Page 97 of The Snowflake Effect

Jesus. Does everyone know me better than I know myself?

Over the past month, I’ve found a semblance of balance. Stella’s taken on more of my workload, and Caroline babysits for Jackson a few nights a week, allowing me time for rock climbing and karate. Things I’ve missed. Still, I can barely keep it together. My temper flares at will. I even barked at Jackson the other day for asking me to watch a video. Without Shay, none of it works. Nothing settles me the way she does, and it’s all my fault.

“How do I get her back?” I lament again. “A simple apology won’t cut it.”

“Whatever you do,” Sawyer says, “you need to be snappy about things. Shay’s a mess, too.”

My eyes cut to his. “What do you mean?” We’ve had a pact until now, the unspoken knowledge that all topics involving, concerning, or relating to Shay were off the table. The pact is over. “Did something happen at Concept?”

Nico shakes his head. “You really are dense, dude.”

Sawyer chimes in with, “Her job? Seriously?” He squints at me the way he does at reality TV shows, his these people are dumber than glue always following. “She’s taken your self-pity act up a notch. If she runs any more, I think she’ll snap her Achilles, and she’s single-handedly keeping that cupcake shop in business. Work seems fine, but I’m pretty sure she regrets her decision not to move here, and the girls are worried. Lily’s been on my ass to talk to you.”

My heart knocks in my ears, the room around me spinning. Our last dinner date replays in my mind—Shay’s excited squeals and infectious grin as she dished about her promotion. What’s kept me marginally sane the past month has been that image, knowing, believing, she’s happy. That, although it wasn’t her first choice, losing us but keeping her job would be enough for her.

“Why hasn’t she called me, then?” I say, immediately knowing the answer to that idiotic question. Why would she choose a man who wasn’t ready to be all in?

I never even told her how much I love her.

“Based on the fact that you look about to puke,” Sawyer says, “I’m guessing you know the answer to that nonsense. And that’s enough motivational peptalking for me.” He smacks his hands on my desk. “I leave the rest in your capable hands. Time to get Nico liquored up.”

He punches the big guy’s shoulder, probably hurting himself more than Nico.

“Wait,” I say as they stand.

They plop down and fold their arms simultaneously, one eyebrow cocked each.

I went to Toronto this summer with a plan: Convince Shay to go out with me. I might have been blind to my underlying fears, but I knew what it would take to sway her, and I didn’t let up. That first night together was worth the wait. She’s worth the wait and any risk to my heart.

It’s time I prove how important she is to me.

I look at Sawyer. “The Snow Show’s in three weeks, right? At the Toronto Convention Center?” He nods, and I go on, “Last I heard, Shred pulled out, something about a disagreement with the organizers. Do you know the owner, Tom Sittler, well enough to ask a favor?”

He massages his chin. “Yeah. We’ve skied together a few times. Frequent the same bars. Why?”

My nausea dissipates. If I pull this off, if I make the impossible happen in three weeks, I could have Shay in my arms before winter hits. “Just ask him if he still has that glass dome he built for the Vegas trade show, the one that housed the indoor snowboard stunts. We need it. I don’t care what it costs.”

Sawyer salutes. “On it, Captain.”

Adrenaline surging, I push off my chair and gather my things. I pause and look up at Nico. “You still speak with your buddy on the Toronto force?”

“Greer? Yeah. We message from time to time.”

“Perfect. I’ll need you to get in touch with him. Do some smooth-talking.”

He winks. “Also on it.”

Once the details are discussed, I blow past the guys and out the door, still furious with myself but pumped with determination. Terminator Shay is about to get schooled in the art of wooing.

CHAPTER 42

SHAY

The buzzer in my apartment sounds, and I hurry downstairs, hoping the delivery is the picture frame I ordered for one of Raven’s stunning photographs.

Outside, a thin-mustached delivery guy taps his toe, yawning, a small package tucked under his arm—too small to be the frame. “Shay Gallagher?”

I nod. “In the flesh.”