Page 107 of The Snowflake Effect

That is where he comes in. Kevin often works late, and I use the time to sketch, sometimes brainstorming with Sawyer. If I plan to watch a movie afterward, Sawyer and I sit on the phone while I scroll through listings, laughing at the options, me unable to decide.

His voice fills me with static. Electromagnetic interference. If he were one of the comic book characters he obsesses over, he’d be Captain Distracto.

Sawyer’s powers are even stronger in person.

Since he and Kolton opened their newest Moondog location in Toronto—another coincidence, fate guiding my life—Sawyer flies down from Vancouver monthly to check on the place. We review my sketches, and I try on sample clothing while we swap ideas. I often zone out then, too, wondering how his stubble would feel against my inner thighs.

Static, static, static.

Guilt always follows shortly.

“I don’t trust your taste in movies,” I say. “You only like the Marvel Comics ones.”

“Because they’re awesome.”

“Because they’re juvenile.”

He grins. “Juvenile is awesome, but these days they’re pretty dark and gritty. Also awesome.”

I lick some sauce from my fingers and glance over to catch him watching me. His gaze lingers on my lips. Without warning he reaches over and brushes his thumb across the corner of my mouth, those beautiful brown eyes turning midnight.

His lips part. My pulse rockets.

Then he blinks and pulls his hand back, and that slick of guilt returns, my belly a roiling mess.

“Just a crumb,” he says to the window in front of him and picks up his wrap.

I should look away, but I can’t. I love how his eyelids slant down at the sides, giving him a lazy look. Relaxed. Laid back. Outside, pedestrians battle the wind, hunched forward as they hurry by. Sawyer eats quietly, and I try to do the same, but his knee is touching mine, his elbow brushing mine, his space invading mine, sending tingles to my toes.

Static, static, static.

He wipes his mouth, tosses his crumpled napkin on his plate, then he stares at my half-eaten wrap. “I told you not to get that one.”

“It was good. I just wasn’t hungry.”

He checks his watch. “I should go. I have some things to do before my flight.”

He studies me for a beat, his gaze roaming my face, then he leans in to kiss my cheek.

So, so slowly. So, so softly.

His warm breath and closeness overheat my brain to the point of meltdown, and he lingers. A platonic friend wouldn’t linger, would they? A platonic friend wouldn’t inhale my scent.

Or maybe I’m overanalyzing everything he does.

A moment later, he pulls back. “You watching one of those stupid singing shows tonight?”

Still tingly and mesmerized by the small scar on his neck, I shake my head. “Kevin and I have plans.”

His jaw tics, a slight frown following. Like he’s maybe jealous? Then he grins, big, bright, and carefree. Maybe his jaw didn’t tic. Maybe the frown was nothing.

“Send the revised purse sketch when it’s done,” he says. “And I used one of the last drafting boards this morning. You should order more and check our supplies.” He puts on his coat and winks at me. “See you at the Christmas party next week.”

Calm, cool, and collected, he leaves to catch his flight, treating me like the friend and coworker I am. But I can’t move from my stool. I’m overheated from his presence, as unclear as ever about his feelings for me. Not that they should matter, considering I can’t drum up the courage to break up with Kevin.

Frazzled and needing a voice of reason, I call Shay.

“Hello, beautiful lady,” she answers. “What’s up?”