Page 72 of The Snowflake Effect

If I show Shay how much opportunity there is in Vancouver, how much she can thrive on the West Coast, she could be swayed. I’ll just gather an arsenal of facts over the next few weeks and, if we get as close as I think we might, lay it out for her in a pretty package.

Yep. I’m doing this. Planner Mode has been engaged.

Sawyer can shove his “if you actually want to find a solution” up his obsessed-with-Lily ass.

CHAPTER 31

SHAY

If I thought my focus was off before I spent five straight nights with Kolton, my current inability to keep my mind on work and off him could land me in the unemployment line.

Channeling my focus, I text Hilary about the changes I’ve made to the silkscreens as Maeve breezes into the construction zone that will soon be Moondog’s new shop. Her sleek bob is freshly blown, her red lipstick glossy. There isn’t a wrinkle on her linen pants or silk top, but she appears to be empty-handed.

And she looks smug. Battle ready.

A loud bang rings through the space, dust billowing as drills, saws, and hammers create a symphony of noise. I sneeze, wrinkling my nose in an effort to fight the reflex a second time. Each day I leave here covered in a layer of grime, fine drywall powder invading every pore on my body. And I record any and every interaction with Maeve, including the two times she claimed she didn’t receive emails I’d sent.

As Maeve approaches, I narrow my eyes. “Didn’t you pick up the lights this morning? The electrician needs them today.”

Her grin widens. “Sorry, Shy. I had car trouble and didn’t want to be late.”

Car trouble, my ass. After Ramiro’s departure, I wondered if she would put aside her crap to help pull this project together, but Maeve is still Maeve—territorial, insecure. If stores were open longer, I’d do everything myself. I’d crisscross the city through traffic if it meant not relying on her.

Sadly, furniture and design shops don’t offer twenty-four-hour drive-thru. “And you didn’t call to tell me because…?”

She ignores my snarky tone and studies her manicured nails. “I presumed you’d be busy delegating. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your work, Shy.” Her fake-accented sentences dip at the end, each word elongated.

I fight a snarl and make a mental note to add this to my Maeve file.

Kolton pushes through the front door then, and my frustrated reply dries up. Along with my saliva. Visions of our most recent night together burn through my mind: me, naked on the desk in his room while he stood before me, my backside in his hands, his deep thrusts knocking the furniture into the wall; him, bent over my back, whispering dirty nothings into my ear as he shattered my multiple-orgasm record. (Hence the concentration issues.)

He also insisted on lending me money to settle things with my landlord. I reluctantly accepted, hoping the promotion at Concept comes through. With that job, my rent won’t be an issue, but I’m still guarding my heart, worried the second I give him all of me, I’ll lose the woman I’ve worked so hard to find. But each day I offer him another inch, and tomorrow we’ll be going on our first official date. It’s kind of weird that we’ve never been out together, just the two of us.

He strides toward me, coffees in hand, barely concealing the hunger in his eyes, like we’re back in his room, on his bed, against his wall. He looks delicious with the dusting of scruff on his chin. Worn boots, snug jeans, Moondog T-shirt. I’d take one of him over ten of those cookie dough cupcakes. Maybe.

Behind him, the electrician steps inside, and I curse under my breath. Maeve glances over her shoulder, then back at me as she smiles her Cruella De Vil smile. “Shall I fetch the lights, then?”

“Yes, Maeve. Fetch. And please be quick about it.” But it’s rush hour, streets overcrowded with drivers fighting gridlock. It’ll take her at least an hour to get there and back. The electrician has another job this afternoon, which means he won’t be back until after the weekend. Hilary won’t be happy.

“Kolton,” Maeve says in greeting as she struts by him.

He tips his head. “Maeve.” When he’s close enough to touch, his familiar woodsy scent curls around me. “Missed you this morning,” he says. “I didn’t even hear you get up. Wasn’t sure you’d be able to move after last night.”

He places one of the coffees on the worktable behind me and grazes my arm. A casual brush that is anything but, and a bruise on my left hip throbs as if sensing its creator.

“I’m great, thanks,” I say formally. “Nice to see you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m guessing you haven’t told Hilary we’re dating yet, so we’re still under the radar.”

I nod. Every day since I moved in, I’ve piled on another excuse, a reason I didn’t tell Hilary I’m sleeping with our client. She was in a bad mood. We didn’t have time to talk.

Unfortunately, I can’t put this off forever. “She hasn’t been in yet, but the second she gets here, I will. This morning for sure.”

“If you don’t want to tell her, Shay, we can keep things quiet.”

I frown at him. “Is that what you want?”

“Me? No.” He gestures weirdly at nothing, then does an odd shrugging thing. “I’d love to be able to touch you in public, say what I want when I want—like how fucking beautiful you look right now—but only if you’re ready to go public.”