Page 20 of When the Fake Snow Falls

After work, I ran home to freshen up and change. Miles wanted me to wear a little black dress I have in my closet for special occasions, but nothing about the plunging neckline on that dress makes me look like I’m anyone’s friend. Instead, I opted for black leggings with a lightweight cream sweater and a pair of strappy sandals. There was mild protest from Miles. I’m pretty sure he muttered something about “couch potato chic” being all the rage, but I ignored him.

It’s 8:03 p.m., and I know I should go in. I’m out of viewfrom the bar windows, so he won’t be able to see me if he’s already inside, but there’s a possibility he isn’t here yet. The last thing I need is for him to walk up and find me staring at the sign overhead like I might bolt at any second.

There’s always a moment of uneasy jitters before a first date, but why is this date—that isn’t even a date—making me more nervous than the others? It can’tallhave to do with how good he looked in a suit. I might not know much about Chase, but just the way he conducts himself over the phone had me feeling like a girl with a crush. I need to get a grip. Squaring my shoulders, I force my feet forward and walk inside.

He’s here. There are probably twenty other people who are also here, but somehow my eyes land on him first. He’s wearing a light blue button-down that almost looks white. The sleeves are rolled to expose his forearms, and paired with black slacks, he looks just as sleek and modern as the rest of this place.

He’s staring down at his phone as he casually sits with his ankle resting on his knee. There’s a slight crease between his brows as he types a mile a minute, and I give myself a little time to take in the sight of him.

He is one beautiful man. Even the dim lighting in the back corner of the bar casts a glow over him like it’s his own personal spotlight. He keeps his dark hair styled perfectly, his clothes are immaculate, and if his forearms are any indicator of the muscle that lies beneath . . . God help me.

“You can sit anywhere you like,” one of the servers says as she passes with a tray of wine glasses, and I blink, forcing my attention back to my surroundings.

“Thanks.” I quickly head toward Chase, and he looks up like he’s caught my movement out of the corner of his eye.

The crease of his brow smooths, and nothing could have prepared me for the genuine grin that spreads across his face. He gets to his feet and extends a hand for me to shake. “Candace. It’s great to see you.”

“You too,” I say with a polite smile as I meet his outstretched hand. It’s warm and strong, and the way his thumb grazes my skin could start a fire on a rainy day.

He doesn’t let go right away. Instead, he turns my hand over and looks down at it before lifting an eyebrow. “Artist?”

Of course, he notices the random splotches of hair dye that always stain my skin. Pulling my hand out of his grip, I say, “Hairdresser.”

Eyeing me with interest, he pulls out my chair before returning to his own. “Really?” He runs a hand through his hair, gripping it at the roots with a light shake. “I could use a haircut.”

My eyes widen before I can stop them. “Donotcut your hair.”

He pauses, and his eyebrows shoot up in a way that makes him look innocent—almost puppy-like. “You have an opinion about my hair?”

My lips twitch into a faint smile. “I have an opinion about everyone’s hair.” Pointing to his head, I add, “And I have at least ten clients who would kill for hair like yours.”

He drops his hand, and his hair somehow looks better messed up. Without bothering to fix it, he says, “Well, I’ll make sure to get my next haircut from you, so I guess I’ll wait for you to tell me it’s too long.”

The way he says it is sosure—so certain we’ll still know each other by the time he needs a haircut. My stomach drops, and I look around for our server as a way to change the subject. “Have you ordered yet?”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “No, I was waiting for you.” He nods to the bar behind me, lined with black stools. “Our server is the one with the blonde ponytail, though.”

Looking back at him, I say, “A blonde? Well, you certainly lucked out.” The words are out before I can stop them, but his smile only grows.

“Tonight, I’m here with you.”

I arch a brow. “Don’t let me stand in your way of love.”

Amusement flickers in his warm, mahogany eyes before he leans forward, resting those impressive forearms on the table. “Tell me, Candace. What’syourtype?”

“Chardonnay,” I answer dismissively, my eyes searching for the blonde ponytail he pointed to moments ago.

When I look back at him, I find him watching me intently. The same playful expression on his chiseled face. “What’s your type?” he asks again.

I tilt my head like I have to think about it before settling my eyes on him again. “Blonde.”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“With tattoos,” I say, eyeing his naked forearms. Meeting his dark stare again, I add, “And blue eyes.” I arch an eyebrow to challenge his response, but our server walks up before he can say anything.

“Hey, have you two had a chance to think about what you might like?” she asks with a dazzling smile.

Chase doesn’t even glance at her. He keeps his eyes on me, the same amused expression when he says, “She’ll take a Chardonnay.” He leans back in his chair, still appraising me with a smirk. “And I’ll have a bourbon, neat.”

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