Page 1 of When the Fake Snow Falls

one

How anyone survivesthe day without a 2:00 p.m. pick me up, I have no idea. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear as I stare at the menu boards above. The wood paneled walls and black iron décor hardly make the coffee shop feel cozy or in the holiday spirit, but they’ve tried with the hanging ornaments, strung garland, and a Christmas tree in the back corner. Southern Roast is the best place to get coffee in town—once you realize it is, in fact, a coffee shop and not a restaurant that serves half pound racks of ribs with sides of cornbread.

My lightweight cardigan slips, leaving my shoulder bare and the strap of my tank exposed. It’s still 85 degrees, but I refuse to let Florida win. If it’s December, I should be able to wear a sweater, damn it. It might be made of the thinnest possible fabric, and I can only wear it while I’m somewhere with air conditioning, but I’m wearing it. I pull up the soft material and wrap it tighter around myself.

“One coffee, black.” The voice of the man in front of me pulls me from my thoughts. His voice is deep and smooth, with just enough gravel to pique my interest. I can only see the back of him. Dark hair and a suit are all I get, but you can tell a lotabout a person by their coffee order. Black coffee either means he likes the control of being able to add cream and sugar himself, or he’s the no-nonsense type who needs straight fuel.

His chestnut brown hair is styled in a way that might fool some women into thinking he wakes up that way, but I know better. I can smell the Johnny B. styling gel on him. His business attire is pristine. Not a wrinkle on his navy pants or a scuff on his brown leather shoes. He cares about appearances—either that, or he has a wife who cares about it.

I casually crane my neck to the left and scan his hand resting on the counter.

No ring.

He looks over his shoulder at me, and only then do I realize I never stopped craning. Staggering a step, a whoosh of air leaves my lungs. “Sorry. I was just—I was . . .” Heat flares in my cheeks, and I point past him. “Danishes.”

He smiles, and it’s a disarming smile my mother wouldlove.Seriously, doesn’t this man have any obvious flaws? At this point I would have been relieved to see a chipped tooth.

He steps aside. “Don’t let me be the one to deprive you of baked goods.”

His voice has a commanding undertone that makes me wonder what else he doesn’t want to deprive me of. “You’re fine,” I say with a raise of my hand—half trying to wave, half hiding my face behind it.

He lets out a low laugh before stepping aside anyway as he pays. I guess to give me a better view of the . . . Danish I was staring at.

The barista hands him his cup, and he scribbles on his receipt and leaves it behind before walking off to add cream and sugar to his coffee. I guess it’s the control for him.

“Peppermint Mocha, please.”

The girl behind the counter nods, and I stare down at the sliver of white paper.

Number?

The temperature of the blood in my body rises to a simmer. I snatch the paper and stare down at it. In my twenty-seven years of life, I have never seen such a perfect specimen of man, and now he wants my number?

My eyes dart to where he mixes his coffee with his back turned like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Before he can turn around, I quickly jot down my number and slide the receipt back where he left it. I’m constantly handing my number out to potential clients. What’s one more person?

As he walks toward me again, it takes all my self-restraint not to stare at him.

In one fluid movement, he slides the receipt off the counter and raises his cup. “Ladies,” he says with a nod before ducking out of the shop. I watch through the glass storefront as he tucks the small white paper into his pocket and takes a sip of his coffee.

My lips twist as I try to fight my smile, and I don’t tear my eyes from him until he’s out of sight.

“One peppermint mocha for Candace,” the barista says with a grin as she hands me the cup.

“Thanks.” I return the smile and head out of the shop feeling lighter. My eyes can’t help but wander in the direction he went, but he’s long gone by now. Did he really ask for my number? Or was it a thirty second fever dream?

My phone chimes, and my breathing halts. That was fast. Maybe he’s one of those people who are highly efficient. It’s only when I see it’s a group text with my parents that my lungs open again.

Mom:

Candy Cane! I’ve got something special we can do this Christmas.

My parents never fail to go big on Christmas. Their housein north Florida is always decorated top to bottom. Even their yard out front ends up looking like Santa’s workshop.

A message from my dad shortly follows. It’s a link for some type of wellness cruise. I step aside on the sidewalk to get a better look. The thumbnail for the site shows everyone wearing all white and the tagline reads:Nothing Frees Your Spirit like the Open Sea.

Mom:

So much for easing her in.

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