Page 24 of The Snowflake Effect

“You might have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

The hazel stunners in question widen, a burst of cold air curling from her lips. I’m not sure why I admitted that fact. I’m not sure why I don’t want to take the compliment back. There’s not much I understand about my feelings toward Shay.

Her uncharacteristic silence doesn’t last long. “I can’t accept compliments from men who watch infantile movies in which explosions outnumber scenes with dialogue.”

Back on the movies again. She overhears one conversation I have with the guys about our love of the Rambo series, and it’s like tossing a dog a steak. She won’t let it go. “There’s a reason movies like that do well. Blowing things up is cool.”

“For sixteen-year-olds, maybe. You seriously like that stuff?”

I push closer and lean into her space. “It’s all about the climax. The big detonation. Matter of fact, watching you ignite is up there with watching Rambo. I’d never lie about liking that.”

And she can’t lie about the flush of her cheeks and the smile she’s barely hiding. “If you want to watch real movies,” she says, “you should watch Before Sunrise. There’s a whole trilogy, and the movies are beautiful. Real and raw.”

“A.k.a. boring. Unless there’s sex in them?”

Avoiding my heated stare, she rolls her eyes again and dusts off her ski pants, swiping at the snow and bark lodged on her knee from our extracurricular activities.

I’ve had good sex before. Great sex. But I’ve never experienced the kind of desperation she inspires, the heat that drives our frenzied hands and mouths—raw and rough and spontaneous in the trees, the snow, or a bathroom. There’s a volatile pull between us, an elastic force that’s got me hooked.

In three days.

“Where to?” I ask, needing to get skiing before I do detonate in my pants. One light touch from her is all it would take. But now I’m envisioning her naked ass again, so I add, “Unless you want to skip the skiing and find another wooded area.”

I hold my breath, waiting for her to bite my head off. Instead, she winks at me. “I think you’re sporting enough wood for the whole forest.”

My dick twitches, always up for a challenge. She spins with a laugh and skis off.

I skate after her, pushing off on my new poles, working my legs to gain momentum. I pick up speed until I’m a ski’s length behind her, matching her turn for turn, rising and falling in time. I’m entranced, fixated on her effortless movements—up, down, up, down—like we’re dancing, together but apart.

As we near a precipice, the hill dropping into the unknown, she gathers speed, leaning forward to rocket off the edge. Her skis leave the snow. I mimic her moves, catching air. Time suspends—a beat where I flash back to the trees, her cries, and how good she felt.

Then I land. Hard. Wrong.

Random mounds dot the top of the slope before it narrows into an intense mogul run. Not what I expected. The tips of my skis crank into one of the bumps, sending me onto my side. Specifically, onto my shoulder. The one that pops out.

Shit.

My strangled cry explodes before I can stop it. No matter how many times I dislocate my shoulder—this makes four—the sharp pain always winds me.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. Tingling crawls up and down my right arm, now limp at my side. I imagine a gunshot wound would hurt less. Slowly, I swallow and open my eyes.

“Kolton!” Sounds of ski boots crunching on snow follow Shay’s frantic voice. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

She falls to her knees beside me, goggles on her helmet, her long hair falling toward my chest. Her eyes, those green and brown and gold stunners, dart over my prone body.

“I’m fine,” I manage. “Just a dislocated shoulder. I’ve done it before.”

I should be embarrassed I fell—although it’s her fault for distracting me—but it’s all I can do to grit my teeth as I prepare for the agony that will follow. Every time I pop my shoulder back in, I nearly puke, and Nico calls me a pussy. Cold sweat builds at my temples.

She frowns. “Just a dislocated shoulder? Should I ski down to get help?”

I shake my head, my rounded helmet rolling over the hard-packed snow. “No. I can fix it. I just need your help.”

Determined, she nods. “At your service.” She removes my poles and clicks off my skis, then jams them upright into the snow behind us—a caution sign for any skiers coming down. She returns to my side, gloves off, her soft hands on my face. “What do you need?”

Gone are her snarky remarks and biting tone, genuine concern in their place.

Holding my arm to my side, I sit up, dreading the imminent jolt of pain. “You have to anchor me,” I say. “Hold my elbow and hand, then rotate my arm back and outward, then pull. If I can actually relax, the ball will pop into its socket.”