Page 67 of I Saw You First

For a long moment, I don’t say anything. Then: “I’ve been on rotation for nearly three years. Sales, inventory, ops. I’m finally in my last position before assistant general manager. I can’t be the AGM at the store where I worked my rotation, so once I finish merch in March—if I’m lucky—I’ll have to go to a different store, most likely Lyndale.”

“Lyndale,” she echoes. “That’s close.”

I can’t imagine what she’s thinking.

“Fewer than twenty-five percent of GM candidates finish the entire rotation,” I say. “There’s a lot of pressure. Some decide they like a certain department and want to stay there. Some go to the corporate office. Some leave the company altogether, get recruited to Best Buy or Circuit City or Target.”

“And?”

“It’s a lot of pressure,” I repeat. “Now imagine that you’re the son of the company’s founder.”

“Ah,” she says.

“I can’t fail at this, Abbey.”

“You called me Abbey,” she says in a small voice. “You never call me Abbey. Only Rhodes.”

Huh. She’s right. I’m telling her things I haven’t told many people. It’s more personal—for us both.

“I can’t fail,” I say again. I glance at her. She gives the smallest shake of her head, purses her lips, but doesn’t say a word. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I wish I could reach across the center console and take her cold hand in mine.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel instead.

“I haven’t dated since I started rotation,” I continue. “Shit, before that. Maybe once I get my own store, I’ll… revisit my responsibilities and consider dating again.”

She takes a deep breath. “Do you or do you not have feelings for me? It seems like you do. Am I wrong about that?”

I swallow hard. Of course I have feelings for her. I feel so much for her. Pride, attraction, admiration, tenderness, longing. Frustration because she can be so damn stubborn. Sometimes even panic because I like her so much. I’ve been fighting these feelings since the moment I saw her at The Golden. But this is my life. This is my career.

“You’re not wrong,” I say quietly.

“Well.” Her tone is surprisingly crisp and harsh. “Don’t expect me to wait around until you have your own store and maybe, just maybe, after you’ve revisited your responsibilities, you’d consider dating me. Turn right at the next street. I’m the first building on the left.”

“I remember,” I say. The Ruh-Roh show seems like years ago.

I tried to be so careful, and I still fucked this up.

“You’re off tomorrow, right?” I ask once I’ve pulled into the loop at her front door. “Buy a new battery and bring it to the store, and I’ll take care of it.”

“I got it,” she says as she unbuckles her seat belt and opens the door, letting in a burst of cold air and snow. “Thanks, anyway. And thanks for the ride.”

“Take the blanket. I can’t have you freezing from here to the door.”

She nods and swallows hard, her pinched, pissed-off features softening. “Please drive carefully, Wil. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.” Her lower lip trembles.

I want to kiss that mouth, soothe it, soothe her. I want to carry her across the icy parking lot and make her tea and hold her close to warm her up and kiss her, over and over. I want to take back everything I said. I want to quit my job, get a new family. I want her. So badly.

“I’ll be careful,” I say.

She mumbles what I think might be, “You’re never getting this blanket back,” and then slams the door.

Somehow, I score Christmas Eve off. We close early anyway, and, contrary to popular belief, it’s not the busiest shopping day of the year. That’s the Saturday before Christmas, which I survived thanks to Jimmy and Abbey. Chanelle has planned a “quiet Christmas Eve function with family and a few close friends,” as she wrote in an email to me and my siblings. A work email. So heartwarming.

When I arrive at the Wilshire mansion, there’s nowhere to park. I drive around until I find a spot two blocks over. The place is packed with a veritable Hometown Electronics who’s who, mostly from the corporate and regional offices. Jeremy and his wife, Annie, are here, along with their young kids—only two of the many screeching children watching The Santa Clause on the projection TV in the basement. There’s a rumor going around that the big guy himself is going to stop by after dinner to make sure that they’ve all been good little children before continuing on his merry way.

So much for Chanelle’s quiet evening.

Jeremy hands me a beer—a Sam Adams Old Fezziwig, a seasonal spiced brown ale and a welcome change from what Dad usually has on hand.