He seems surprised, but nods, and we both pull out chairs. My eyes catch on another pin on his lanyard: When I Think About Books, I Touch My Shelf.

It takes me a moment to get it. When I do, the song by the Divinyls starts playing in my head, sparking a memory: my mom, dancing around the kitchen, deep in the throes of another love affair with another man she swore was the One. Little Georgia, dancing along, hope sparkling in her eyes. Forgetting that in a few weeks, this boyfriend would dump our mom and she’d be back in bed, crying with the curtains drawn, forgetting that her two young daughters needed meals, clean laundry, and help with homework.

Shaking that away, I refocus on Brian. He’s staring at me, his eyes drifting across my face like I’m a book he’s reading.

A boring, bitter book.

“You wanted to talk?” I say.

He blinks. “Oh, yeah. About this whole Xander thing. I mean, there’s no reason for us to be enemies.”

“Agree,” I say, though I’m wary. I’d love to feel like we’re on the same side, united by mutual loathing of our evil boss. Unfortunately, it seems that Xander and Brian are bros, united in their mutual scorn of me.

What’d you call her store, Lawson? A bleak wasteland of existential dread?

“Great, that’s great,” Brian is saying. “Because, um, after Xander combines the stores, it’s going to be a lot to manage and—and it’s going to require a lot of work.”

“Yes,” I say, unsure what he’s getting at. Does he think I’m not capable of it?

“I’ve been trying to think of what I could do…” He brushes his hair out of his eyes, hesitating. “So you aren’t out of a job when—”

“What do you mean, when?” My voice squeaks on the last word.

“I mean, if,” he corrects quickly.

“You said when.” I swallow the surge of dread. Did Xander say something to him? Maybe this whole competition is a farce and Brian’s already got it in the bag? “Word choice matters.”

“It was a slip of the tongue.”

“A Freudian slip, maybe.”

He blinks at me from behind his glasses. “Well, I apologize.”

He doesn’t sound apologetic. He sounds irritated, which isn’t fair—he’s the one who implied I was going to lose.

Exhaling, I glance at my phone. Almost time to open. “Thanks for the chat, Brian, but I—”

“STOP CALLING ME THAT.”

I rear back, shocked. “Excuse me?”

He mumbles something I don’t catch.

“Hmm?” I say.

“Ryan,” he says more clearly. “My name? It’s…”

He turns the lanyard around: Ryan Lawson. Manager, Happy Endings.

My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I’ve been calling him the wrong name for days.