Page 78 of The Snowflake Effect

Kolton runs his hand through his hair like he does. “The menu is set up as more of a share-plate thing. Considering you like to taste your way through a meal, I thought it would be fun.”

More fidgeting. More glancing around.

There’s so much I don’t know about Kolton, like if he dislikes gardening like me or if he loves it? Does he prefer a fireplace or a bonfire? An ocean or a pool? Still, not a question passes my lips.

We trade a few pleasantries. Stiff. Formal. Like a couple of strangers. Upon our waiter’s return, Kolton orders a bourbon, and I opt for a glass of Riesling.

We study our menus as if there will be a quiz.

Knots form around my vocal chords, each word constricted before it escapes. When I can’t take it anymore, I blurt, “I stuttered as a child.”

Talk about offering up my most vulnerable self.

He exhales, the tight lines by his eyes softening as he reaches across the table to take my hand. “I wouldn’t have guessed. Your words flow pretty freely with me, especially when you’re annoyed.”

“What can I say? You bring out the best in me. But yeah, I stuttered. Made for an unenjoyable youth. I clocked lots of hours with a speech therapist.”

Quiet returns between us, this time warmer and cozy. Wine-by-a-fire quiet.

I press my thumb into his palm. “Your turn. Tell me something I don’t know about you.” I slip off a sandal, maneuver my foot over his, and wiggle my toes inside the cuff of his jeans.

His eyes flare then fall heavy. “I love your hair like that, wild and loose. I love when I notice you looking at me across a room”—I drag my toes higher—“and I’m starting to question why we’re in a public place when I could have you in my room.”

I ease my hands from his and place them on my lap, but my foot stays where it is. “You must have misunderstood the question, Einstein. I asked you to tell me something I don’t know about you.”

The waiter appears with our drinks, places them down wordlessly, and then disappears.

We each take a sip.

“Okay,” he says. “I do some occasional rock climbing, and I’m a black belt in karate.”

That definitely explains his physique. I picture the cut muscles below his shirt, the ridged lines of his abs. The sharp V of his hips. Escaping to his room is sounding better and better. “When did you get into martial arts?”

He swills his glass. “After Marina died. I needed to channel some anger to a more productive place.”

He doesn’t embellish, doesn’t get teary-eyed, but my heart breaks.

To be on the cusp of what is often the happiest time in a couple’s life, and to have it wrenched from you in such an ugly way is unimaginable. It could embitter a man, cut him down. The Kolton in front of me, though, the one who laughs and woos and loves his son, that man has overcome.

“Unfortunately,” he says, “over the last year, I’ve let the karate slide. I train at home, but it’s not the same. I try to spend as much time as I can with Jackson, and work has exploded.” He looks up, brightness in his chocolate eyes. “But I checked out a place yesterday—that’s why I took off from the shop. Wanted to meet with the teacher to make sure I liked the vibe. Anyway, I’m taking a class tomorrow morning. I’ve been promising myself for months I’d find more balance in my life. Figured it was time to make it happen.”

“Is Sawyer helping out more with the business end of things, then?”

He snorts. “No. Not his strong suit. Stella’s been doing some online accounting courses, though. She’ll be tackling more of the workload soon. She’s smart. Knows our business inside and out, and she helps more than she should with Jackson. Not sure what I’d do without her.”

The waiter returns to ask if we’re ready to order, but we wave him off.

Kolton leans onto his elbows. “My turn. I’ve heard you joke with the girls about South Park and have wondered—how is it the woman who can’t stand action movies and frivolous comedies loves a ridiculous cartoon that is nothing but inappropriate and obnoxious. Hilarious, sure, but I can’t picture you watching it.”

Unable to sit this close without more contact, I trace circles on Kolton’s ankle with my pink-painted toes. He shifts his leg closer to me. “South Park was Raven’s thing. I hated it at first. If she and Lily were watching, I’d spend most of the time hurling insults from the sidelines, averting my attention. Then they’d double over giggling, and Raven would pout and beg me to watch, too. Eventually, I gave in.”

He leans back in his seat and cocks his head. “Interesting.”

At his judgmental tone, I pull my foot away. “Interesting, what?”

“Put your foot back, then I’ll tell you.”

He stares me down, his gaze darkening like it does when he takes control in the bedroom. My body responds as always. Compliant. Obedient. His to command.