Chase the Ace
How the Other Half Lives
A Good Neighbour
Peepshow
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
London Lads (Print Only Anthology)
TRUE COLORS
True Colors
Ambush
Payback
Switch
Flying Colors
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Published by
DREAMSPINNER PRESS
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Peppermint Schnapps Predicament
© 2017 Clare London.
Cover Art
© 2017 Paul Richmond.
http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dreamspinnerpress.com.
Digital ISBN: 978-1-64080-290-2
Published December 2017
v. 1.0
Printed in the United States of America
