Page 49 of Falling Like Snow

Micah: Stay

Staring at the screen, I bite my lip to hide my smile in case he’s watching me from a window. And with shaky fingers, I type something I probably shouldn’t:

Me: Maybe I would have if you’d kissed me.

Me: No one likes a guy who plays hard to get.

I hurry and shove my phone in my pocket and nearly sprint to my car. The needly pain can suck it.

I don’t know this spontaneous, flirtatious version of Sloane Sullivan, but I’m not hating her. It’s a fun little role to play.

I’m about to put my car into drive when my phone buzzes.

Micah: does that mean you’re trying to get me

Micah: because trust me I’m not running

Micah: come back in. i will happily kiss you

I grin at my phone like a fool—like someone who didn’t almost puke on him because she was so nervous about being a bad kisser.

Me: Sorry. You missed your chance tonight. Maybe next time you won’t hesitate.

Me: If there is a next time. Who knows who I’ll meet at the reindeer farm tomorrow?

Micah: evil woman

Me:

Chapter Thirteen

It’s after midnight by the time I get to Asher’s house. The inside is dark—except for the glow of his TV in his bedroom window.

You up? I text from my car, since he always sleeps with his TV on.

I wait for a response.

Nothing.

I should let him sleep. I know that. And yet I find myself closing my car door behind me and crossing the front lawn to his window. The sound of me tapping on it seems to echo through the streets of Bramble Falls. Still, when he doesn’t come, I tap a little harder.

A painfully crisp breeze cuts through the yard, turning me into a human icicle and making my eyes water. I’m about to give up and go when his curtain moves. He slides it to the side and lifts his window, bending down to look at me with sleepy eyes.

“Sloane?” His voice is hoarse and befuddled.

“Let me in,” I say. “It’s freaking cold out here.”

He pushes the window higher and backs away, motioning for me to enter. I heave myself over the window ledge and fall into his bedroom with a crash. I pick myself up off the floor as he closes the window. Only then do I realize he’s not wearing a shirt with his gray-and-black flannel pajama pants.

And, yeah, of course I’ve seen him a million times without a shirt. But not in months. And, honestly, it’s weird that my once-scrawny friend has become… this.

I poke his solid stomach. “Have you been going to the gym?” I ask, even though I know he hates exercising as much as I do. He must just be growing into himself.

It’s definitely working for him.

“What are you doing here?” He self-consciously crosses his arms over his goose-bump-covered torso—the one I realize I’m still staring at.

“If you’re cold, you can get back in bed,” I say, slipping out of my coat and toeing my boots off. “Sorry I let in the arctic air.”