Page 20 of Spicy or Sweet (Wintermore #2)

SHAY

Noelle is gone when I wake up the next morning.

Six a.m., and the side of the bed she slept in is stone cold.

I know she slept here—I wake up a lot through the night, and I saw her sleeping soundly, Cat curled up against her back.

She’s probably used to waking up early for work, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t feel a little like she snuck out in the dead of night.

Without even leaving a note on the pillow.

Do people even do that outside of movies?

It’s stupid. This was just a hookup. Casual. A one-time thing… I think. We didn’t talk about it, but she told me she didn’t have time to date before our meeting with the mayor, so I know it’s not more than sex. Shit, my brain is fried.

I feed Cat and scratch between his ears until he’s a happy little ball of fluff and purrs, before stretching and heading into the kitchen to feed myself. I stop dead: there’s a plate covered in aluminum foil, and a note on the counter.

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I take off the foil before opening the note, finding a breakfast sandwich, bursting with what looks like mushrooms and some kind of cheese, clearly handmade. On a Christmas plate. She brought this from home, which means…

She left and brought me back breakfast. What the hell does that mean?

I unfold the note, laughing when I see it’s just cooking instructions. Of course it is.

My coffee machine is prepped, too, a cup sitting beside it and all. She really did think of everything, and I have no idea what to make of it.

I follow Noelle’s instructions to a T, and before long, my apartment smells buttery and garlicky.

With my coffee, breakfast sandwich, and Cat on my heels, I sit on the balcony to enjoy it all.

The sun is a blur of orange on the horizon, but Wintermore’s main street is bustling.

This is always a busy time of day, since a lot of residents leave town early to beat the traffic for their 9-to-5s in Jackson, or make it to the early morning shuttles that run to the nearby mountain resorts.

The job market in Wintermore itself is lacking, unless you own or work for a local business.

Since the movie people arrived in town, though, the mornings have been nothing short of chaos.

I’m not sure where they’re squeezing all these people into such a small town, but from my perch, I can see no less than thirty crew members milling around, looking down at their phones and clutching coffee cups from The Enchanted Bakery or The Frosty Bean.

There’s something oddly relaxing about sitting up here, finishing off Noelle’s breakfast sandwich—delicious, naturally—and looking down at everything happening with nowhere to be.

Truthfully, with the café side of épices et Sucré being closed, I’ve gotten ahead on my custom orders, and my workload has dwindled to almost nothing—besides the baking Noelle and I are doing for the movie.

I can’t pretend I’m not enjoying the reprieve a little, but mostly I’m enjoying just working with another person again.

Sure, I have Gracie around most of the time, but we work in different rooms.

I would offer to help at The Enchanted Workshop if I didn’t think Noelle would find a shallow grave for me somewhere, so I’ve been trying to get ahead on the movie baking as much as I can while things are quiet, to take some of the pressure off.

I’ve had time to get ahead on my admin stuff, make tons of social media content, and, apparently, time to have sex with a woman almost seventeen years younger than me. I have one week of forty-six left, and I’m going out with a bang, it seems.

Speaking of making changes, Cat curls up against me, kneading my hip with his little paws, purring away.

“So,” I begin, scratching his chin, “I think we need to talk.”

“Meow.”

It’s something.

“Do you want to live here? Like for real.”

“Meow.”

“And do you want me to be your mom?”

His answering “meow” is more of a yawn, but I’ll take it.

“Okay, well, I’ll go to the pet store this weekend and get you more stuff, and I’ll make an appointment for the V-E-T to get you checked over.

” I spell it out, on the off chance he knows the word, and with the understanding that I’m having a seemingly two-way conversation with a cat, and I’m probably losing my mind.

“I should probably give you a real name, huh?”

I look him over. He’s mostly black, with little tufts of chocolate brown peppered throughout his smooth coat, and a single white patch on one paw. He’s purring contentedly, curled up like a burned croissant…

“Croissant,” I say, and he cracks one orange eye, meowing in agreement. “Alright. Croissant it is—but the proper pronunciation. You tell me if anyone pronounces it like ‘crah-sawnt,’ okay?”

He doesn’t reply. Because he’s a cat, and I, once again, am losing my mind.

I really have to get out more.

My morning passes in bowl after bowl of batter, frosting, and ganache, as I work in the basement kitchen.

Thinking about Noelle.

Wondering what Noelle is doing.

Assuming Noelle regrets everything.

Wondering what to expect from Noelle.

Hearing Noelle call me sweetheart.

Remembering how Noelle tastes.

Remembering how Noelle sounds when she comes.

It can all be summed up as spiraling about Noelle. And it doesn’t make the day pass any faster. She turns up a couple of hours after lunch, and I do a wonderful job of pretending like I haven’t been on edge all day.

And by that, I mean I spot her and immediately knock an entire bowl of lemon curd over with my elbow. I’m not proud of the curse that slips out of my mouth.

Noelle stops in her tracks, staring wide-eyed as the ocean of sticky yellow curd floods over the island and spills onto the floor beyond.

“Well, then.” She moves slowly across the kitchen, dodging the curd as she comes closer.

“You know, most people are a little less frazzled the day after multiple orgasms.” She stops at the edge of the island and swipes her finger through the lemon puddle, bringing it to her lips and groaning. “Fuck, that’s good.”

I wouldn’t be surprised if I passed out at this point. I’m almost forty-seven years old. What business do I have getting this flustered over someone?

I cover my face with my hands and sigh; they smell like lemon. “I’m sorry for the mess. I’ll clean it—”

“Shay.” Soft fingers close around my wrists, and Noelle tugs my hands away. She eyes me with concern. “It’s not a big deal. Breathe for a second. I’ll clean it up.”

“But it’s my mess. I don’t—”

She levels me with a singular raised eyebrow that stops the protest on my tongue.

I wipe the curd from the island while she mops it off the floor. It doesn’t take long, and she seems comfortable working in silence. Meanwhile, my head is screaming.

When she finally looks up, she narrows her eyes. “What’s going on with you? Are you upset about… Do you regret last night?”

What I should do, to wipe the crestfallen expression off her face, is assure her that no, I don’t regret last night. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s the best sex I’ve ever had, and I’m more confused than ever because I want to do it again. I don’t know what that means for me, for us.

Instead, I blurt out, “I named the cat. And I made him a vet appointment. You’re right—he’s mine, or I’m his, or however it works.”

Noelle blinks in surprise, her eyes softening. “Good. What did you name him?”

“Croissant.”

“Excellent choice.” She leans on the island, her face a mere two feet from mine. “Excellent pronunciation. Do you speak French?”

“Yeah. Not perfectly, but well enough. Do you?”

She shakes her head. “Always wanted to, but I’ve never had the patience for languages. French is so fucking hot, though. Tell me something sexy.” Her eyes twinkle, and it calms me. She calms me.

I think for a moment before settling on, “J’ai passée une incroyable soirée. Tu es toujours magnifique, mais espécialement quand tu t’effondres pour moi.”

Noelle’s lips part. Her pupils dilate, and her cheeks burn maroon. Interesting.

“I have no idea what you just said, but don’t tell me. It sounded hot. You sound hot.”

She leans in closer and kisses me, breathing me in with a happy-sounding sigh. When she pulls back, she licks her lips, and I have to look away.

“Noelle.”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t think I can do this.” I sound as panicked as I feel, and a lot less cool than I’d like to.

“Oh. Okay…”

Shit. She sounds hurt.

“I just feel really old right now,” I admit, still refusing to look at her.

Which she clearly notices, because she rounds the island until she’s standing in front of me.

“Talk to me. Old how?”

“Old like… Shit, I don’t know. I haven’t done casual sex in a long time.

I don’t know if last night was a one-time thing, or if you want to do it again, or…

Hell, whatever this is, I’m flying pretty blind right now, and I feel like I’m going to fall flat on my face, because I don’t know what’s going on.

And I know it’s probably uncool of me to be acting like this literally one day after we slept together, but I’ve been thinking about you all day, and I—”

She cuts me off with another kiss. It’s soft, until it’s not, and I’m not sure which of us takes it up a notch.

But I sure as hell don’t mind it when she backs me against the kitchen counter and bites down on my lip.

She kisses her way across my jaw and down my throat, before pressing her forehead against mine.

For a moment, we both just breathe each other in.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ve been thinking about you all day, too. And I don’t care if you’re not cool—I’m not either,” she adds with a soft chuckle, but it sounds almost strained. I can’t figure out her expression, a little forced—almost too level.

She steps back enough that she can look at me, but keeps her arms locked on either side of me. When Philippe used to cage me like this, I felt claustrophobic, but Noelle feels like fresh air.

“You’re not old, sweetheart. Certainly not because you don’t know what you’re doing here. I don’t either.” Noelle toys with her lip, and I wish I were instead. “I would like to do it again. A lot, actually. We can just go with the flow and figure out what casual sex looks like for us.”

“Go with the flow…” I repeat slowly. “Yeah, totally, I can go with the flow. Will you like, tell me if I’m doing it wrong? Or anything wrong. Actually, ignore me. I sound needy.”

“Shay.” Her lips lift in an amused smile, and she brushes my hair back from my face. “Yes, I’ll tell you. But you’re not going to do anything wrong. We’re figuring it out together, and I’ve got you. Okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, because her lips are creeping closer to mine, and it’s all I can do to remember how to breathe. She makes me feel out-of-my-mind drunk.

Noelle surprises me by kissing, not my lips, but the tip of my nose. “Who would have thought the person who works in complete and utter chaos would be so frazzled by the idea of going with the flow?”

“I like the chaos, because I like putting it back in order,” I explain. “And it’s not the going with the flow that frazzles me. It’s you.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“It is, mon délice,” I say, my blood warming when she sucks in a breath at the French term of endearment.

“I’m torn between wanting to know what that means and not, because the mystery is almost sexier.”

I mime zipping my lips, and she laughs.

“Where do we start? With the whole going with the flow thing?” I ask.

She looks over her shoulder and snorts. “With a new batch of lemon curd, I think.”