Page 31 of When the Fake Snow Falls

With a sharp inhale, I nod. “Yeah. Okay. We can do that.”

Once we make our way to the front, I order a gingerbread latte and Chase steps forward, to say, “Coffee’s on me,” before ordering his black.

“No way,” I say, gently turning to look up at him. “You said I could get the next one, remember?”

He has his card already out and doesn’t even hesitate to hand it to the barista. “I meant the next time I drink bourbon.”

My eyes narrow, but there’s no point fighting him on it. The barista takes his card, swipes it, and hands it back in a matter of seconds. And when he touches the small of my back to guide me toward a table, I’ve forgotten how to speak, anyway.

He touches me so effortlessly, like he has no idea the effect it has. How could a man like him notknowwhat he does to women? How could this man not know what he does tome?His touch might as well stop time. Everything slows. The only thing that doesn’t is my rapidly beating heart.

On second thought, based on the number of women in his tagged photos, he probably does know. He probably does these things for that very reason.

The weekend brings more people here than usual, but most of them take their drinks outside to watch the parade. We grab a small table near the large glass window on the side of the shop where we can enjoy the festivities from afar while we talk. There’s a fake Christmas tree in the back corner, clearly worn out by years of use. Its pine needles have thinned, revealing the black plastic trunk beneath, and I stare at it.

Chase follows my gaze. “Why are you looking at that tree like you have a personal vendetta against it.”

I glance at him before looking back at the tree. “It’s kind of disappointing, isn’t it?”

He looks over his shoulder again, this time taking a longer look at the tiny, fake tree with shiny decorations that are disproportionately too big. Facing me, he grins. “I think it’s inspiring.”

I let out a laugh and bring my cup to my mouth. “You would.”

He mirrors my movement with his own cup. “It’s like the little tree that could.”

“You know,” I say as I sit up straight and abandon all thoughts of the tree. “Just once, I think it would be nice to go somewhere that actually feels like Christmas for the holidays.”

There’s a teasing glint in his eye. “Do we need to go buy fake snow? Because as useless as it is, we can go buy fake snow.”

“No,” I say with a laugh. “I want to go somewhere withrealthings that feel like Christmas. I’ve lived in Florida all my life. I just want Christmas to feel the way it looks in the movies for once.”

“You know what I think?” He puts a hand on his chest. “Assomeone who has experienced countless snowy winters and now a few hot ones.” He looks at me like that fact alone is some magical credential that will justify whatever he’s about to say next.

“Go on.” I give him a wave of my hand.

He takes a sip of his coffee, looking smug but somehow still beautiful. “I think Christmas is what you make it. If it’s not feeling like Christmas to you, maybe you should stop being such a Scrooge.”

My eyes widen. “I am not!”

He nods solemnly. “I think you are.” Brightening, he adds, “Don’t worry, though. You’re coming to my company’s holiday party, and nothing puts you in the spirit like overpriced champagne and tiny desserts.”

I tilt my head with a teasing lift to my lips. “Overpriced? No open bar?”

Chase nods, swallowing his sip. “Oh, it will be. I just imagine the champagne being overpriced for them.” He gives a shrug. “Corporate America.”

Mention of the party has an immediate effect on me, my heart rate beginning its inevitable climb. “Right.” Determined to look more casual than I feel, I ask, “Where do you work, anyway? I just keep imagining Christmas episodes fromThe Office,and I’m not sure I’m on the right track.”

He chuckles, and it’s such a lovely sound. “Not quite like that. The party we’re going to will be . . . bigger.”

I eye him cautiously. “How big?”

“Big.”

“. . . As in?”

He smiles. “Look, I work for a successful advertising firm. Pitches, clients, terrible bosses. If you’ve seenMad Men,kind of like that, but fast forward however many years and make it all digital.”

I may be able to put on a front for a single client, butpitching my ideas to a room of people? No thanks. “That sounds . . . stressful.”

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