Page 92 of When the Fake Snow Falls

Chase tilts his head slightly. “He follows me and sent a message.”

My laugh sounds more like a scoff. “Of course.” I wonder if Miles has been following Chase on social media since he showed me his profile. Probably. My eyebrows furrow as I study him. “Why would you still come here?”

“Because sleeping together meant something, and you know it.”

My eyes dart around the hallway, and I hiss, “Can you keep your voice down?”

“No.”

I roll my eyes before pulling him to follow me. “Then let’s talk outside. I have a very nosy roommate whose ear is definitely pressed up against the door right now.”

To my relief, Chase willingly follows. As soon as we step through the lobby doors, the wind whips stray strands of hair from my bun, and I wrap my arms around my torso to shield myself from the sudden chill. I would normally love this. All I ever want is for the temperature to drop on Christmas so it can give me an excuse to wear a sweater, but since I had no intentions of leaving my apartment today, this T-shirt isn’t giving me much to work with.

Chase takes in the sight of me and immediately shrugs off his jacket. “Here.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re cold.”

“We’re in Florida. It’s not that bad.”

“You’re right, we’re in Florida, and it’s not that bad.” He holds my stare. “You’re still cold.”

The last time I wore his jacket comes to mind. The way he looked at me as he kept his distance in his kitchen. The way he said it made me look innocent. The way he wanted to . . . I shut down the thought and grit my teeth. “I don’t need your jacket, Chase.”

He’s made up of harsh lines. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so stern, and that alone has me losing my bearings. With all seriousness, he says, “Candace, either you put on this jacket, or I drop it at your feet. At least your toes will be warm.” He holds out the jacket again, his eyebrows raised. “Well?”

I glance down at my bare feet before snatching the jacket out of his hand and slipping it on. “You are so dramatic.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m dramatic?” He holds my stare, waiting for some type of confirmation, so I cock an eyebrow. With a shake of his head, he runs a hand over his face. “You won’t even talk to me, but I’m dramatic.”

I shove my hands in the pockets of his jacket to stop myself from wringing my fingers until they’re sore. It’s warm, and it smells like him. I wish I could bring the fabric to my nose andbreathe him in, but I fight the urge. The right pocket has a small piece of paper, and my fingers clutch it tightly. Chase’s eyes are already heavily landing on me again, so I say, “What is there to talk about?”

My question hangs in the air between us. He rubs his hand over the back of his neck, but his eyes never leave mine. The weight of his stare has my nerves frayed, my pulse quickening beneath the surface. My fingers crumple the small paper, my tight fists hidden within the jacket pockets.

“I think you like me.”

My cheeks flare, and I let my eyes track a car passing because it’s easier than looking at him. “Well, I did sleep with you.”

“No.” He takes a step forward, forcing my attention back to him. “I think it’s more than that.”

He’s going to corner me aboutmyfeelings? Half of me wants to run while the other half wants to march up to him and remind him that he was the one who made this fake. He was the one who didn’t mean to ask me out in the first place. The result has me frozen in place, stuck between the two. My only defense is to raise an unimpressed brow. “You think it’s more than that?”

He considers me as he takes another careful step in my direction. “A lot more.”

I let out a huff andbegmy cheeks not to give me away.

Even though I haven’t said anything, Chase closes the space between us with one final step. My body feels more alive than it has in days. When it comes to Chase, my body doesn’t care about self-preservation one bit. It’s only my heart that stands tall with the caution tape around it.

“I want a lot more,” he finally says, his voice quiet.

I blink, my hand loosening around the tiny paper. “No, you don’t.”

Chase forces a laugh. “How are you going to tell me what I don’t want?”

Instead of answering his question, I blurt, “Your boss,” and hope he understands what I mean, even though I can’t make a coherent sentence right now.

He waves off my concern. “We don’t have to worry about her.”

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