Page 28 of Falling Like Snow

“Yeah? What do you need T-shirts made for?”

“I think it’d be fun to sell some at the holiday market in a couple of weeks. But I have to figure out how much it’ll cost to see if it’s worth it.”

His smile grows. “Like I said—fate.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I can print them for you,” he says.

“Still not following.”

He chuckles. “I screen-print shirts. I have a whole setup in my garage. I can do up to four colors, preferably not on dark shirts.”

My mouth falls open. “Are you serious right now?”

“It’s how the hockey team saves money. I make the shirts we sell at games.”

I shake my head. “I don’t believe in fate, but this is pretty weird.” He laughs as a group of ladies, led by Micah’s new elderly devotee, shuffles back to the window.

I hand him the ladle. “I’m sure your fan club is only coming back so you can scoop their soup.”

He takes it from my hand as he steps toward me with an arrogant-yet-gorgeous grin. “Don’t be jealous, Sloane Sullivan. There’s always room for more in my fan club.”

“Micah!” Scarlett Silverman sings as she waddles up to the window. I clear my throat and back up out of Micah’s space. “I wanted to introduce you to my friends!” The gray-haired lady points to each of the senior citizens with her, rattling off their names. They wave at him as he flashes each of them his best smile—which is, admittedly, a really great smile.

As soon as they’re done talking his ear off, he turns back to me. “So, these shirts…”

“I’ll need to know how much they’re going to cost me,” I tell him.

“Give me your phone.”

I grab it from my pocket, unlock it, and hand it over. His thumbs travel over the screen for a minute; then he gives it back.

“There, now you have my number. Text me the details of what you need, and I’ll give you a price.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I slide my phone into my pocket. “And thanks for helping today.”

“Sure. Thanks for making it not suck.”

I smile. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We still have an hour left.”

“Not at all worried about it,” he says, swiveling back toward the window to ladle soup into the bowl of an approaching unhoused veteran. “I don’t think you could make anything suck if you tried.”

I bite back a grin as my face grows warm, and I remind myself that Micah is a flirt—no different from Jake.

But Jake is secretly a total softy. Sensitive, sweet, and empathetic.

And now part of me can’t help but wonder whether Micah has layers too.

Asher: Don’t eat dinner.

Me: You want me to starve to death?

Asher: Just be here at 7.

Me: Yes, boss. (If I don’t starve to death first)

Asher: I will provide you with food, drama queen.