Page 40 of The Snowflake Effect

SHAY

By the time I pull up to the small brownstone that houses Concept, I’m so on edge that I drop my keys twice on the way inside. I set my coat and purse at my desk by the back window, then I hurry to the kitchen to brew coffee and plate the cookies I just had to buy where I had to run into Kolton. Already, I’m wondering if I should’ve stopped. Talked to him. Kissed him one last time?

Ugh.

His life is complicated, and I’m clearly not capable of being rational around him. Which means tonight I’ll be sliding under my sheets, my fingers rubbing, my thighs clenching, as I relive that stupid trip to Aspen for the buttzillionth time.

Damn him and his skilled hips.

I lean forward and peek over the saloon-style doors into the conference room. No sign as to who this new client is. No overt posters tipping me off.

The team is gathered in the glass-walled space, this old townhouse modernized by Hilary, our president. She sits at the head of the table, while Maeve (Curella) and Ramiro eyeball each other on either side of her.

A month ago, Hilary let it be known one of them would eventually be promoted to partner. The potential advancement incited sharpened talons and passive-aggressive pecking, a cock match imminent. Ramiro sits cross-legged now, his pointy shoes twitching with every narrowed gaze launched at Maeve. Maeve taps her French-manicured fingernails on the marble table, her severe bangs and sleek bob framing the scowl she aims at Ramiro.

They can bicker all they want. He can smack the collagen from her lips. She can mess with his perfectly matched shirts and ties. There can only be one victor, and when one of them gets promoted, I will become Concept’s newest associate designer.

Helloooo, paycheck.

I gather the coffeepot and tray of cookies, but my hands are shaking. Today’s run-in with Kolton has me jittery and off my game. Visions of me stubbing my toe, sending coffee everywhere, haunt each inhale. I slump forward, hands on the counter, trying to calm my racing heart, and I shiver. The air conditioner must be on the fritz again.

Teeth clacking, I make a mental note to get the AC repaired, barely registering the front door opening and the greetings passed around.

“Shay,” Maeve calls, but it sounds more like Shy.

I don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling. Nobody retains an English accent from one year living abroad…six years ago.

“The client’s here, Shy. Don’t dawdle.” She snaps her fingers—actually snaps—and I want to break each digit.

“Be right there,” I call as the glass door to the conference room screeches shut. The brutal sound lands like nails on a chalkboard. My growing to-do list now includes: Get the stupid door fixed.

I’m not sure why a big client has chosen our small firm for their design needs. Hilary has been vibrating with excitement the past few days, and by the looks of things around here, I’d say she needs the work.

Plate and coffee in hand, I push my back into the saloon doors and ease out of the kitchen without dropping anything.

Kolton Kolton Kolton. Don’t think about Kolton.

Eyes focused on the hardwood floor, I prepare to smile and nod and take notes during the meeting, like the consummate professional I am. I blow out a breath, ease my death grip on the coffeepot, and glance up to check out our new client.

But…

The man in the conference room looks a heck of a lot like Kolton.

I blink repeatedly, doing my best impersonation of the Blinker. No matter how many times I squeeze my eyes, that familiar back and stance look too familiar—legs apart, left foot turned out, hands probably tucked in his front pockets.

What the heck?

There’s no doubt to whom that ponytail and fine booty belongs, and he’s in the conference room talking to my superiors. I strain my ears but can’t hear a word through the glass. I stand like an idiot, blinking, unsure why he’s here. Maeve diverts her gaze from Kolton to me, her missile glare making a direct hit.

Her collagen-filled lips thin.

Blink.

Her tweezed brows pucker.

Blink.

Her fisted hands shake.