Page 77 of The Snowflake Effect

Stella snorts while I duck and search for cover as Kolton strides into the room in worn jeans, sandals, and a fitted gray T-shirt. Effortlessly handsome. Flutters erupt in my belly.

He gives Jackson a stern look. “What did I say about asking girls that question?”

Jackson hunches and studies his fingers. “It’s personal, and it’s not polite to ask.”

Kolton stops at my side, kisses my cheek, then glares at Stella. “Next time I tell him no, don’t play favorite auntie and buy him stuff he shouldn’t have. That book will be the death of me.”

She doesn’t bat an eye. “Like I said, boss, I’m just preparing him for life. Do you know how young kids are when they start experimenting these days? I’m not sending Jackson into those piranha-filled waters unarmed. He’d get slaughtered.”

Kolton shakes his head and reaches over to tug a lock of Jackson’s hair. “We’re going out, bud. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m busy in the morning, but we’ll hit the library in the afternoon. Cool?”

Jackson nods, and his glasses slide down his nose. He pushes them in place and picks up his fork, alternating bites between each of the four foods on his plate. With the way I plan my meals—what to eat last, what to savor—Jackson is definitely my people.

A warm hand slides along my back as Kolton’s, “Let’s go,” brushes by my ear. He guides me to the front door but stops and faces me. “Wait here a sec.”

“Okay…” I say, drawing out the word.

His eyes twinkle, and I’m not sure if I should be concerned. I peek out the side window and watch as he gets into his SUV and drives away…without me. I’m not sure what kind of dates he’s used to, but leaving half of the equation behind doesn’t bode well for future sexy-time.

I cross my arms, the flutters from before disappearing.

A minute later, he pulls up the opposite side of the circular driveway, parks, and makes his way to the door. He rings the bell.

Still unsure what he’s up to, I open the door just wide enough to fit my shoulders. “Shay’s not here. No en casa,” I say in my best Spanish accent.

One hand is behind his back, and he scratches his chin with the other. “That’s a shame. I’m here to pick her up. Had a whole evening planned, and I wanted to give her these.” He produces what’s supposed to look like flowers, but they’re sticks of candy, lollipops, and chocolate bundled together in a bouquet.

The flutters return in torrents, feathers dancing along my skin.

He holds the candy bouquet out to me. “You sure Shay no en casa?”

I snatch my gift. “Well played, Fabio. What else do you have planned?”

“I started with the big guns. The rest is just me and dinner.”

He could’ve said him and a colonoscopy, and I’d follow.

The sprawling restaurant is dark enough to be intimate, and our waiter leads us to a quieter table. Soft red lights flood the dark walls, intermittent paintings of geisha girls spanning the room. Each clear glass table is topped with tiny lamps. Usually, I spend the first few minutes in a room redesigning it in my mind, but I’m suddenly nervous.

Once seated, we look at each other and smile.

We glance around.

We touch our cutlery.

We arrange our chopsticks.

We shift on our seats.

“I love the décor in here,” I say. “Warm and cozy.” I flip over my fork. Once. Twice.

When naked in bed the past week, our whispered flirting has been effortless. At work, there’s never a pause when we pore over sketches and samples. Side by side on the ski hill or eating a hurried lunch at work has always been easy, even if feisty at times.

Here, in this formal setting, the lull stretches.

And stretches.

Melodic techno beats float between us.