Page 86 of The Snowflake Effect

I finished my design-firm research several days ago, but every time I try to broach the subject with Shay and suggest she move to Vancouver, I overheat and feel off and find myself switching topics. I’m obviously terrified of her rejection, but time is no longer on our side. The store is almost complete, merchandise arriving tomorrow along with Sawyer, who will help us pull the space together. We’ll have late nights and long hours of training staff ahead.

Tonight is my last chance before the grand opening next weekend to spend quality time with Shay. To propose my plan for our future and hope she doesn’t rip out my heart. I mean, I love her so damn much—words I finally need to say out loud—that I’ve been working myself into anxiety sweats.

Needing distraction, I continue with my people watching. At least the dude at the back provides ample entertainment.

He’s in a corner booth with another couple, his arm draped over the dark leather cushion behind what must be his girlfriend, but his eyes haven’t left the waitress with the full breasts, her tight white blouse sure to rake in tips.

I tap my fingers to the crooner tunes drifting from the speakers, relaxing more and enjoying the show. Either the girlfriend is oblivious to his wandering gaze, or she happily trades that for the rocks sparkling around her neck.

“Hey there, handsome.” Shay’s voice blocks out the rising laughs from another nearby table as she slides into the seat opposite me. “Sorry I’m late. It took forever to fix the angle of the silkscreens. But, oh my God, it looks so freaking good. I can’t believe how the space is coming together. And”—she tries to sit still, but the table shakes from her bouncing legs—“I have news.”

I plant my palms on her knees until they still. Her bare knees. The ones above her red fuck-me boots and below that sexy, fitted gray skirt of hers. I love when she wears skirts. “Kiss me first, news after.”

She huffs out a playful breath. “If I must.”

I never used to be one for PDA, or sex in public places, but there’s something about Shay. Sliding my hand up her skirt, I kiss her hard and run my thumb along her panty line.

She pulls back, breathless. “Hello to you, too.”

I extricate my hand and push the glass of Chardonnay I ordered for her across the table. “Why don’t we toast your news, Connor?”

My use of her nickname earns me a glare—which is pretty much why I do it—but she doesn’t ask for its source again. She’s determined to figure out the reference on her own.

Her dirty look transforms quickly, her face scrunching like Jackson’s when he’s too keyed up to sit still. My lips tug upward, too, her excitement infectious, but as the seconds tick by, I realize there’s only one thing that would have Shay so stoked that she’s bouncing in her chair.

The job. The associate designer position.

Hilary must have promoted her.

This is everything Shay wants. Everything she’ll hate to leave.

I raise my glass, expecting my heart to sink, but I feel oddly calm. Happy for her, really. Because she worked her tail off for this.

Finally, her joy spills out. “Hilary took me aside as I was leaving, which is why I’m late, and she offered me the job. Associate designer, Kolton. A permanent position! I mean, I know she’s hinted at it, but it’s been so nuts I didn’t have time to stress over her decision. And now”—she squeals—“I have a real live job.”

She tosses her head back, and I can’t help but revel in her success. I’m so damn proud of her. No matter what she chooses for our future, that won’t change.

“To you,” I say, raising my drink higher.

She settles onto her elbows, and we clink glasses. “To the man who thought I could do it and gave me the chance to prove myself.”

Eyes locked, we sip our drinks, then we chat about the space, the job, and the opening next week. The whole while, she gestures with her hands and sips her wine, only stopping when a plate of steak frites passes our table. Our cue to order. More talking, more laughing.

As we eat off each other’s plates, we dissect the Sawyer-Lily drama. Shay agonizes over how they’ll survive the grand opening—Lily attending with Kevin, Sawyer with his flavor of the week. It won’t be pretty. She frowns when I mention Nico will be coming, too. Apparently, Raven gets weird when the big guy is mentioned, but Shay hasn’t figured out why.

Our plates are removed, a molten chocolate cake is ordered, and I suddenly feel ready to have The Talk with Shay. My weird flushing and heart palpitations are absent. My palms aren’t clammy, and I feel confident laying out my plan. Delaying this talk another day or week or month won’t make any difference.

We need to figure our shit out, promotion or not.

I run my finger around the base of my wineglass, distracted momentarily by that jerk from earlier, who guffaws with a loose arm slung behind his girlfriend.

Ignoring him, I say, “We need to talk.”

The glow Shay has sported all night dulls, the lines between her eyes creasing. “Now?”

“I leave in two weeks, Shay, and the rest of our time here is only getting busier. We can’t keep pretending we’re not on a timeline. But I’ve been thinking a lot, and I have a suggestion.”

She bites her lip. Her eyes search mine, imploring, seeking.