Page 42 of When the Fake Snow Falls

“Am I still?”

I glance up at him. “Still what?”

“Your type.”

My chewing slows, and I let my eyes drag over him. From his thick hair to his sharp jawline, his beautifully angled features, kind eyes, and impeccable style. “No.”

He eyes me with amusement. “No?”

I stab another piece of lettuce with my fork. “Nope.” When I dare to look at him again, he’s still watching me. “Look, you’re pretty. That’s just a fact. But as soon as I realized it wasn’t me you were interested in, I only saw you as a friend.” I tap my temple with the back end of my fork. “That’s just howmy brain works.” It’s a boldfaced lie, but I’m sticking to it for the sake of self-preservation.

He takes another sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “I like you, Candace.”

The approval in his tone shouldn’t make my body hum. I shouldn’t wish this table were smaller, so he’d be within reach. I shouldn’t look forward to the end of this extravagant meal because it means he might take me by the hand again. But even though I’d never tell him, I’m doing all those things.

nineteen

“That wasthe best meal I’ve ever eaten,” I say as we head down the wide sidewalk lining the cobblestone street. I glance over my shoulder at the black decorative sign that readsElla’s,already feeling a little sad that I’ll probably never eat there again.

We thought about splitting a dessert, but as soon as we saw there were no options that didn’t have chocolateorfruit, it was a bust. Chase was perfectly content with the idea of watching me down an entire piece of chocolate cake by myself, but I passed.

As if reading my mind, Chase says, “Just say the word, and we’ll go again. They’re a client of the firm.” He takes my hand in his, and it somehow relaxes me and makes me jittery all at once.

“Is that how you managed to get a reservation?” I’ve never tried to book a table, but I’ve heard clients complain about waiting months.

His lips lift as we walk. “I worked on their campaign for a while and had some good ideas, so I pulled some strings. I sometimes have the luxury ofseemingimportant.”

Letting out a laugh, I take my free hand and pat his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, you’re very important.” My hand is met with the hard muscle of his biceps, and it takes everything in me not to wrap my fingers around it. I’ve only ever seen him with a shirt on, but the sudden desire I have to tear it off is . . . unsettling. I quickly adjust my purse on my shoulder to give my hand something else to do. “So, where to now?” My voice comes out a little breathless, and I hope he doesn’t notice.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love Ella’s.” Chase stops at a crosswalk and looks both ways before pulling me across the street. “But their portions are small.”

Once we’re on the sidewalk, he slows, and I say, “You’re still hungry?”

He glances down at me in disbelief. “Aren’t you?”

I hadn’t really thought about it, but I guess he’s right. I’m content, but I don’t feel full.

Reading through my hesitation, he glances at the shops around us and asks, “Do you like beer?”

“What?” I ask with a breath of laughter. “Why?”

“Because I’ve only ever seen you drink wine, but I could go for some tacos up ahead. The only drawback is that I don’t think they’ll have your Chardonnay.”

My favorite taco place sits up ahead on the right. “Well, I don’t like beer.” His feet slow before I can finish my sentence like he’s already regrouping and ready to take me somewhere else, so I quickly add, “But they have margaritas, so it’s fine.” I only had one glass of wine with dinner, so the switch shouldn’t be an issue.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You like margaritas?”

I nod. “Love them.”

He practically groans. “The thought of kissing you while you taste like tequila and lime is doing unspeakable things to me, Candace. I hope you know that.”

I’m glad he’s holding my hand because without him pullingme forward, that would have stopped me in my tracks. He said it so casually too, like he could have been talking about the weather. He doesn’t even look at me to check for my reaction—and thank God for that because I have no idea what color my cheeks are right now, but my entire body isburning.

As soon as the door opens, we’re met with a rush of sound. It doesn’t matter that it’s late and other places are closing, Paco’s Tacos is alive and well. The workers yell orders to each other from the kitchen, and the line of people grow louder and drunker the later it gets. We stand in line behind a group of guys who look like they were probably a part of a frat a few years ago, and they can’t quite let that part of their life die.

Leaning in toward Chase, I say, “This is my favorite place to get tacos.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Really? How have I never seen you here?”

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