Page 8 of Spicy or Sweet (Wintermore #2)

SHAY

My cat, who isn’t actually my cat, is waiting by the back door for me when I finally finish up with the last of the dishes.

“Hi, Cat,” I say as I crouch down to pick him up, because I don’t know his name. I’m not even sure he’s a him, I just have a feeling.

I don’t know much about cats, but I have access to Google, the same as everyone else.

After a shit ton of research, I came to the conclusion that he’s just a cat.

It seems like cats are either ridiculously fancy or just cats.

And Cat, as I call him—because I’m so original—falls into the latter category.

He started showing up here a couple of years ago, on Halloween, to be exact. At first, I thought he was a decoration—that seemed more logical than a black cat deciding the potted camellias I keep out front were the perfect bed. I almost shit myself when he started following me up to my apartment.

I asked around to see if anyone was missing him, but no one ever claimed him, and no one recognized him.

He doesn’t have a microchip, and he didn’t have a collar.

He’s always come and gone as he pleases, but these days, he’s here more than he’s gone.

If he has another home, they must not be too worried about him.

It’s been long enough that I should probably name him and commit to the little creature that seems to have claimed me, but I’m terrified that the second I do, his actual owners will pop up out of the woodwork and I’ll be forced to give up the only friend I have in this town.

“How was your day?” I murmur in a baby voice, and Cat meows back as I carry him upstairs to my apartment.

Living above the patisserie is unbelievably convenient, and I love my apartment.

It’s not big, but it’s enough for one person—and a cat who unofficially lives here.

There’s a cozy bedroom, a big kitchen/living room, and a bathroom with a deep soaking tub, that’s exactly what I need after long days in the kitchen.

I’ve been known to spend hours soaking, letting the water skim over my skin long after it’s chilled and the bubbles have all gone.

I fall asleep in the bath more often than I’d like to admit, but Cat is usually pretty good at waking me up when he wants more food, which is often.

The best part of the apartment, by far, is the fenced-in terrace that sits on top of the roof of my café below.

French doors lead off my living room onto the terrace, where I have outdoor furniture, tons of plants, and a perfect view of Wintermore.

It’s a sun trap, but there’s plenty of shade up against the apartment, and my plants are thriving.

Cat loves to lie on the sun-heated stones, and it’s the perfect spot to enjoy my coffee and breakfast before heading downstairs to start my day.

I feed Cat, giving him a scratch between his ears as he purrs his thanks, and open the terrace doors, letting in the cool mountain air. I love the smell of fall—crisp and earthy.

The privacy on my terrace is a little lacking, but I don’t mind people being able to see up, since it means I can see down. I can also see across the street to other rooftop terraces and balconies.

Noelle doesn’t spend a lot of time in her apartment, let alone on her balcony, but I’ve seen her sitting out there sometimes in the wee hours of the morning when I can’t sleep, pacing back and forth or just staring into space.

She reminds me of me when I was in the last couple of years of my marriage, trying to make sense of my head versus my heart. I don’t know what she’s toiling over, but I can tell there’s something, and I’m guessing she doesn’t get a lot of time to switch off, considering how busy she is with work.

Her apartment is dark tonight, save for the Christmas lights that twinkle on her balcony and in her bedroom window year-round.

I was worried that Main Street would be a nightmare to live on, between the highway that cuts right through the center of town and the bars and restaurants that stay open late.

But even in Wintermore’s busiest season, I find I don’t mind the noise, the chaos.

The quiet days are harder, and tonight is particularly quiet.

I head back into the apartment to grab my phone, a glass of white wine, and leftover spring rolls from my fridge, before sinking into the Papasan chair on the terrace.

Pulling up my message thread with Nico, I type out a quick text:

Hey. All good with you?

Everything’s fine. You?

Same. Have you called Mom and Dad recently?

Last week. They seem fine.

Great! I’ll call them tomorrow and check in.

Nico doesn’t reply, and I sigh, chewing my lip. Like pulling blood from a stone.

Do you need anything? Food, firewood, etc.?

I work with wood for a living, Shay. If I needed firewood, I think I’d have bigger problems.

But no, thank you. I’m all set.

Business going well?

Nico’s childhood woodworking hobby serves him well working at his cabin up on the mountain. He makes furniture by commission. Everything is arranged online and shipped to his customers. He has a bit of a cult following and makes decent money. Besides, it’s not like he needs much to get by up there.

I trace the curve of the cherrywood elephant he sent me a few months ago.

It sits on my terrace table, but I have tons of little trinkets dotted around my apartment.

Every couple of months, the courier who collects his furniture pieces to take them to the delivery warehouse up in Jackson stops by and leaves a present from Nico on my doorstep.

We might not talk as often as I’d like, nor are our conversations particularly in-depth, but this is his way of letting me know he’s thinking of me. I treasure each and every one.

Business is good. Working on a headboard.

He attaches a picture of the intricately carved wooden headboard. It’s only half finished, but it’s already gorgeous.

Looks amazing!

Let me know if you need anything, yeah?

Yeah.

Love you, Shay.

Love you. I’ll come see you soon.

I close the thread, lean my head back, and sigh at the stars. There are a million little stars shining over Wintermore, and I swear I’ve wished on every one at some point for my brother back. I think they’re ignoring me.

The wine is exactly what I need after my conversation with Nico. I scroll mindlessly through my phone—doom scrolling, Gracie calls it.

I’m not big on social media personally, though I make a lot of content for épices et Sucré’s social media pages.

Mostly video montages or slideshows to trending music.

One of the first pieces of advice I found when looking up marketing advice was “film everything,” and it’s easy to just set a tripod up with my old phone and spend some time each night combing through footage and splicing it together.

I don’t post on my personal pages often, but I like seeing what everyone else is doing.

I scroll through Instagram, past cute family pictures from old high school friends I don’t talk to anymore, pictures of baking and fancy meals courtesy of my old colleagues and college acquaintances, and ad after ad. I pause on an ad featuring a recognizable bakery counter. Noelle’s.

Her Instagram page is gorgeous—it’s clear every inch of it has been intentionally curated. Her signature trendy decor style is all over it, but every picture has a festive flair. This seems to piss a lot of people off if the comments are anything to go by:

@suburb4nl3g3nd: Christmas in September, are you kidding me?

@maplesyruplover4: seriously??? wtf

@cestlabee: some people really do make Christmas their whole personality.

But engagement is engagement, and the positive comments far outweigh the negatives.

Besides the Christmassy bakes, she has several saved lives where she just seems to bake in front of the camera, chatting away. Most of them look to be from the early days of her bakery, or before she opened. I imagine she’s too busy now.

There are a few more personal pictures scattered throughout, but the one that catches my eye is a picture of Noelle in her Enchanted Bakery apron, holding her niece in a tiny matching apron. It’s adorable. Sunny’s face is blurred, but Noelle is smiling at her like she’s her whole world.

Baby Stanley-Whitten’s first day in the kitchen today! I wonder what we’ll make…

Rora and Henry are both tagged in the picture, but so is Noelle’s personal profile.

I click on her username, surprised to see her profile isn’t private.

She posts a lot, from candid pictures in the bakery to aesthetic pictures of her coffee, and so many family photos.

Even tonight, she posted a bunch of pictures of what looks like a family dinner: her parents smiling at each other, Felix cuddling a sleeping Sunny as he and Henry clutch game controllers, a selfie of Noelle and Rora, Noelle smiling at the camera, and Rora looking fondly at her best friend.

From the outside, the Whittens look like the happiest family. I often wonder how many of these kinds of pictures are fake on social media, but it’s impossible to believe they’re not as close as they look.

I scroll back through her profile, past Sunny’s being born, the bakery opening, so many Christmases at The Enchanted Workshop.

I find a picture of her with two giant gold foil balloons reading “25.” February, five years ago, which means…

she’s thirty. Sixteen years younger than I am, Jesus.

I had no idea what I was doing with my life at thirty, and she’s kicking ass, running a successful business.

Impressive doesn’t even begin to cover it. Noelle Whitten is something else.

I try to swipe out of the picture, but my phone slips.

And in trying to stop it from falling… Fuck.

I quickly take back my like, hoping like hell she doesn’t have notifications turned on so she doesn’t see me, someone who she doesn’t like, who doesn’t follow her, liking a five-year-old picture.

That’s enough scrolling for me tonight. Except…

Noelle piqued my interest the other day when she mentioned Locked.

It’s been so long since I’ve looked at the app, and it would be nice to meet some new people.

My only friend is a cat who doesn’t even have a real name.

The cat in question hops onto my lap and curls up as my finger hovers over the neon lock app icon.

Maybe it is time I tried dating again. It’s been almost five years since Philippe and I got divorced. What’s the harm in just talking to people?

I’m not looking for Noelle’s profile when I open the app—she’s far too young for me, and she’s made her feelings about me perfectly clear. But I find myself swiping past the first person to pop up, and the second, and the third, until… There she is.

The first picture on her profile is breathtaking. She’s mid-laugh, her lilac hair fluttering in the breeze, with a mug of hot chocolate and a mountain of whipped cream in her hand. There’s crushed candy cane sprinkled over the top, and a little dot of cream on the tip of her nose.

I almost press my finger against it, but I catch myself. What the hell am I doing?

Blowing out a breath, I close the app before I make a monumental mistake. She said Sunny accidentally swiped on my profile, so if I swipe on her—also accidentally, of course—she’ll be notified.

And I don’t want Noelle Whitten. I can’t want Noelle Whitten.