Page 89 of When the Fake Snow Falls

Maybe I’ll never know.

Staying busy, I fasten the cape around her and hope she’ll stop talking. Of course, she doesn’t.

“I just wish you would have told me. This whole mess could have been avoided if you had been honest with me.”

My hand tightly grips the shampoo bottle, but I don’t look at her. I stay focused on her hair, lathering the shampoo longer than I need to. “If I had known, I would have told you.”

She scoffs. “Chase really never told you about me?”

This time, I do meet her piercing gaze. “No. He didn’t.”

Our eyes meet, and a beat of silence passes between us like she’s trying to decide if I’m lying. She waits until I’ve resumed working to let out a huff and mutter, “Well, I find that surprising.”

I’m sure she does. I’m sure she can hardly fathom a world in which Chase doesn’t go around telling everyone about his sexy boss he’s dying to sleep with. Instead of dignifying her comment with a response, I try to block all thoughts of Chase and Nicolette from my mind and just focus on the task at hand. Rinsing out the shampoo, I reach for the bottle of conditioner on the shelf above her head.

Even as I massage the product over her silky strands, I can feel her eyes on me. It doesn’t matter that I keep my head down and work, she’s watching me with the intensity of someone trying to achieve telepathy.

Eventually, her silence breaks. “You know, once Chase gets promoted, there’s nothing to keep us from being together.”

“That’s great,” I answer absently as I try to fight every ounce of tension in my body. This woman has lost her mind.

“And you’re sure that won’t be an issue? Considering your recent . . . history with him. I mean, I know it meant nothing. But still, I feel I should ask. The last thing I’d want is for you to sour our professional relationship.”

I pause, her words taking an extra second to process. She’d hate formeto ruin our working relationship? Is she serious?Heat flares down my spine, making me rigid. I can’t do this. I can’t listen to this toxic woman open her mouth every Tuesday for the rest of the foreseeable future.

Finally, I dare to meet her gaze, and my hands slowly go back to work, rinsing the conditioner. With a slight shake of my head, I let out a breath that might be mistaken as a laugh. Nicolette’s eyes blaze, but I don’t care.

“Nicolette, stop,” I say as I wipe my hands on my apron. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she gets the chance, I turn off the water and wring out the extra moisture in her hair. With my best smile, I say, “I don’t think anything will happen between you and Chase.” She opens her mouth again, and I lift a single finger to stop her. “But if I’m wrong, I wouldneverlet it affect our professional relationship. I would never be that petty.”

She blinks, and the dumbstruck look on her face is more satisfying than anything she could have said.

I may have to keep her as a client, but I’m done letting this woman walk all over me.

forty-two

Miles hasour apartment in full festivity mode now that it’s Christmas Eve. “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” plays in the kitchen as he manages to cook with a steady swing of his hips.

My elbow leans on the kitchen counter as I sit at one of the barstools and turn my phone around to show Miles the selfie my parents just sent. Their wide smiles warm my heart, and just seeing them happy makes it feel a little more like Christmas.

Miles squints at the picture. “Is your dad growing a goatee?”

Flipping my phone around, I zoom in and groan. “Is he? I thought it was the lighting.”

Tossing a dish rag over his shoulder, he walks around to look at the photo with me again. “Honey, that’s a soul patch,” he says with a laugh.

Shaking my head, I back out of the photo. “I’ll let you be the one to have that conversation with him.”

He heads back to the stove to finish sautéing something that smells amazing. “Gladly.”

When I go back to my inbox, my eyes catch on Chase’s name. I doubt I’ll hear from him today. I know he said he doesn’t visit his family until January, but I’m sure he’s doingsomething.I’m almost tempted to ask him. Because as much as it hurts to talk to him, the thought of him sitting alone in that fancy apartment with nothing but that tiny Christmas tree to keep him company hurts worse.

I scroll through our messages from the past few weeks. I was so happy texting him in the beginning. Every time my phone gave me a notification, I’d be a bundle of nerves, excited to see what he said. Now every time I get a text, all I feel is panic. Panic it’s him. Panic it’snothim. There’s no winning.

Miles spins with outstretched arms in the middle of our kitchen. “You’re sulking.”

My head snaps up, and I turn my phone face down on the counter. “I am not.”

He keeps dancing. “Just invite him over tomorrow. Elvis will be here.”

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