Page 21 of Spicy or Sweet (Wintermore #2)

NOELLE

In my humble opinion, I’m doing a great job of pretending like I know what I’m doing, but I really, really don’t.

As far as everyone else is concerned, I’m thriving at The Enchanted Bakery. As far as everyone else is concerned, I’m living the goddamn dream. And as far as Shay is concerned, I’m totally cool and chill about “going with the flow,” whatever the fuck that means.

In reality, I’m floundering.

I’m not even sure why I said it, beyond the fact that she was clearly panicking, and we couldn’t both do it.

There’s a surprisingly loud part of me that can’t bear the thought of a woman I hated less than a week ago being upset about literally anything.

I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but Shay’s well-being has become somewhat of a priority for me over the past few days, and I’m avoiding unpacking what that means.

She looks good in my apartment. I’m avoiding unpacking what that means, too.

Because Shay called this casual sex. And I… Fuck, I woke up this morning and thought about bringing her to my parents’ house for Christmas. Not exactly casual.

She seemed so anxious, though, so if she wants casual, I can do casual. I guess.

I watch her from the kitchen, pretending to focus on the components of the cocktails I offered to make us—pumpkin spice old-fashioneds.

Shay is taking in every detail, her eyes missing nothing as she wanders around my living room.

There’s admittedly not much to it; I don’t spend a lot of time here.

When I finally moved out of my parents’ house, I more or less copy and pasted my bedroom into this apartment, just spread out a little more.

My taste in decor hasn’t ever changed much. I was born into a Christmas family, and I feel most at home surrounded by twinkling lights, tinsel, and the life-size nutcracker in the corner that scares Sunny every time Rora brings her over here. I may have to get rid of that, actually.

“Do you keep this up all year?” Shay asks, pointing to the Christmas tree in the corner as I pop pumpkin-shaped ice cubes made with pumpkin puree out of the silicone mold.

“Yeah, but I get a real tree closer to Christmas, too.” Artificial trees are a necessity if you keep them up year-round, like my family does, but I love the smell of a real fir tree.

“You should decorate it for each season. A Halloween tree would be cute,” Shay says as I cross the room.

I press the old-fashioned into her hand with a wry laugh. “Next year, maybe.”

Shay brings the glass to her lips, her eyes closing as she sips the drink and lets out a soft sigh. “God, that’s good.”

A drop runs down her lip, and I don’t hesitate to bring my thumb to her chin, catching the drop. Shay flicks her tongue out, licking the drop from my thumb, and my knees almost buckle.

“I like it,” she says after pressing a kiss to the tip of my thumb.

“The drink?”

“That too, but I meant your apartment. It feels like you.”

“A Christmas tree in September will do that,” I point out, but she shakes her head.

“It’s not that. It’s… warm. Cozy. A little intimidating, if I’m being honest.” She’s smiling when she says it, so I don’t worry too much.

“You find me intimidating?”

“I find you terrifying, mon délice.”

There she goes again with the French. I suddenly regret taking Spanish in high school. I could look it up, but something about the mystery, not knowing what she’s saying, is so much hotter than knowing.

“Everything about this is terrifying. But I like it. I think,” she continues, sounding decidedly less confident than when she started speaking.

“I’m just nervous, I guess. I’ve wanted us to be friends for a long time, you know?

We have so much in common, and I thought maybe if we were working together, we’d have coffee or something.

I didn’t expect this. I like it, don’t get me wrong. Shit, this is all coming out wrong.”

It’s not coming out wrong. I understand her. I don’t like it, but I get it.

Friends. Who sleep together, yeah, but… friends.

At least she said something before I told her that I haven’t just been thinking about last night all day—I’ve been thinking about taking her on dates, braving the treacherous road up to Rora’s cabin and hiding out for a few days together, matching Christmas sweaters.

So maybe I let my crush get ahead of me a little. It happens. It’s fine.

I thread my fingers through hers, tugging her to the couch as quickly as her uncertainty tugs at my heartstrings. We put our drinks down on matching gingerbread woman coasters, and Shay bites her lip as I rub my thumb over the back of her hand.

“Sweetheart, I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable.

This is…” I sigh, trying to find the words.

“At the start of this week, I thought I didn’t like you.

And now you’re sitting on my couch, and I’m sad that you’re going to have to leave to feed Croissant in a couple of hours.

” A smile flits around her mouth. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m just as surprised by all this as you are.

” And confused. So fucking confused. “I would love to be… friends.” Casual, I remind myself. She wants things casual.

God, I really hate that word all of a sudden.

Shay pulls her hand from mine, and I frown at the absence of her. She rubs her face, groaning. “I’m sorry. I know I said earlier that I could go with the flow, and I will, it just might take me a while to adjust. Trying to get out of my own head is harder than I expected.”

I consider her—the flare of panic in her gray eyes, the smudge of purple below them, the bite mark on her lip—and swallow. “What is it that you’re getting stuck on—my age? Or is it… Is it because I’m a woman?”

I’ve been operating under the assumption that Shay is comfortable with her sexuality, since she was openly looking for women on Locked, but I’ve never actually asked.

“What?” Shay’s eyes widen a fraction. “No, of course…” She trails off, wincing. “Shit. No, it’s not that. But it’s not not that… God, not to sound like a cliché, but it’s not you, it’s me. I’m sorry, I—”

I interrupt her spiraling, saying her name softly, and she looks at me, guilt flooding her face.

“I’m not taking this personally, I promise. I just want to know where you’re at, and what I can do to make it easier.”

Shay takes a deep breath. “Your age is an issue, yeah. I know you’re an adult and old enough to know what you want, but I’ve never been…

attracted to someone so much younger than me, and I’m processing.

Like, I know your parents. I see them around, and I can’t imagine they’d be okay with you sleeping with someone so much older than you. ”

I can’t stop myself from snorting. It’s not an unreasonable concern, but in our family…

Not a problem. “You know, my parents practically raised Rora. They consider her theirs as much as me and Felix, and she fell in love and had a baby with my uncle. My parents are technically Sunny’s aunt and uncle, but they go by grandma and grandpa.

And Uncle Henry is nineteen years older than Rora, so I don’t think my family would bat an eye at this. ”

Shay looks momentarily stunned. “What the hell? I knew he was older, but wow. I can see why my age doesn’t bother you. As for you being a woman—short answer, no. Of course it doesn’t bother me. I’m not straight.”

“I did realize that.”

“Right,” she answers, with a chuckle. “I’m bi, I guess, but I haven’t let myself think about it for a long time. If we’re friends now, I should tell you about Philippe, huh?”

“I want to learn whatever you want to share.”

She looks down at her lap, picking her nails. “I never pictured myself with a man. Ever. My parents are good parents, but they don’t like change, so I never told them I was dating women. It’s not that I think they would’ve had an issue with it, and I did plan to tell them.

“Nico and I were going to do it together—he was seeing a guy from work and wanted to bring him home for Thanksgiving, so we were going to tell them before, but then…”

“Georgie died.”

Shay’s lips curve into a smile, as they always seem to when we talk about her sister, even when it’s a shitty topic. I’m guessing she doesn’t get to talk about her much. People get weird about death, but staying quiet about the people we lose does nothing to keep the memory of them alive.

“Exactly. Georgie died, and Nico didn’t handle it well. He’s always blamed himself. The second he woke and realized she was gone, he shut everyone out. He broke up with his boyfriend, and he pushed me and my parents away, and it felt like it was my responsibility to keep everything together.”

I can hear the grief in her voice, and I want to wrap her up in my arms and hold her tight. And I will—when she’s ready. If she wants that. Friends can comfort each other.

“That’s a lot to shoulder so soon after losing your sister.”

“It was,” she admits. “Georgie and I did a year of college in Paris. She was obsessed with France, and I wanted to learn from the best, so it worked out well. We met Philippe while we were there—don’t let his name fool you, he’s from Idaho, and he changed it when he moved to France.

He and Georgie worked together, and they were really close.

He came back to the US just before she died, and he came to her funeral.

My parents liked him, and he was the only person who would talk about Georgie with me.

We were friends who were both grieving someone, and we loved each other, but we were never in love.

Honestly, I don’t think either of us ever thought we were, but it was what we needed at the time. What my parents needed.”

“How long were you married?” I ask, almost scared to know the answer.

“Seventeen years. And I know that sounds bad. It’s easy to think we wasted a good chunk of our lives together, but I don’t see it as a waste, and neither does he.

We enjoyed our time together. Neither of us wanted kids; we were happy having two incomes, and we liked hanging out.

But he met someone else, someone he’s actually in love with, and we were both perfectly happy to go our separate ways. ”

I like to think I could be content with something like that, but I don’t think I could.

I look at my parents, who have been together for four decades and still look at each other like newlyweds, and I want that.

I look at Rora and my uncle Henry, building a life together, and I want that.

Not the baby part of it, but the all-consuming, life-changing kind of love that completely turns your world upside down.

But I also understand why Shay wanted, needed, something easier after having her world turned upside down in the worst possible way.

“How did your parents take the divorce?” I ask, and she shrugs.

“They were disappointed. But we’re not close anymore, so it didn’t sting as much as it would have once.

Nico and I take turns calling them once a week, but it’s hard to be close when no one will talk about anything deeper than surface level because they’re too scared to talk about Georgie.

” There’s a bitter edge to her voice that I tuck away for later.

I recognize how lucky I am to say I can’t imagine not talking to my family every day. They’re the first people I call when I just want to talk to someone—if I don’t just show up, that is.

“Anyway,” Shay continues, “I’m a lot older and less traumatized now, and I don’t care if people find out I’m bi.

It’s more that it’s been a long time since I’ve thought about what I want.

Like, do I really want to be in another relationship?

Do I just want to have good sex for the first time in twenty years?

I know I want you, that I’m sure of, but I don’t know what that looks like.

And it just feels like I’m too old to be figuring any of this out, you know? ”

I bring her hand to my lips and press them against her palm.

“I don’t know what I have to do to convince you you’re not old, but I’m going to keep trying.

Right now, I think the best thing for both of us to do is just…

hang out. I want to keep sleeping with you, but I also don’t want to push you if you don—”

“I do. I just feel a little out of my depth with it all.”

I laugh at how quickly she interrupts. “How about this: we can figure out together how to make you more comfortable with it. But you have to talk to me, okay? Sex is more fun when you’re honest about how you feel,” I say, well aware that I’m lying through my teeth about how I feel.

“I can do that,” Shay agrees. “And I want to get to know you, too. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve wanted to be your friend for years, even if that does make me sound a little pathetic.”

“It doesn’t make you sound pathetic at all. I’m sorry it took me so long to get my shit together and stop being an asshole so we could be friends,” I say, trying to ignore how much “friends” feels like a lead weight getting heavier and heavier in my stomach.