Page 88 of I Saw You First

ABBEY

“I’ve missed you.”

I must startle Wil because he nearly falls off the chair at Sam’s desk in the warehouse. Maybe it’s the fact that my throat is still so raw, I sound like Macho Man Randy Savage with a head cold. He flicks his eyes up to me, then back to an email on the monitor. He closes the email.

“You’re back,” he says.

He doesn’t say he’s missed me, too. I get it, we’re at work, but there’s no one else around. And instead of looking at me with the compassion of two days ago, Wil is scowling. Scowling. This is my welcome back to work, where not a damn thing has changed, even though everything has changed.

“There’s no need to broadcast it,” he says.

“Broadcast what?”

“What you said.”

“That I’ve missed you?”

He nods.

“Broadcast it? We’re the only people here.”

“Keep your voice down. Eric’s probably lurking back here somewhere.” He sounds like a robot.

“It’s seven-thirty in the morning. Eric’s not here yet.”

He grimaces, stands up, and pushes in the chair. “Are you feeling better? You must be if you’re here and arguing with me.”

My mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”

“You look better, at least.”

He doesn’t look so hot himself—nothing like the dashing Lord Granton—with dark smudges under his eyes and his hair messier than usual. Still, he looks good. He always looks good, and now I know how it feels to wind my fingers through those messy curls, kiss those soft lips now curved into a deep frown. This is not the same Wil who fed me bacon and eggs and came to my apartment—two days ago!—with food and flowers and The Loves of Lord Granton.

“Go home if you start to feel sick again,” he says, all disdain and no tenderness. “I’m not sure that you should even be here.”

“Oh.” I suck in a breath. “Okay.”

“I’ve got to get back up front.” Then he’s gone, the warehouse doors swinging behind him.

My heart cracks in two and my knees go weak—but not because of a swoon. I sink into the chair and my gaze zeroes in on the computer monitor. Wil closed out of the email, but left the HEA system open to his drafts, and my name is in the subject line of the top email. The message beckons, invites me in, tempts me to click the mouse and open it. I shouldn’t. But I do.

Hey, Coach, good to hear from you. I’m happy to talk more about Abbey and her application. She’s something, all right.

My still-queasy stomach sloshes. What the hell? She’s something, all right? What does that mean? I need to know what “Coach” said to elicit this response. I arrow down but there’s nothing else, no original email attached. I don’t know who Coach is, or why he would be asking about me.

I glance at the “to” line. GM422. Store 422. That’s Baxter, and I remember now that everyone calls the GM there Coach. The deadline to apply for the merch manager job is coming up in a couple of days, but I didn’t realize that any of the GMs would reach out to my current manager, which was naïve of me. Maybe that’s why Wil was so cold.

I’m about to switch over to the inbox to see if I can find Coach’s original email when I hear the rattle of an empty pallet jack coming toward the warehouse. I click out of the email again. My heart pounds. I open a drawer and dig around like I’m looking for something.

“Hey, hey, hey.” It’s Jimmy. “Glad you see you’re back among the living, Revolver. Ooh, I like that one. Suits you.”

I grab a few paper clips and clear my throat. “Thanks. Glad to be back.”

I go out on the floor with my useless office supplies. I don’t see Wil for the rest of the day—a day I spend worrying about what’s going on with him and why he was so cold—not until after I’ve clocked out and find him leaning against the wall outside the front doors. It’s barely twenty degrees and he’s not wearing a coat.

“Take a walk with me?” he asks.

My heart lodges itself in my throat and my stomach wobbles. I already know. I don’t have to take a walk with him to realize what’s going on. I shake my head. “Why bother?”