Page 25 of Spicy or Sweet (Wintermore #2)

SHAY

If I go too long without visiting Nico, I get antsy. It’s a triplet thing, I suppose. Everything feels a little hollow without him. Since Georgie died, I’ve had a gaping hole that I don’t think anyone could ever fill, but spending time with Nico recharges me a little.

And also thoroughly exhausts me.

It’s my fault, really. If I treaded shallower waters and stopped bringing things up that I know he won’t want to talk about, I probably wouldn’t leave feeling like I’ve spent hours repeatedly hitting my head against a brick wall every time I see him.

But I miss the relationship we used to have.

I miss having someone I could talk to about anything.

I didn’t just lose Georgie in the accident.

Nico always offers me a spare room for the night if I want to stay, and I always decline.

It’s too quiet on the mountain for me to sleep.

The drive down isn’t nearly as bad as the drive up, but I’m dead on my feet as I drag myself up the stairs to my apartment.

At least the rain has cleared up, though that hasn’t stopped Croissant from spending a whole day snoozing on his favorite blanket on my couch, it seems. I get changed into my comfiest sleep tee, kiss his head, and join him with my own favorite blanket, because I know he doesn’t like to share.

I flick through the TV, but nothing catches my attention. The age of streaming has made it impossible to mindlessly watch TV. There are too many choices, and I get overwhelmed trying to choose. When I lived with Philippe, he always picked what we watched because I could never decide.

I miss having someone to talk to on quiet nights like this, but it’s not Philippe’s company I’m craving. Before I can overthink it, my phone is in my hand.

Hey. Are you awake?

It’s after ten, but three dots immediately pop up on my screen, and Noelle’s reply follows a second later:

Did you really just send me a “you up?” text?

I sent you a text to ask if you’re awake, if that’s what that is.

It’s not.

A “you up?” text usually implies a booty call.

Huh. I’m rethinking my reason for texting you now.

If this isn’t a booty call () then what’s up?

It’s amazing how much just talking to her lifts my mood. I’m still sitting alone in my apartment (not counting Croissant, who’s snoring and paying no attention to me), but I don’t feel so alone.

I was wondering if you had any TV show recommendations.

It sounds stupid the second I send it, and the message stays unanswered for long enough that I think Noelle is just going to ignore it. In reality, it’s only a minute, but it feels like an hour until my screen finally changes. Not with a text, but a call.

“That’s a loaded question,” Noelle says the second I answer, forgoing a greeting, “I have a lot of recommendations. How long do you have?”

Her voice does something funny and twisty to my insides.

“However long it takes,” I answer, and she laughs.

“Perfect. What kinds of things do you usually watch?”

I explain that I don’t watch a lot of TV, but rhyme off a few of the shows I liked watching with Philippe, and she hums.

“Have you started your annual fall Gilmore Girls rewatch yet?”

“My… what?” I’ve never heard that collection of words together in my life.

“You know, your yearly Gilmore Girls marathon?”

“I’ve never seen it,” I say, and you would think I’d confessed to murder for the scream she lets out.

“That has to change immediately. I’m coming over. Be there in ten.”

She hangs up, leaving me gaping at my phone. That was… so Noelle.

I glance around the apartment, making sure nothing looks too messy.

It’s not like she hasn’t seen me surrounded by mess, but my apartment is generally tidier than my workspace.

And it is tonight, thankfully. I consider changing, because a decade-old Dollywood T-shirt isn’t what I’d usually wear to receive guests, but I don’t have nice PJs, and I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.

There’s no time to change, anyway, because Noelle knocks on my door in exactly seven minutes, not ten.

I open the door, and she holds up two cups. “I brought coffee.”

Ignoring the way my heart flutters at the sight of her, I take the offered cup. “It’s after ten. Is coffee a good idea?”

“It’s decaf, and trust me, it’s impossible to watch Gilmore Girls and not want coffee,” she says with a shrug before leaning in and pressing a kiss so fast and light to my lips, it’s over before I realize what’s happening. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I repeat, and she grins at me, closing my front door behind her and making her way to my couch.

“How did you make it to forty-six without seeing Gilmore Girls?” she asks, scratching Croissant behind the ears and sitting beside him. He graces her with one single cracked eye before going back to sleep.

“Forty-seven,” I say, sounding only a little bitter about my new age. “And like I said on the phone, I pretty much watched whatever Philippe wanted.”

I sit beside her, and she turns to me, frowning.

“Forty-seven? Since when?”

Shit. “Um. Since midnight?”

Noelle’s eyes widen. “Midnight… like today?” I nod, and she immediately whacks me in the arm. “What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

I chuckle, capturing the hand that whacked me with mine, twining our fingers together. “I’m not a big birthday person.”

“Hmm. Well, happy birthday, sweetheart,” she says, her expression softening. She puts her coffee cup down on the table and leans in to kiss me. This one is longer, slower, and quite possibly the best birthday present I’ve ever had. She tastes rich like coffee, and decaf or not, she wakes me up.

“Is that why you went to visit Nico today? For your birthday?”

I nod, wondering how much to tell her, how much to open up. Noelle has met every vulnerability I’ve given her with empathy and understanding, and I feel like I’d be doing her a disservice if I didn’t trust her with this one.

“Today’s not just our birthday. It’s the anniversary of the accident.”

Sympathy floods her eyes, her hand tightening around mine. “Oh my god, Shay. I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?”

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s been twenty-two years, and in some ways, it feels like it was yesterday. But in others, it’s like it was a lifetime ago. It was, I suppose.”

I toy with my locket, and Noelle reaches out, tracing the G with her pinky.

“What do you think she would have been like at forty-seven?” she asks, once again surprising me with her willingness, eagerness to talk about something most people shy away from.

Something I’ve shied away from for too long.

“Georgie was the kind of person who, when she wanted something, she made it happen. She always wanted to be a mom, so I guess she’d have a few kids running around, and she wanted a horse, even though she knew nothing about horses.

” I smile at the memory of Georgie flicking through the equestrian catalog she found god knows where, talking about all the things she’d buy for her hypothetical horse.

“We would probably still have the patisserie, I guess. I don’t know what it would look like, but I bet it would’ve been here.

She would’ve loved it here so much she wouldn’t have wanted to leave. ”

“I wish I’d gotten to meet her,” Noelle says softly, cuddling into my side. “She sounds special, and if she was anything like you, I know I’d l—I think we’d get along.”

“She would have loved you,” I say without thinking. But she would have. If she were here, Georgie would have befriended the whole town, but especially the Whittens. Especially Noelle. She loved Christmas and cozy things, and they would’ve gotten along like a house on fire.

And if she knew I was interested, she would have told me to get over myself and do something about it.

She would’ve told me to take the word “casual” out of my vocabulary and tell Noelle how I feel.

And that thought makes me a little more brave.

Not brave enough to tell her I don’t want to be just friends, but brave enough to wrap my arm around her shoulders, pull her in closer to me, and press a kiss to her forehead.

Noelle sighs, a soft, happy sound.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say quietly.

“Me too. Thank you for sharing your birthday with me, even if I did just barge in here,” she replies with a laugh.

“You had a noble cause.” I grab my TV remote and pull up Gilmore Girls, hovering over the first episode. “Shall we?”

“Oh yeah,” Noelle says, taking the remote from my hand and pulling up the first episode. “I’m about to change your life, sweetheart.”

Oh boy, she has no idea.