Page 13 of The Snowflake Effect

Apparently, my game is officially gone.

She frowns, the flirty woman from a moment ago nowhere to be seen. “Interior designer,” she says, her tone flat. Then she glances over my shoulder, and her eyes spark back to life. “Are those salt-and-vinegar chips?”

I glance at the bag of potato chips. “Yeah. Help yourself.”

A soft sigh later, she’s digging into the bag like she hasn’t eaten in weeks, while I pour another drink, still on edge.

Talking to this woman should be easy. I certainly have no problem arguing with her, but I suddenly feel off balance. Her moans of pleasure as she eats aren’t helping—low and throaty sounds, reminding me how long it’s been since I’ve even kissed a woman.

I remain mute, my blood pumping south faster than is comfortable, but damn, those curves of hers are enticing. The longer I watch her, the harder it gets to resist pressing her against the counter so I can swallow those sexy sounds.

I blink. Swallow. Try to get a handle on this intense attraction.

“The plastic isn’t edible,” I tease when she’s practically sucking the crumbs from the bottom.

She freezes, her jaw set and lips pursed. “I’ll eat the plastic if I want, but I appreciate you looking out for my girlish figure.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “That was a joke, Shay. I’m sure you’ve heard of those on the other side of Canada.”

I regret my sarcasm the second I’m done. With today’s frustrations, and the way I can’t seem to act normal around Shay, I’m certainly earning the nickname Asshole.

“I can take a joke,” she says. When the others look our way, she turns her back to them and lowers her voice. “You, however, are lacking in the conversation department. Your buddies seem pretty nice. Easygoing. But the guy who blindsided me today and can’t relax enough to hang out isn’t what I’d call fun.”

I balk and gesture to my chest. “I’m the definition of fun.” But Shay looks pointedly at my other hand, which is clutching my glass so tightly the thing might shatter. “At least, I used to be,” I add, loosening my grip and my stiff stance.

Her eyes twinkle. “In the ice ages?”

“More like the paleolithic era.”

She hums, nodding. “That tracks.”

The sad truth of it.

I used to be a carefree guy, ditching school to hit the beach, putting off work if it meant more hours sleeping. I was even the president of my fraternity. I’m the guy who spent an entire night slathering butter in the hallways of our frat house and videoed suckers sliding around in the morning.

Now it’s all about the schedule—Jackson’s, mine. Work dominates every free minute I have. I need a drink to unwind these days. Responsibilities have dampened my ability to let loose.

Shay, apparently, sees right through me. But I see her, too.

“So, the chips,” I say. “Are you secretly training for the Chip Eating Olympics and you verbally attacked me because you’re worried I’ll reveal your inhaling technique to your competition, or do you have history with assholes who get on your case about food?”

It’s her turn to stiffen, those dark eyes narrowing at me. “Since we’ve all established you’re an asshole, I’d say the shoe fits in the present. But, yeah, I also have a history with that type of passive-aggressive human. My comments, however, weren’t a verbal attack.”

“True. Your voice was laced with enough sarcastic venom to kill every insect in a thirty-mile radius.”

“Clearly not enough.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re still standing.”

There’s no controlling the lift of my lips. “It’s the thick layer of hostility I can’t seem to work off at the gym. Makes an excellent shield.”

She laughs, so sharply she looks surprised. “That also tracks.”

I nod to the empty chip bag still in her hand. “I have more chips, if you can let go of your hostility long enough to eat them.”

I cringe inwardly. That last part came out more challenging than the teasing I intended. Especially after hearing a man in her past was one of those insecure bastards who made women feel like crap to make themselves feel bigger.

Shay crumples the bag and launches it at the sink, looking like she wishes it was my head. “You may be hot and mildly amusing, but you’re just like every other dick who…”

She goes on some rant, her voice low and raspy, and I want nothing more than to hit rewind, be less provoking. Make her laugh again, but my flirtation skills are so rusty they’re practically corroded. I should leave the condo and put us both out of our misery, but I can’t tear my eyes from the edge of red lace peeking out from the low neckline of her gray top, the swell of her breasts stretching the fabric.