Page 49 of When the Fake Snow Falls

Thankfully, for the rest of the night, there’s no further talk of how well-endowed Miles thinks Chase must be. He puts on an anime show while I scroll through different types of dresses on my phone, but we mostly talk through it all, and by the time I head into my room for the night, I only find it a little weird that Chase never messaged me back.

I mean, it’s a Friday night. He could be doing anything—he could even be with a woman for all I know. My stomach tightens at the thought of him with his hand on another woman’s leg while he whispers in her ear. I just imagine him venturing his hand up further than he did with me. Maybe I should have played into this whole practice thing more. Maybe Miles is right, and I should have participated just as much.

I swallow hard and swipe my phone open. It’s been over three hours since I heard from him. It’s not like we text on a constant schedule, but he seemed a little down earlier, and now that I’m alone in my room, it’s eating at me. Because if he’s not out on the town with some gorgeous blonde woman I imaginebeing much prettier than me, maybe he’s upset. Maybe he took offense to my last comment about his boss . . .

I doubt that’s the case. Even if I did upset him, I think he would still talk to me. I’m biting my thumb as a stare down at the screen, debating if I should text him again.

Or I could call him.

The initial thought spikes my panic, but the more I think about it, the more I want to hear his voice. I’ll be able to tell so much from hearing him. It’s not like we’ve never spoken on the phone.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit the call button.

twenty-one

With every passing ring,my heart rate rises, but it’s too late to hang up. He’ll see I’ve called. Or I could play it off as an accident. Yeah. Maybe I’ll just say?—

“Candace?”

His voice sends a rush of heat through me, and I’m already a little breathless when I say, “Hey.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course. No—everything is fine. I was just . . . calling you. Should I not have?”

What sounds like a leather couch cushion shifting in the background catches my attention. “You can always call me. I just . . .” He lets out a breath of laughter. “I probably shouldn’t talk to you right now.”

“Are you with someone?” I blurt. There’s no background noise, but he could have a girl at his place. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, and I think I might be sick. “I’m sorry. I should have texted. I’ll let you?—”

“Yes,” he chuckles in my ear. “I’ve been on a date with a bottle of scotch all evening. We’ve gotten to know each otherpretty well, and she’s telling me I should definitely not talk to you while I’m with her.”

I freeze until I manage to slowly take a seat on my bed. “Are youdrunk?”

“I prefer the word inebriated. Sounds better.”

I laugh. “And why are you inebriated?”

He lets out a groan that gets muffled, like he’s rubbing his hand over his face. “I don’t know. It wasn’t the plan. I just needed a drink after work, which led to thinking about shit, which led to drinking more.”

My smile fades. “What shit were you thinking about?”

He lets out a sigh, and when he speaks next, it sounds like he’s on the move. “It’s just my job. I swear this promotion is going to be the death of me. My boss expects too much. Way too much. And I’m having trouble keeping track of it all because the only thing I want to think about is you in that black dress.”

I stop breathing.

The sound of my pounding heart is accompanied by the sound of him rummaging through something. “Where the hell are my Oreos?” he mutters.

The air I’m holding rushes out in a laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”

“What do you need me to repeat?” He sounds distracted. “The part about the Oreos, my shitty situation at work, or the part about you torturing me in that dress.”

The fact that he’s thinking of me at all has my stomach clenching. My mouth opens to say I wasn’t trying to torture him, but he speaks before I get the chance.

“Aha! I found the bastards. At least one thing is going right for me today.” The rummaging continues, and I listen with rapt attention. His voice gets a little muffled as he mutters about knowing they weren’t all gone, and I imagine he has the phone tucked in the crook of his neck. He groans, and in alouder, but more muffled voice, he says, “Damn it. They’re stale.” It sounds like he still has a mouthful of cookie. “See? I work too much. I’m not even home enough to enjoy the shit I buy before it goes bad.”

“We’ll get you more Oreos.”

“The mint ones.”

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