Page 14 of Spicy or Sweet
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 forÉpices 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?
