Page 2 of The Snowball Effect

“Helping!” Regan shouted back, laser-focused on the task at hand.

She grabbed the woman’s hand and started to pull her toward the employee break room, barely pausing as she shouted, “Jackie! I have an emergency! Please come cover the front!”

Without another second to waste, she tugged the woman into the back room, her thoughts racing. They had to check her forburns; everyone thought that the warning on the McDonald’s cup was funny, but liquid burns were no joke! Then–

Before Regan could lead the woman to one of the chairs at the break table, the woman yanked her hand out from Regan’s, repeating, “What thefuckare you doing?!”

This time, it wasn’t a quiet hiss, but a demanding shout.

It didn’t bother Regan, though. This was a stressful situation, and stress begot yelling from time to time. Especially if she was hurt.

Regan turned, leaning in closer to inspect the skin of the woman’s chest, where the majority of the liquid had made direct contact. Though the smooth, pale skin was pink from the heat of the coffee, it didn’t appear to be blistering or have any other lasting repercussions. She lowered her gaze, looking at the woman’s gently rounded stomach, which was also blushing from the heat, but –

The woman jerked her arms across herself as she repeated in a low, dangerous voice, “I don’t want to ask again: What. The fuck. Are you doing?”

Satisfied that the woman wouldn’t endure any serious burns, the relief that slid through Regan was swift and immense. God, that could have been terrible. As it was, it seemed like a ruined shirt was the only victim!

Turning on her heel, she pulled her unlocked locker open and started rooting through it. She definitely had a sweatshirt somewhere in here. “I saw this totally gross video once about this guy who spilled boiling water on his legs, and basically, he ended up with these sick burns because his pants had clung the hot liquid onto his skin, right? And the doctors had said the burns would have been way less severe if he hadn’t had the pants on.”

She shuddered from the visual; she could still clearly see in her mind’s eye of the burns. God, that had been so disgustingly awful. They really had been so lucky just now.

Oh – there it was! Her sweatshirt.

“Got it!” She cried out triumphantly, pulling it out from where it was nestled between her cosmetics bag and spare rain jacket.

Her very well-loved, soft, blue and gray Brandeis sweatshirt – from the single year of college that she’d attended – that she kept here for when the air conditioning was turned up too high.

She turned to give it to the woman, finally taking a good look at her in a non-clinical way.

She had a long, graceful neck and a very strong jaw that led down to that expanse of soft-looking skin of her chest. She had a light smattering of freckles that stood out starkly against the pink irritation, and Regan’s gaze, again, was drawn to her white lacy bra that was very much on display now. It seemed to only be slightly dampened, though, which was great. Because, unlike the sweatshirt, Regan most definitely did not have a bra lurking in her locker that would be able to accommodate this woman’s band or cup size.

“My eyes are up here,” the woman grit out.

Summoned, Regan snapped her own eyes up to meet them. The eyes in question were an icy blue, which was the only way Regan could imagine to describe them.

“I see that,” she agreed, as she felt twin chills at the base of her spine and the pit of her stomach from the look she received, which fascinated her on a whole other level.Thatwas a new experience for her!

The woman’s hair – caught between a dark blonde and a light brown – had been spared from the coffee fiasco, pulled up into an elegant braided twist, which added to herpreviouslyprofessional look with the button-up and the well-fitted black pants.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” The woman demanded to know before she crossed her arms tighter and then grimaced in disgust at – what Regan guessed was – the wet stickiness of the coffee that still soaked the material.

“I mean, adult-identified ADHD. But I don’t really like to look at it as something that’s wrong with me.”

The set of the crazily strong jaw and an entirely unamused sigh told Regan that this woman did not find any levity here. Which was a shame because Regan was usually pretty good with levity.

She stared into the woman’s eyes, hoping that her deeply apologetic feelings were mirrored there. “I’m just – it’s been totally hectic here, and I didn’t look before I turned around, which was a really dumb rookie mistake, and I didn’t see you. I swear, I didn’t mean to–”

“No, I got how you spilled the coffee. What I don’t get is where the hell you get off, ripping my shirt off at all, let alone in front of fifty people!”

“It was more like twenty people, tops, and I thought you were going to have third-degree burns!” She gesticulated wildly, a curl of remorse about the shirt incident sliding through her stomach; that was how it always happened. She acted first, and then everything else came later. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking.”

“Yeah, clearly,” the woman snapped in her low, clear voice. “Do you ever?”

“Well. Ouch.” She cradled her sweatshirt in her arms and leaned back on her heels.

“Not only do I have my first meeting with my advisor with a coffee-soaked and stained shirt, but one that doesn’t have any fucking buttons,” the woman absolutely fumed.

“Oh!” Thankfully reminded of what she’d been doing, Regan pushed her sweatshirt toward the woman. “Here. Take this. I mean, it’s no fancy ironed button-up – you know, I didn’t realize twenty-somethings owned irons anymore? I definitely don’t – but it is from Brandeis, which is a, uh, really… good… school.”

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