Page 19 of The Snowflake Effect

He pulls his head back and winces. “Shit. I’m sorry. The phone call threw me off. It was⁠—”

I hold up my palm. “Not another word. I don’t care. Seriously. Last night happened, and it’s over. I don’t care who was on the phone. I don’t want us to sing ‘Kumbaya’ and hold hands as we share our deepest and darkest. Apparently, our friends have hit it off, which means we have to pretend we can tolerate each other for”—I squint as I do the mental math—“another four nights, if they insist on hanging out, and then we can return to our opposite sides of Canada and forget we ever met. Sound good?”

He flexes his jaw and taps his fingers on the table. “Sure. No problem, friend. I was going to suggest the same thing.”

His irate tone flips my childish get-in-the-last-word switch. As a kid, I was shy and insecure with my friends. Not with my family. Road trips rolled to the soundtrack of my mother’s, “That’s enough, Shay,” as I’d nudge and taunt my older brother, Thomas, often singing in his ear. He’d never rise to the bait, but my ability to annoy him had no bounds.

Any thoughts of acting mature and getting along are so done. “Says the man who used the word unreal in the aftermath. At least one of us got off.”

“Says the woman whose teeth tore through the shoulder of my long-underwear top to stop from screaming. And since we’re friends, I’m sure you won’t mind sharing some of the heart-attack-on-a-tray you’re inhaling.” He grabs the pizza, ignoring my whats and heys and get your owns.

Twenty minutes later, having not said another word to each other, all that’s left is a bite of burger and two chicken fingers between us. He tries to eat the last few fries, but I’m faster. I shove them into my mouth, eliciting a deep belly laugh from him.

His cheeks crease and the corners of his eyes crinkle, the softening of his features sending a flutter up my spine. An unwelcome flutter.

Last night I basically cried after we had sex. That unchecked-emotion lesson was loud and clear: keep away from boys. Then Kolton unleashes his sexy laugh, and I’m ready to muzzle the rational voice in my head.

I stand, knock my knee into the table, and hurry to the bathroom to get some distance. Not the best choice. One look at the sink and tap, and I’m back in his condo getting thoroughly fucked. God. One second I want to smother him with a pillow, the next I want to make him laugh just to hear that sound again and maybe visit another restroom. And I have to spend the night with him.

Damn karmic bra.

Taking my sweet time, I retie my ponytail, apply some lip balm, and leisurely heel-toe it back to the table in my ski boots, fingers crossed Kolton is gone. But he’s still here, all six feet of him, gear on, leaning that fine booty against my table.

He tosses me my anti-sexy helmet. “We should take another run before we head down.”

I catch the helmet and shake my head, unsure I heard him right. “Sorry, we? Shouldn’t you be skiing with your buddies? It’s bad enough you hijacked my lunch and I have to sit at a table with you again tonight. Now you want to ski together? Thanks, but no thanks.”

He lifts his arms over his head and stretches from side to side. A sliver of skin peeks out below his jacket. “The guys called it quits early. Worried you can’t keep up?”

As fucking if.

The guy’s obviously egging me on, but he snaps my self-control. Everything between us is action, reaction. Spark and flame. What’s his deal, anyway? Why sit with me and ski with me when we’re worse than cats and dogs?

If he thinks firing me up means he’s getting a replay of last night, he’s mistaken. Still, I need to beat his ass on the slopes. “Fine. I’ll take that run. It’s about time I put you in your place, but let’s be clear. We can have lunch and ski together, but there will be no sex.” A teen walking by stops midstride and doubles over in a fit of giggles.

“I didn’t catch that.” Kolton leans forward and cups a hand around his helmeted ear. “Do you mind speaking up?”

What a douche.

“Everyone is wise until he speaks,” I mumble, recalling my granddad’s words.

Kolton straightens, a question passing across his face. “Are you Irish? My granddad used to say that all the time. Along with, ‘Shut your mouth and eat your dinner.’”

I laugh, abrupt and maniacal, the sharp sound catching me off guard. The energy shifts between us, like the first time I understood my Spanish teacher—the foreign becoming familiar.

I frown, unsure I want Kolton to feel familiar. “Yeah, I am. The first curse I learned was feckin’ arse, and I’d kind of like to use it right now.”

He smiles to himself, as though we’re friends who would sit and talk and laugh about our shared upbringing.

Ruffled, I cram my helmet on, get geared up, and try to stomp out of the lodge all look out, buddy, but with the boots and Martian head, it’s a fail.

Skis on and goggles down, we race to the lift. He arrives first, making like he’s been waiting forever with a dramatic yawn. I roll my eyes and push past him. The lift line is empty, so it’s just him and me on the four-person chair.

“Mind not doing that?” he says partway up as I swing my skis.

The chair sways in response, and I rock my legs harder. “This?”

“Yeah. That.” He leans his elbows on the safety bar and closes his eyes.