Page 20 of The Snowflake Effect

If he pukes, I’ll likely toss my cookies, too. When my brother got food poisoning from China House’s all-you-can-eat buffet, it wasn’t pretty. I hadn’t eaten a thing there, but the second he threw up, I proceeded to reenact that pie eating scene from Stand by Me: projectile vomit, solid stream, fire hydrant force.

I still my skis and stop bouncing.

We pass one supporting tower, then another, before he opens his eyes.

“You regretting that lunch?” I ask, smirking.

He flexes his hands, and the poles dangling from his wrists knock around. “No. I’m regretting getting on this chair with you.”

Such a charmer. “Then you shouldn’t have taunted me with the thrill of skiing circles around you.” He goes to fling his hands in exasperation, but his poles smack the bar. “And if you’ve actually skied before,” I say, “you would know to take your straps off when getting on a lift.” I motion to the poles tucked under my thigh.

“That’s bullshit.”

“No. That’s safety. If a pole gets stuck getting on or off a lift, it could drag you along with it. But you wouldn’t know much about safe anything, would you, considering the cheap condoms you use.”

Our eyes meet at my acknowledgment of our illicit encounter and the Broken Condom Incident. His tongue skims his lips as his eyes darken, and my body heat congregates between my thighs.

He doesn’t reply.

“That’s what I thought,” I say as I struggle to sit still. This guy is too sexy for his own good. And mine. I may want to throttle him, but I want to kiss him, too. More than I ever remember longing to lock lips with anyone, but I still don’t trust this guy.

Muttering to himself, he tips his head back and then grabs his left pole and tries to yank it off. The loop around his wrist snags on his gloves. The Good Samaritan I am, I reach over to help. Unfortunately, we move at the same time—me pushing and him pulling—and the pole slips…then falls.

“Fuck.” He leans over, arm extended, as the pole sinks into the forest below us. He jerks up and swivels toward me. “What is wrong with you?”

There’s that tone again, the know-it-all gene that must only survive in overactive testosterone. “Me?” Eyebrow cocked, I jab a gloved hand at my chest. “I was just helping out. If you had your poles off from the start, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He snorts out a laugh, one of those angry, she-can’t-be-for-real laughs. “So this is my fault? You flinging my pole off the chair is somehow my fault? How do you figure?”

When he puts it that way…

But fighting with Kolton isn’t about right or wrong, true or false. It’s about knocking his Y chromosome down a peg, the one he shares with the Dick. Either that or I sign up for one of those self-defense classes where I get to beat the crap out of a guy in a sumo suit.

“If you stashed your attitude and weren’t yanking at the thing to prove a point, I could’ve grabbed the pole.”

“Right. Attitude. That’s rich coming from a woman who fucks me, explodes around my dick, then claims she never got off.” He adjusts his pants, but he can’t hide the thickness pressing against his zipper.

Not good.

Frustration powers my lungs, but my nipples tighten in response to his words and the visual they inspire, undermining my Y-chromosome attack. He was the one who bailed on me after the bathroom, but his chest rises as fast as mine now, the air around us snapping with desire.

And I need those full lips against mine. Now.

CHAPTER 9

SHAY

No longer caring about last night or potential regret, I grab Kolton’s jacket and try to kiss him. Apparently, my no-men motto jumped ship with that pole, but thanks to our goggles and helmets, my spontaneous move has us bouncing off each other like bumper cars.

That doesn’t stop Kolton.

He adjusts and leans forward, clutching me awkwardly. His teeth scrape my lip as we connect in a desperate kiss, our groans rising and falling with our breaths.

He pulls me closer, our bodies twisted toward each other, his remaining pole getting in the way. He presses into me with so much force I almost have to lie down. Thank God the couple of chairs in front of and behind us are empty. Although I doubt I’d stop if we had an audience.

“Touch me,” I say, the words escaping on gasps of air.

He goes to grab my thigh, but his pole rattles around again. “Fuck it.”