Page 18 of The Snowflake Effect

We hunch lower and finish our trek to the condo. Earlier, I was worried I’d go to sleep and wake up as the old Shay, poised and proper. Meek and passive. If I’m going to get through another night, and possibly more, hanging out with Kolton, I better not have buried that woman too deep. Our combustible chemistry leads to poor choices.

CHAPTER 8

SHAY

Legs on fire, I push off the chairlift, thrilled there’s only one more run between me and a cafeteria filled with greasy food. I can already taste the bacon cheeseburger I’ll be ordering.

I lick my lips, wishing I’d met the girls for lunch when they texted me an hour ago, but two feet of fresh powder on Aspen Mountain takes priority. And it’s been therapeutic.

The Kolton fiasco is ancient history—the Broken Condom Incident, our arguments, and his disappearing act are long forgotten. When I see him tonight, it won’t be weird or awkward. I don’t care if he has a girlfriend back home. That’s his bed to sleep in. I don’t want to know a thing about him or his history, and since we’ve worked out whatever sexual tension was between us, maybe we’ll even get along. Anything for my friends.

Aiming for the run under the chair and the untracked snow I spotted to the left, I urge my burning thighs on. I lean back just enough and float downhill. Snow flies up midchest as I bounce through the fluffy powder. The stuff of dreams. At home, skiing through a snowfall this thick would be like plowing through sludge. In Aspen, it’s like dancing a waltz.

My tired thighs fade to the background, each turn making me giddy.

By the time I make it down and rack my skis, I’m on cloud nine, but my belly rumbles. The smell of charred meat drifts from the lodge, and I hightail it inside as fast as my ski boots will allow. Clunk. Clunk. Drag. Clunk. Elegant, I am not.

With all the basic food groups present and accounted for in the cafeteria—salty, greasy, sweet, and breaded—it’s hard to know where to start.

Ten minutes later, my biceps ache under the weight of my tray. I scan the busy space, taking in the massive windows and cathedral ceiling. Whoever designed this lodge checked all the country-chic boxes.

Thick wood beams. Fireplace. Accented stone wall.

Predictable. Tired. Done to death.

In my mind, I swap the beams for detailed ironwork, the dark wood walls for a sleek white stain. I replace the chairs with barn-board benches, their wide legs made up of the same funky iron. In my mind, I rock the shit out of this room.

My strained arms dip as I shake the images away. I plop my lunch on an empty table and toss my helmet and gear next to it, then I take my seat. I’m dying to stuff my face, but this type of meal requires planning. The fries have to be last. That’s a no-brainer. And the burger needs to be in my mouth now…so burger, then chicken fingers, pizza, Mars Bar, and the fries for the big finish. There’s no chance I’ll finish half of this, but I couldn’t resist tasting it all.

Credit cards were invented for a reason.

I double-fist the burger, juice dripping on my tray as I ease the beefy, bacony awesomeness toward my mouth. And God, that first bite. The salt and char mingle with the cheese and doughy bun so perfectly I think I’ve landed in heaven.

Then I hear, “Where’s the rest of your ski group?”

I’m pretty sure the Asshole doesn’t have the password to get past my Pearly Gates (last night aside). The chewed lump of meat settles in my throat as I try to gulp it down. Two massive sips of my non–Diet Coke later, I manage to swallow. “Can I help you?”

“Just wondering where the ski team is that’s sharing all this food.” Without an invitation, Kolton sits opposite me, his eyes twinkling. He puts his helmet and jacket beside mine and leans on his elbows. His perfect hair flops forward.

He may only be teasing me about my smorgasbord, but the subject still irks.

I take the biggest bite I can and tip my head back, chewing and moaning in ecstasy. Still hamming it up, I put down the burger, wipe my hands, and plant my elbows on either side of my tray, mirroring his position. Without a word, I stick to my plan and grab a chicken finger. I roll it around the plum sauce and take a massive bite.

“Mmmmmmm…” Sounds of pleasure escape as I chew, never breaking eye contact with Kolton.

His full bottom lip drops open.

Next, I tear a section from the pizza and deposit it on my tongue, making sure to suck every drop of grease from my fingers. Then it’s a bite from the Mars Bar and a handful of fries, and Kolton is watching me like he paid fifty bucks at a peep show.

His hand disappears below the table as he shifts on his seat, my irritation suddenly less pronounced. There’s something down there I’d like in my mouth, too.

The sudden desire is an involuntary reaction, animalistic almost. Until he extricates his hand, reaches across the table, and grabs some fries.

I smack his wrist, but he doesn’t drop them. “Hands off, buddy.”

He shoves the bounty into his mouth and chews slowly, matching my glare. “You should share. Wouldn’t want you to…what did you call it last night? Harm your ‘girlish figure’? I think you said that jab before we had sex in the bathroom, which was also before you took off without a word. Maybe you remember?”

This guy. Just like last night, being around him gives me whiplash: he annoys me, I want him, then he annoys me again. “Yeah, I remember. I think I said that when you got all up in my face about eating the same chips you probably devour, like it’s okay for a man but not a woman. And I’m pretty sure it was before you dropped me to answer the phone, which was after you fucked me on a sink. Is that the comment of which you speak?” I pick up the Mars Bar and inhale another bite.