Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

F or over four hours, Sandy and Patrick toiled in the office, going back and forth on the website design and creating a mock-up that could potentially potentially appeal to his father. Not that his dad was difficult. He was particular and his simple ways may have performed well when McCormick's was first starting out; however, the world and customers changed. The evolution of their online presence could meet with some resistance.

Sandy rounded the desk, holding out his phone with the new photos he'd added to the Mayfield store Instagram.

"This is amazing." Patrick scrolled, scanning through the celebration photos from yesterday.

"And we should do a countdown to Christmas. Like Twenty-Five Days Until and feature shots of sale items you'd want to push."

Patrick didn't like the sound of that because his dad didn't approve of upselling. His style of old-school promotions tended to fall under the lowkey category. He squinted at the screen, wondering how to share that with Sandy.

"You hate that idea?"

Patrick leaned a hand on his desk bringing him closer to Sandy. "I like it. The hard sell is my dad." Sandy bit his lip, which almost made Patrick lose his train of thought. He blinked several times to snap himself back to the matter at hand. "It has to be a more subtle way of enticing customers for him to go for it. Not a go-go boy dancing in Santa's hat and a g-string on TikTok."

Sandy slapped the desk. "Now that's a marketing plan I can get down with." The troublemaker started to reach for his cell.

"Bad example." He held the phone out of reach. Sandy's breath danced over his neck and heat blossomed in Patrick's cheeks.

"Plus, I bet Papa McCormick isn't a fan of go-go boys. Ohhh, go-go girls are his thing, right?" Sandy grabbed Patrick's forearm and squeezed with giddiness.

"You're a terrible human being. I don't want to think about my dad and anything with the words go-go in it." He struggled to hold his laughter in.

"I dunno about that," an all-too familiar voice said from the doorway. "I always liked that Go Go Gadget fella."

"Dad . . . " Patrick's heart gave a sharp lurch. He couldn't believe his dad was standing in his office. He wore a big puffy green jacket with the store logo on it, jeans, and snow-covered heavy-duty Sorel boots. A lump formed in Patrick's throat as if he and Sandy were caught in a compromising position. Relax. You weren't doing anything. "Mom texted that you guys weren't coming down. Is she here too?"

"We've got four-wheel drive. No big whoop. Where else would she be?" His dad stepped forward with his hand outstretched in Sandy's direction. "Pat McCormick, Senior."

Sandy's head whipped from Patrick to his dad. With his eyes bugged out, Sandy walked around the desk and took the offered hand.

"This is Sandy Holiday. He started working as our holiday photographer yesterday, but he's a professional with an impressive portfolio." His nerves kicked in with the unexpected visit. This wasn't like his parents. They didn't do surprise visits. They planned and communicated, almost to the point of annoyance. "Who's watching the store?"

His dad shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up like he intended to stay for a while. Then his mom buzzed in and beelined it behind his desk, capturing him in a hug. "Honey, don't fret so much. You'll get those wrinkles at the corners of your eyes. We have that nice young man watching it. You know him. Eric. His cousin wrestled with you at the UW."

Patrick exhaled as he hugged her. This was a typical response from his mother, full of vagueness and so and so's brothers-cousin-monkey-uncle. Once his mother let him go, she turned and snatched Sandy, hugging him, too. Patrick covered his face with his hands. There was no escaping this moment. No ripcord. No emergency ejector seat. He dropped his hands and went to hug his dad. "Sandy," he said over his dad's shoulder, "that intrusive woman squeezing you like a boa is Colleen, my mom."

Sandy stood to the side with a curious expression. He looked as if he'd spotted Santa and his reindeer flying through the air.

His dad helped Mom out of her coat and stashed it beside his own. "Store looks slow," he said to Patrick.

Sandy stepped forward. "Excuse me, um, Pat, but it is today. Yesterday was fantastic. Would you like to see some of the photos?" He inched toward Patrick's computer.

Patrick met him behind his desk, figuring he'd handle screen navigation while Sandy talked. He was relieved that Sandy was so personable and at ease with his parents.

"Let's go to Insta first," Sandy suggested.

He brought up a window on his browser with the store page on it.

"Aww, aren't they adorable? Look at those little ones." His mom cooed and tapped a finger against the Santa pics on the screen.

His dad jutted his chin out, determined to stay on topic. "How were sales yesterday?"

Patrick knew he'd ask. His dad always asked questions, and then he'd want to look at the receipts, numbers, and it went on and on. "We had a bump."

"There's not much staff here. Didja let them go early or something?" His dad chuckled at his own joke.

He hadn't told him about the staff cuts yet and hoped he could avoid that conversation until the new year. Apparently not. "I had to make some changes." Patrick didn't want to go into the intricacies in front of Sandy. The photographer knew a lot already, but as a new part-time employee he shouldn't know everything. And his dad caught on, but he didn't look happy. The crease between his eyebrows deepened as the silence stretched on.

Sandy clapped his hands together. "All right with that showstopper, maybe we could show him a few of the things we worked on today?" The kind man was trying to be helpful, but Patrick could feel the tension already building between his shoulders.

Patrick brought the mockup on the screen.

His dad took control of the mouse. Patrick didn't think the furrow in his dad's forehead could get any deeper, but there it was: a crack so deep that it looked broad enough to plant corn. And then his dad's nostrils flared. Shit. He swallowed, but his mouth was too dry. "Would you do me a favor and check in with Chelsea? Help them with whatever they need," Patrick said to Sandy, trying and failing to sound like he had a handle on things.

"Are you sure you don't want me to explain the redesign?" Sandy's features scrunched up as if confused by the request.

Patrick shook his head, trying to get him out of the room before his dad dismissed the work they'd spent half the day creating.

Moonshine bounced out of her makeshift bed and followed Sandy out the door.

Once they were gone, he didn't have to wait long for a response from his dad about the revamped site.

"What the hell is this?"

"Now Pat, give him a minute to explain." Mom jumped in to play defense for him.

"We don't have the money to go changing half a million things, nor do we have the time."

Patrick jammed his hands on his hips. "We don't need money to do these changes. Sandy has the marketing experience to play admin for us. He has some great ideas. We worked together this afternoon—just look at what we accomplished already."

Pat folded his arms and widened his stance. "Why the good god damn don't you have chairs in here? It's stupid."

"You know he does this to stay healthy. It's good for the heart." His mom rubbed his dad's shoulder in a soothing motion.

Dad rolled his eyes. "Is that why you hired this fella?"

"Not originally. But I think he's valuable as more than a photographer. Do you have an issue with him?"

His dad's mouth turned down. "He's not from here."

"Pish, neither are we. I like him. He smells delightful, doesn't he?" His mom chimed in, as if his scent was what made Sandy an integral part of the team.

"That don't explain why you think we need to be doing all this." Pat pointed at the screen.

"I've been sending you updates, but I've been sugarcoating things. Our situation's not good. We're not doing well at all . . . " Patrick inhaled a deep breath. He didn't want to say it, but he had to. It was time. "We need to consider a new plan for the Mayfield store. The overhead's too high. We're barely hanging on here."

His parents shared one of their nonverbal looks that said more than words. "But it could be slow from the storm, Honey."

"Not just the storm, Mom." Patrick shook his head vigorously, relieved to finally have this discussion. "Sales have been down for months. The unpaid rent along with that new super store opening early have compounded the problems. I don't know what else we can do other than boost sales through a grassroots type of marketing. This won't cost anything.'

"How the hell did it get this far?" his dad yelled. The veins in his neck pulsed and his face turned a dangerous shade of dark magenta.

After Patrick exiled him from the family meeting, Sandy found Chelsea in a storeroom on the first floor. They had a clipboard in their hands. "What's going on?"

Moonshine found a space out of the way and laid down.

"Toy drive. Count how many building blocks buckets are on that table." They pointed at a table next to them. When they looked up at him, they stopped writing. "You look weirder than usual."

Sandy moved the buckets around, counting. "I got kicked out of the meeting with his parents."

"And now you're pouting."

"Twenty-five." He blew his bangs out of his eyes. "If he'd let me stay, I could have explained things, but I got kicked to the curb."

They pointed at the next group of toys for Sandy to tally. He started counting and rearranging stacks of puzzles. "Most of the time I don't know what I'm doing, but I do know how to work the living shit out of social media, and I know how to take fanfuckingtastic photographs. These two things combined would be a Christmas miracle for this place."

"Is this your pitch to Mr. McCormick? Cuz it needs work." The dry remark wasn't lost on Sandy.

He slapped down a couple of boxes with unnecessary force. "Forty-two. Do children actually like puzzles? Children are fucking boring."

They gave a one-armed shrug. "Is all of this"—they moved their pen in a circular motion at him—"about being ousted from a meeting? You've been here only a day and a half."

"Ugh. Fine. We kissed."

Chelsea pursed their lips. "I did not need to know this."

"Now you do, so deal with it." Sandy slammed a puzzle down.

They tilted their head back. "I'm regretting this already . . . Was it bad?"

He shot them a deadly glare.

Chelsea held their hands up. "All right. Count the next pile and try to refrain from revealing any sordid details. I don't need any of that gratuitous nonsense clogging up my gray matter."

"Puhlease, you'd be lucky to hear of my exploits." He moved on to a pile of boxed footballs, which was exactly when it dawned on him that he'd enjoyed meeting Patrick's parents. In the past, he'd always sidestepped meeting parents or family or packs of friends. He liked to keep things casual. Simple. Easy. Disposable. What the frickin' frack is happening to me?

"It was lovely. The kiss. And it's messing me up in a way I've never been messed up before, which is hella bonkers. This tiny town and these damn pleasant people—how do you live like this? Twenty-five."

Chelsea made a mouth noise as they jotted the number down on their inventory sheet. "I can see how this is a traumatizing experience for you."

He couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. Sure, he was overreacting, but he could be useful to Patrick and the store. And, maybe, he had a soft spot for the guy, too. "In Chicago, I have a simple dating routine."

They stopped writing and looked Sandy dead in the eyes. "A routine? For dating?"

"And it always works. It's casual and fun and easy. And now here I am in this teeny place sleeping over with the only other gay man in town, and for some inexplicable reason I don't think my usual is going to work, which chaps my ass."

Chelsea's shoulders shook and then a burst of laughter shot out of them. The uncontrollable laughter was so loud that Moonshine woke up from her nap and started barking along with the racket.

Sandy stood there with his arms folded. He leaned against a toy-laden table and tapped his foot, waiting for the noise to die down.

Chelsea bent over, placing their hands on their knees.

"Are you good now?"

They stood, pinching their side.

I hope that cramp doesn't go away all day.

"You know nothing about relationships," Chelsea accused. "You've never even had one."

Sandy snatched their clipboard from them. "I'm sick of counting. And I don't even know why we're talking about relationships. I don't want one."

A smirk crossed Chelsea's lips as they moved to a pile of teddy bears. "Who're you trying to convince?"

He tapped his pen against the clipboard. He liked his relationships. They were fresh and new and always extremely exciting. Plus, big bonus: they were always hot and sweaty. Who didn't love a night full of sex and no sleep? But when he thought about Patrick it wasn't only about the physical, but a warm Christmas cookie feeling happened, too. This was all Julia's fault. "Maybe I want to spend more time with Patrick, and maybe I want to get to know him. Why do I feel dirty?"

Chelsea snatched their clipboard back from Sandy and wrote down more toy totals while he was in his pensive state. "It sounds like what you're having are what we humans call emotions."

"You know if I weren't a big-hearted gentleman I would run over to the bar and tell that fun-sized Latina that you have the hots for her."

Chelsea's back went rigid, and they stood up to their full height.

Sandy tilted his head back, looking up at her. "Heh, I have a big mouth. I say stupid things. Don't crush me. Please."

The corners of their mouth rose, and they sat on the edge of a table. "You're scared. Of Patrick."

He tilted his head side to side. "It's different. The big thing is that he's not interested. Maybe he is. Okay, he is, but he's my employer."

Chelsea pulled out their phone and texted and then put their phone back in their pocket. "Had to ask the nurse to stay late with my mom," they explained. "We're almost done here. Want to hang after? If you quit annoying me then maybe I could help you with this issue you're having with Patrick."

"I'm shocked you actually want to. I get this general feeling of indifference from you." Sandy rested a fist on his hip.

"You're not wrong." Chelsea pointed at a stack of coloring books for Sandy to inventory.

"Ugh, I really, really like you." He smirked as he resumed counting. Sandy didn't know why, but he was fairly certain they'd just crossed over the from acquaintances to friends. And maybe they could help me figure out how to manage that same step with Patrick.

In a surprising turn of events, after a burger and veggie burger, Chelsea still wasn't sick of him. They offered to drive him and Moonshine to Chicago to pick up some essentials. They, like Patrick the night before, didn't think he should risk driving his Prius. Obviously, neither one knew that the compact vehicle could handle tough conditions, but Sandy let it go.

"Keep spending time together," they offered.

Sandy gave them a droll look even though their eyes were on the road. "That's your magical answer for us to get closer."

"Sometimes simple is best."

Sandy wanted to smack them in the forehead. "Now you're sounding like a fortune cookie. Maybe don't help so much."

On their way back to Mayfield with Chelsea's truck stuffed to the gills, they took an exit Sandy didn't recognize.

"Are you taking me to a remote area to chop me into tiny pieces?"

Chelsea's evasive shrug didn't put him at ease.

"Fantastic. Although, I will put up a fight, because I haven't seen the end of this season's Drag Race."

They shook their head. "I'm curious about the super store. And there it is: our worst enemy."

Transfixed, Sandy stared out the window. "Holy jingle balls, this place is gigantic. It's like a Costco-ate-a-Sam's-Club. It's disgusting." And yet, secretly, he loved it. A giddy sensation ran up his spine. Sandy loved warehouse stores. It was his mother's fault for teaching him to worship buying toilet paper in bulk.

As Chelsea drove through the parking lot, checking out the exterior, Sandy spied a Coming Soon sign with A Subsidiary of the Lance Right Corporation tag written beneath the store name. A flicker of recognition flared in his mind. Oh no. Please, please, please let me be wrong. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his emails. His hand froze over a recent message, and he vomited a little in his throat. Right there in black and white was his contract for his gig in the new year. Product placement photos for a Lance Right Corporation. Fanfuckmylifetastic. I'm working for the enemy.