Jake Finley waited impatiently to be ushered into his father’s executive office—the office that would one day be his. The thought of eventually stepping into J. R. Finley’s shoes excited him. Even though he’d slowly been working his way through the ranks, he’d be the first to admit he still had a lot to learn. However, he was willing to do whatever it took to prove himself.

Finley’s was the last of the family-owned department stores in New York City. His great-grandfather had begun the small mercantile on East 34th Street more than seventy years earlier. In the decades since, succeeding Finleys had opened branches in the other boroughs and then in nearby towns. Eventually the chain had spread up and down the East Coast.

“Your father will see you now,” Mrs. Coffey said. Dora Coffey had served as J.R.’s executive assistant for at least twenty-five years and knew as much about the company as Jake did—maybe more. He hoped that when the time came she’d stay on, although she had to be close to retirement age.

“Thank you.” He walked into the large office with its panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. He’d lived in the city all his life, but this view never failed to stir him, never failed to lift his heart. No place on earth was more enchanting than New York in December. He could see a light snow drifting down, and the city appeared even more magical through that delicate veil.

Jacob R. Finley, however, wasn’t looking at the view. His gaze remained focused on the computer screen. And his frown told Jake everything he needed to know.

He cleared his throat, intending to catch J.R.’s attention, although he suspected that his father was well aware of his presence. “You asked to see me?” he said. Now that he was here, he had a fairly good idea what had initiated this summons. Jake had hoped it wouldn’t happen quite so soon, but he should’ve guessed Mike Scott would go running to his father at the first opportunity. Unfortunately, Jake hadn’t had enough time to prove that he was right—and Mike was wrong.

“How many of those SuperRobot toys did you order?” J.R. demanded, getting straight to the point. His father had never been one to lead gently into a subject. “Intellytron,” he added scornfully.

“Also known as Telly,” Jake said in a mild voice.

“How many?”

“Five hundred.” As if J.R. didn’t know.

“What?”

Jake struggled not to flinch at his father’s angry tone, which was something he rarely heard. They had a good relationship, but until now, Jake hadn’t defied one of his father’s experienced buyers.

“For how many stores?”

“Just here.”

J.R.’s brow relaxed, but only slightly. “Do you realize those things

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