When the Fake Snow Falls

Chapter 1

one

How anyone survives the day without a 2:00 p.m. pick me up, I have no idea. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear as I stare at the menu boards above. The wood paneled walls and black iron décor hardly make the coffee shop feel cozy or in the holiday spirit, but they’ve tried with the hanging ornaments, strung garland, and a Christmas tree in the back corner. Southern Roast is the best place to get coffee in town—once you realize it is, in fact, a coffee shop and not a restaurant that serves half pound racks of ribs with sides of cornbread.

My lightweight cardigan slips, leaving my shoulder bare and the strap of my tank exposed. It’s still 85 degrees, but I refuse to let Florida win. If it’s December, I should be able to wear a sweater, damn it. It might be made of the thinnest possible fabric, and I can only wear it while I’m somewhere with air conditioning, but I’m wearing it. I pull up the soft material and wrap it tighter around myself.

“One coffee, black.” The voice of the man in front of me pulls me from my thoughts. His voice is deep and smooth, with just enough gravel to pique my interest. I can only see the back of him. Dark hair and a suit are all I get, but you can tell a lot about a person by their coffee order. Black coffee either means he likes the control of being able to add cream and sugar himself, or he’s the no-nonsense type who needs straight fuel.

His chestnut brown hair is styled in a way that might fool some women into thinking he wakes up that way, but I know better. I can smell the Johnny B. styling gel on him. His business attire is pristine. Not a wrinkle on his navy pants or a scuff on his brown leather shoes. He cares about appearances—either that, or he has a wife who cares about it.

I casually crane my neck to the left and scan his hand resting on the counter.

No ring.

He looks over his shoulder at me, and only then do I realize I never stopped craning. Staggering a step, a whoosh of air leaves my lungs. “Sorry. I was just—I was . . .” Heat flares in my cheeks, and I point past him. “Danishes.”

He smiles, and it’s a disarming smile my mother would love. Seriously, doesn’t this man have any obvious flaws? At this point I would have been relieved to see a chipped tooth.

He steps aside. “Don’t let me be the one to deprive you of baked goods.”

His voice has a commanding undertone that makes me wonder what else he doesn’t want to deprive me of. “You’re fine,” I say with a raise of my hand—half trying to wave, half hiding my face behind it.

He lets out a low laugh before stepping aside anyway as he pays. I guess to give me a better view of the . . . Danish I was staring at.

The barista hands him his cup, and he scribbles on his receipt and leaves it behind before walking off to add cream and sugar to his coffee. I guess it’s the control for him.

“Peppermint Mocha, please.”

The girl behind the counter nods, and I stare down at the sliver of white paper .

Number?

The temperature of the blood in my body rises to a simmer. I snatch the paper and stare down at it. In my twenty-seven years of life, I have never seen such a perfect specimen of man, and now he wants my number?

My eyes dart to where he mixes his coffee with his back turned like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Before he can turn around, I quickly jot down my number and slide the receipt back where he left it. I’m constantly handing my number out to potential clients. What’s one more person?

As he walks toward me again, it takes all my self-restraint not to stare at him.

In one fluid movement, he slides the receipt off the counter and raises his cup. “Ladies,” he says with a nod before ducking out of the shop. I watch through the glass storefront as he tucks the small white paper into his pocket and takes a sip of his coffee.

My lips twist as I try to fight my smile, and I don’t tear my eyes from him until he’s out of sight.

“One peppermint mocha for Candace,” the barista says with a grin as she hands me the cup.

“Thanks.” I return the smile and head out of the shop feeling lighter. My eyes can’t help but wander in the direction he went, but he’s long gone by now. Did he really ask for my number? Or was it a thirty second fever dream?

My phone chimes, and my breathing halts. That was fast. Maybe he’s one of those people who are highly efficient. It’s only when I see it’s a group text with my parents that my lungs open again.

Mom:

Candy Cane! I’ve got something special we can do this Christmas.

My parents never fail to go big on Christmas. Their house in north Florida is always decorated top to bottom. Even their yard out front ends up looking like Santa’s workshop.

A message from my dad shortly follows. It’s a link for some type of wellness cruise. I step aside on the sidewalk to get a better look. The thumbnail for the site shows everyone wearing all white and the tagline reads: Nothing Frees Your Spirit like the Open Sea.

Mom:

So much for easing her in.

Dad:

She won’t come. Might as well just send it to her.

Although we’d love to have you!

Mom:

What do you think???

I think they’ve both lost their minds. It’s been a slow descent, but every year they get a little more mind, body, and soul, and I get a little more I have bills to pay and don’t have time for this shit.

Candace:

You guys do know this isn’t your average cruise, right?

They know. It’s probably why they’re so excited, but I have to ask. My parents are the type to unknowingly join a cult, and I do feel some small semblance of responsibility to protect them from themselves.

Mom:

It’s better! You follow a detox program catered to you by their experts.

Dad:

It’s supposed to be very healing.

I’m about to ask if they’re sitting on the couch together, but I already know that’s the case. They’re both retired. Both enjoying their life as empty nesters with one overly independent daughter they can’t seem to match up or marry off no matter how hard they try.

As if on cue, another message comes in from my mother.

Mom:

You might even meet someone!

I roll my eyes and start walking again as I type my response. As much as I don’t want to go on this cruise, the thought of not seeing them for the holidays already has my Christmas spirit waning . Part of me is tempted to ask if they can go on the cruise any other week of the year, but if I know my parents, they wouldn’t have chosen these dates lightly. It’s probably a limited sale they don’t want to pass up, and as much as I want to spend time with them on land, I’d hate for them to miss out.

Candace:

I think it all looks great, but I already have clients booked that week. You two have fun! We’ll celebrate together in the New Year.

There’s a longer pause this time, and I know they’re discussing how to respond. They’re probably talking about how guilty they’ll feel, but also how I have my own life here in Sanford. It will be fine because they know I won’t be alone. That will make them feel better, and they’ll still go on the cruise like they should.

Mom:

Are you sure?

Candace:

Very sure.

Dad:

You won’t be sad on Christmas?

I let out a huff of laughter before typing my response.

Candace:

Not even a little.

I glance up to take inventory of my surroundings. Most people working in the area have already taken their lunch break, but there are still a few stragglers crossing the cobblestone street as I head to the salon.

Beauty Mark Salon & Styling Bar sits nestled between a chic boutique on one side and one of those wine and craft places on the other. I love seeing people make an entire afternoon out of this tiny strip of sidewalk.

My hand slips from the cool metal handle when another text comes in.

Mom:

It’s booked! Wish you were coming with us Candy Cane!

Candace:

Me too. Love you both.

Four messages come in back-to-back showing gifs of bears drawing hearts and emojis blowing kisses.

The bell dings over my head as I pull open the door, and our assistant greets me before looking up. “Welcome to Beauty Mark!” Amanda calls out over the chatter of other stylists and their clients.

“It’s just me.” I smile at her and head to my station. Just like the coffee shop, the salon manager has started spreading the holiday cheer. Mistletoe hangs sporadically from the ceiling, holly and garland drape the front desk and frame the doorways, and there’s even a Charlie Brown style Christmas tree tucked in the corner.

Amanda beams when she sees that it’s me. “Oh! Hey, Candace. Your three o’clock called and said she might get here a few minutes before her appointment. She was wondering if you could take her early.”

I take a sip of my drink and nod. “Of course.” I should have known better than to duck out because I know exactly which client she’s referring to. Giving Amanda a look she knows all too well, I say, “I swear Nicolette just likes to keep people on their toes.”

She lets out a snort. “Probably.”

My eyes fall to the sad excuse for a lunch I packed this morning: half a leftover salad and a yogurt. Neither of which I can eat quickly and gracefully if my client is about to walk through the door. My eyes wander to the coffee I just set down at my station. You, my friend, have been upgraded to lunch.

Neatly hanging my cardigan on the wall hook, I reach for my black apron and slip it over my head. I tie the strings behind my back as I eye myself in the mirror. My shoulder length dark hair is styled and waved. I added a little purple on the ends last week, and I’m happy with how well the color has held. It’s rare that I have down time at the salon, but when I do, it usually means a new color gets put in my hair. I’ve had blonde, blue, pink, red, and now purple—most of which I’ve let Amanda do so she can practice. She’s a few years younger than me, but we hit it off from day one.

Securing the bow behind my back, I give myself one last look before I plaster on my customer service smile and act like I didn’t just skip lunch. Without my cardigan, the inked lines of roses and lilies trailing from my right shoulder are on full display. I have a few smaller tattoos scattered about, but the half sleeve is the most noticeable. Everything else is from when I was a teenager and still wanted the option of hiding them if I needed to.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I wonder what great detail my parents forgot to include about their trip. But the notification isn’t from my parents. It’s from an unknown number.

Unknown Number:

I know you’re probably working, but I had to say thank you. Getting your number made this shitty Tuesday feel like a Friday.

My heart stutters. With all the talk of my parents’ holiday plans, I had almost forgotten about the guy at the coffee shop. The reminder has me buzzing with energy, and my Tuesday suddenly feels a lot more like a Friday, too.