Page 41 of The Snowflake Effect

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Whatever Kolton’s saying has her fuming.

What kind of dick chases me to my place of work? To what? Explain the massive truths he omitted in Aspen? If I were that kid of his, I’d look up the word stalker and tattoo the definition on Kolton’s face. And where’s the client Maeve said arrived?

She’s on the verge of a stroke. Kolton is still talking, Ramiro and Hilary both nodding. I stand, apoplectic, while Maeve’s silent tantrum graduates to full hysterics. She’s waving and pointing and stamping her foot, all while glaring at me. The whole thing plays out like chimpanzee sign language.

When the Asshole finally turns, his mouth drops open, and I follow his gaze to the coffeepot in my hands, which is tipping sideways.

Hot liquid pools near my feet, and I barely budge. Crap.

Waking from my daze, I hurry back to the kitchen, deposit the tray and pot and grab a wad of paper towel. I squeeze it and scream internally. What the hell is he saying in there? Any minute, our important client will appear from wherever they disappeared to, and they’ll have to wait while I apologize for allowing my personal life to follow—stalk—me into work.

What if I get fired?

The conference door makes its ear-splitting sound, and Maeve’s heels clickety-clack furiously toward me.

“What. Was. That?” she demands. Her white skin has an orange tinge from whatever fake tanning spray she uses. “All I asked, Shy, was that you pick up cookies, make coffee, and take notes during the meeting. Not spill coffee all over the floor. Hilary instructed me to guide you. Train you. When you misstep, it reflects on me, and I can’t have that. Not when the owner of Moondog is in the conference room about to hire us to design their new space. So clean up that mess and get it together. There’s too much riding on this.”

She stomps her foot sergeant-style, swivels, and marches back to the conference room. Not one fake-accented word was said about me needing to keep my personal life personal, and there was no mention of my ex–fuck buddy lingering in the conference room. But I didn’t hear much after she said Moondog.

Because that makes no sense.

Kolton is the only person in there aside from our team, and last I heard, he styles hair for a living. And my best friend Lily (soon to be ex-bestie) has never, not once, mentioned Kolton having anything to do with Moondog, the company she works for.

I chew my cheek, frowning. But she has mentioned she talks design with Sawyer. The insurance guy. I sensed something was off there, but Lily never volunteered an explanation, and I never pushed. Now Kolton, the apparent owner of Moondog, is standing in the conference room. Steam builds between my ears, an explosion imminent.

My jittery nerves turn to steel, the lies of the past months unfurling in their eloquence. The edges are fuzzy, the details and motivation unclear, but what is plain as day is the fact that Kolton has lied about having a kid and what he does for a living, and whoever that woman was with him earlier.

Okay, technically, he just lied about his job, but that blindsided feeling has only grown. He had to have known showing up here like this would shock me, throw me off.

Lily will be dealt with later. For the next hour, I have to find a way to be present in that room. Without killing Kolton.

Head held high, I march out to the hallway and don’t glance through the glass walls. I feel eyes on me, likely the brown stunners I stared into while having one of many mind-blowing orgasms, but I don’t look up. I wipe up the coffee and scrub the floor, practically taking off the top varnish.

How could he not have warned me about this ambush? Does he know he’s messing with my fragile livelihood?

I return to the kitchen, smooth my fitted red blouse, then I grab our premium java and gluten-free cookies, making sure the raw cane sugar is neatly on the plate.

Swaying my hips in my gray pencil skirt, I approach the glass door, attempting to build an armor of confidence with each step.

I will breathe the same air as Kolton, smile at my colleagues, and take notes. I’ll ignore the lump building in my throat at the thought of him planning this ruse, maybe laughing with his friends about it. I won’t look at Kolton or acknowledge him.

As of right now, the Asshole doesn’t exist.

CHAPTER 17

SHAY

Once the door screeches closed behind me, I walk around the table where the group is seated. Avoiding Kolton’s gaze, I set up the coffee and cookies on the back counter as Hilary finishes pitching Concept to him.

“We listen to our clients’ needs,” she says, repeating the same speech I’ve heard a few times. “We’re here to bring your vision to life, not force our ideas on you. Concept is small and intimate. I, of course, would lead the project, but considering the timeline, Ramiro and Maeve would be assisting, and our intern, Shay, is available to scour the city as needed for samples when choosing finishes.”

She nods toward me, and I smile at her.

As far as I’m concerned, Kolton isn’t in this room. Or on this planet.

Hilary is at the head of the table, Ramiro and Maeve flanking her. Kolton is seated at the opposite end. I settle into the chair next to Maeve as she clucks her tongue.