Page 5 of The Snowflake Effect

“Fuck you.” With a grunt, Nico walks his massive thighs in and sprawls out just to piss Sawyer off.

Steam rises from the water, a few snowflakes starting to fall. A couple of kids are in the nearby pool jumping around, and my mind is back on Jackson, hoping he’s listening to his teacher. Hoping that obnoxious kid Evan isn’t pushing him around.

Evan, the little shit.

Nico runs a hand over his buzzed head and reaches for his beer. “Hit us with the rest of your horrible day on the gorgeous slopes of Aspen.”

I exhale as the cold snowflakes dissolve on the warm stone around us. “A bra landed on my head, so there’s that.”

Sawyer sputters out a laugh around his beer. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me fine. I was under that stupid bra tree, and someone had bad aim.”

Hearing some women above me laugh their asses off as I fisted the black fabric and flung it into the trees made it even worse.

Sawyer keeps chuckling, and I give him a kick.

At least Nico’s laugh is quieter as he shakes his head. “Please tell me your day got better after that.”

“Wish I could, but my next chair got stuck for five minutes. Then, on my next run, some bitch skied into me. Our skis crossed, and she sent me flying.” Knocked the wind clean out of my chest.

“Ouch.” Sawyer winces. “You didn’t hurt your shoulder again, did you?”

I roll out the joint that often dislocates. “Thankfully no, but my goggles got trashed. Still can’t believe how she flew across the run out of nowhere.”

I may have been skiing hard—barreling down the run to work out the morning’s frustrations—but there was no apology from her. No remorse. She got up and blew past me. Not before giving me the one-finger salute.

As I stare out at the rugged mountains, trying to let go of today’s irritations, I can’t help picturing how she raced down the hill like an Olympian. There’s something about athletic women who can hold their own on the slopes that gets me going. I bet her legs are toned, her ass probably tight. Strip her out of that ski gear, and man, could that be the thing to take the edge off my day. An odd thought, considering casual hookups haven’t held any appeal lately.

Tired of reliving my frustrating day, I put my beer down, duck under the water, and push through the surface. The frosty air hits me like a shot of oxygen. Those kids are splashing each other, the nearby adult warning them to keep it down. I drag my hand down my face and shake out my hair.

Nico’s eyes dart to the kids, then back to me. “It’s Jackson’s birthday next month, isn’t it?”

I nod—a quick jerk of my head, no other comment needed.

Silence descends between us as we leave the rest unspoken. No one needs to mention Jackson turning seven means Marina died seven years ago. I don’t need the reminder. Life was taken and life was given. An even swap that nearly cut me down. If it weren’t for Jackson, I wouldn’t have made it.

High-pitched giggles float toward us, and Nico tips his beer toward two women who just arrived. They strip down to their bikinis and walk gingerly into the tub a few feet away, whispering to each other as they eye him. With his buzzed head, massive build, and the tattoos curving over his shoulders, he looks more Hell’s Angels than the cop he is, but the dude is all heart.

Not many guys would upend their lives and move in with a friend for eight months to help raise his son. I cringe, thinking what it would have been like if I had to move back home with my dad, stepmom, and the chaos my three stepbrothers inspire.

The word loud comes to mind.

Nico clears his throat. “Does your recent break from women have anything to do with that birthday?” Still no mention of Marina. No need to twist the knife in my gut.

“No,” Sawyer answers for me. “He’s attempting to achieve sainthood through celibacy.”

I squeeze my beer until my knuckles burn. “Not joining you while you sleep through half of Vancouver doesn’t mean I’m celibate. Just not interested right now. Tons going on with the expansion at work, and Jackson keeps me busy. Time’s a commodity.” The bubbling water around us stills, a shriek and a splash from the pool piercing the quiet.

“Speaking of work…” Sawyer juts his chin toward a man and woman heading for the reception area. The woman has on a Moondog jacket, the guy a Moondog hat, both items from our fall/winter clothing line. The Runaway Jacket—with its asymmetrical zipper, thick lapels, and buckles up the sides—fits the blond perfectly, the deep purple tone even sharper than I remember.

Sawyer leans out of the tub to hit the dial, and the jets roar back to life. “The jacket looks good, huh?”

I sigh, dreading what’s coming. He may be the design guy behind our growing retail chain, but sometimes he goes too far, edgier than I think our clientele will dig. Not every woman wants to be rocker chic. “Do I have to say it now, or can it wait until later?”

After a long pull on his beer, he shrugs. “Now suits me fine.”

I tip my head back, the ends of my hair sinking into the water. “Sawyer, dude, you are the man.”