Page 61 of When the Fake Snow Falls

My lips twist into a smile as he leaves the fitting room area. With a shake of my head, I turn on my heels and head back into the dressing room. Pulling the curtain shut, I stare at myself in the mirror. I feel good. Glancing down, I check the tag and that good feeling disappears.Holy shit.I mean, the dress is gorgeous, but $300? I grimace and study myself in the mirror again. It’s hard to justify spending that amount of money regardless of how good I look. My mind is alreadyrunning through my schedule for the next couple of weeks to help justify the cost. At least it’s always busy around the holidays. Even Nicolette and all her friends push up their appointments to make sure they’re looking great going into the new year.

And this dress looks like it was made for me.

Taking a deep breath and facing forward again. I run my hands over the soft fabric. I can do this. I can buy myself an expensive dress.

And it took so long to find it. I know Miles would be a good sport if I went out there and said we needed to keep looking. He’d probably shop all day if it meant finding something perfect, but the last thing I want to do is start this search all over again.

My shoulders drop as I resign to keeping the dress. I don’t know if Miles is right about whether I should sleep with Chase, but he is right about one thing. My boobs do look amazing.

twenty-seven

My wealthy weekly regularis back, and even though I was grateful for her when I put that dress on my card, I’m having trouble holding onto that feeling now. She’s driving me nuts. I’ve spent the last hour foiling Nicolette’s hair for the highlights she insisted she needed, even though her brown roots were barely visible. Today was supposed to be one of her regular blow dry days, but she came in frantic, insisting she had to have her color touched up before the weekend. So, I’ve been running around the salon at maximum speed, trying to get this shit done before my next client comes in a couple of hours.

Checking the large digital clock on the salon wall, I turn back to Nicolette. “Now we just wait for you to process. I’ll probably have time to dry you, but I might not have time to curl your hair.”

A dramatic frown tugs the corners of her mouth down. “Oh, but I need you to curl it, too. I’m sure you could use the extra money.” She eyes me in the mirror, and in a sing-song voice, adds, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

I nod to hide my teeth gritting. “Of course. I’ll make ithappen.” I know for a last-minute job like this, she’ll tip even bigger than she normally would, but she doesn’t have to be so condescending about it. She acts like she single-handedly keeps the lights on for me, and okay, maybe the payout I get from her and her friends helps—a lot—but that doesn’t mean she should act like she owns me. “I just may have to do it after I get my next client situated.”

I hate being double booked. If I had my own space, it would be one thing. But with so many other stylists sharing the floor, it can be tricky to figure out where to put someone while I have a second person in my chair.

“Great,” she says happily. “Only you get my blonde just right.”

Fake blonde.

Her roots are dark. It’s why she comes in here every six weeks on the dot. Sometimes she’ll even bump it up to four or five, depending on who she’s trying to impress.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I look at it since I’m just waiting for the chemicals to do their thing.

Chase:

Have I mentioned how much I hate Tuesdays?

Candace:

I was just thinking the same thing.

Three messages come in from him, back-to-back.

Chase:

We should run away together. Every Tuesday.

We’ll tell no one and hide out.

Bring snacks.

His idea sounds amazing, but then again, doing anything with him sounds amazing.

Candace:

If only.

“Who has you smiling like that?” Nicolette asks, pulling my attention back to the mirror. She’s watching me with that cat-like grin, and I quickly tuck my phone in my back pocket.

“Oh, no one. Just a friend.” I start cleaning up the color bowls I used and wash my brushes in the sink.

I can feel her eyes still on me when she says, “That’s not the type of smile you give for a friend.”

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