Chapter 14 #2
Aside from our few intimate moments, those four days with Shay were like a retelling of Jack White’s song “Love Interruption,” a passion so intense that a knife to my gut, a punch to my face, or a shotgun to my temple would maybe simulate the level of emotion she inspired.
In four days.
But the thing that has my eyes widening and my heart pounding is that I’m not worrying Emily won’t compare to Marina. My benchmark. The one true thing I know. I’m sure as shit she won’t hold a candle to Shay.
When the hell did this happen?
Shay has lived at the edges of my thoughts the past two months.
She’s hijacked every one of my dreams, and the idea of her going on a date with someone else has my molars grinding.
Dating someone in Vancouver won’t change these feelings.
No matter how many excuses I offer up, I can’t ditch that underwear, and I can’t get Shay off my brain.
“Nope. Not going on a date.” My clamminess subsides as I shake my head, a plan forming with every twist of my neck.
I’ve avoided contacting Shay, always worried there’s no point.
With our lives and homes where they are, we can’t make this work long term.
Separating Jackson from Marina’s mother would be tough, when he’s all she has left of her daughter, and I have no idea how I’d be able to work long term in Toronto.
But I’m tired of planning five years ahead.
With work I’m always forecasting: bank statements, bills, expansion. With Jackson it’s after-school programs, daycare, babysitting, never living in the moment—organization and planning is my Holy Grail. I need to shake things up, grab the reins of life, and convince Shay to go out with me.
Stella watches me a moment, a more intense look on her face than usual.
“What?” I ask.
“I thought you wanted to go after something more permanent, and Shay is the opposite of that.”
“I thought this was my life to live.”
“Point taken,” she says, still assessing me as she returns to her desk.
I don’t have time for Stella’s dramatics. I nod to Sawyer. “We still have to hire a design firm for the Toronto expansion, and the ones you’ve sent me aren’t jibing. If we don’t find someone in the next few weeks, we’ll be screwed.”
“Yeah, sorry. I’ve been drowning in work.”
“No worries. I’ll take that task over. I have some ideas.” That include Shay, I don’t add.
“Cool.” He leaves our office with a wave.
The new shop needs to knock people on their asses.
Not one of those fancy firms Sawyer has spoken with has given any indication they get our edgy, rock-and-roll image.
They hear things like “ski jackets” and “outdoor gear” and “hiking shorts” and each one tries to guide us toward country chic, designs packed with log beams and rustic décor.
I may not get overly involved with the creative side of our business, but image is everything.
I’ve pored over architecture and design magazines, hoping to feel the same excitement I felt when I studied Shay’s sketches in Aspen—that cool hanging wall, how she talked about funky tattoo-inspired spaces.
I straighten up, determination setting in.
Shay’s edgy designs are exactly what the new shop needs, and I’m clearly not over her.
She’ll be pissed I lied about Moondog. For a short while, at least. Seeing her eyes flare and cheeks flush with anger would be an added bonus.
Safer not to tell Sawyer, then. Throw off my scent before my intentions make their way from him to Lily to Shay.
Wouldn’t want to miss any of her righteous indignation.
And if I play my cards right, we could have a whole summer together.
Reaching for my jacket on the back of my chair, I fish out my cell and pull up Shay’s number, thankful Sawyer dropped it on my desk all those weeks ago. I type a message and hit Send before I can think twice.
Me: Every time I’m in a bathroom, I think of you. It’s Kolton, by the way.
My phone buzzes a second later, the air suddenly electric.
Shay: Because it burns when you pee?
I laugh—a bark of a sound that has Stella looking at me like I’ve sprouted horns.
Me: Did you lie about your sexual history?
Shay: I *may* have fibbed.
Me: Bitch.
Shay: Asshole.
Shay: Actually, I’m in a bathroom right now. I’m out on a date.
I grip my phone more tightly. Toronto is three hours ahead. Her night is just starting… with another man. I type: What’s he like? Because I’m a masochist.
All I get is radio silence and immediately regret pushing her.
Until:
Shay: His hair is too short.
I played basketball in school. The high I’d get when I’d sink a three-pointer would carry me for hours. But this? Right now? This is a basket from half-court, nothing but net.
Warmth surges through my chest.
Me: Tell me more.
Shay: He’s way too polite. And he blinks a lot.
I chuckle. Time to quit while I’m ahead. Keep things light with Shay. Avoid freaking her out.
Me: I hope you have a shitty night.
She replies with a smiley face.
When I put my phone down, Stella says, “This’ll be interesting.”
Her grin is so wide, there’s no point denying that I texted Shay. “It’s not a big deal. Probably just a summer thing. Or maybe not. I honestly have no clue what I’m doing, but not a word to Sawyer.”
She salutes me.
I check my watch. I’ll need to get out of here in the next ten minutes to pick Jackson up from Caroline’s—Marina’s mother is always eager to watch her grandson—then it’s off to the library before it closes.
We’re still on E in the Encyclopedia Britannica, and I promised him we’d get to F by the time we leave for Toronto.
I push back from my desk and gather my things. In three weeks, I’ll be in Toronto with Stella and Jackson—Stella having agreed to help me out with my son. That’s twenty-one days to text Shay more often. Soften her. Remind her how intense our chemistry is.
Then comes the ambush.