Page 16 of Spicy or Sweet
There’s a tension headache sinking its claws behind my eyes, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Are you okay?” Shay’s voice is softer than usual, like she’s deliberately lowering it because she realizes my head is sore.
“I’m fine.” There’s no heat left in me to put behind my words, which is just as well. “It’s just… What the fuck were they talking about, calling the plan simple?” I groan.
Shay sucks in a breath. “I know, right? Simple plans don’t usually require ten pages of instructions.” She brandishes the bundle of papers they gave each of us after we signed the contracts. “Do you think we can make it work?”
I glance over at her. She’s worrying her lip between her teeth, her gray eyes ever so slightly wide, like she’s stressed about this all, too.
“Yeah,” I answer, finally. “I think we can make it work. It’s going to be exhausting, but we can do it.”
My words seem to reassure her, tension I didn’t notice leaving her shoulders with one deep breath. The setting sun swathes her in a golden glow, catching the brighter strands of her blonde hair and making them sparkle.
I look away, focusing on the crispy leaves on the sidewalk instead.
“I’ll set up a calendar and add you so we can both access it on our phones and we can keep track of the bakes for the movie,” I suggest, hugging my arms to my chest. “We can check in at the end of every day to see how we’re getting on, and if we need to move anything around as they add more things to the list.”
“That sounds perfect. Thank you,” Shay answers, sounding grateful.
“What’s your number?” I ask, pulling out my phone and starting a new contact.
Shay recites her number, then her email address, and I fill in her contact information. It only takes a few taps of my screen to set the calendar up and send the invite, and I spend every second wondering what kind of parallel universe I’ve stepped into where I now have a shared calendar with Shay Harland. Wild.
“Thanks,” she says, accepting the calendar invite just as we reach her door. “I’ll go through the list tonight and add everything they’ve given us to the calendar, then maybe we can find a day to go through it and decide who’s working on what?”
“That would be helpful,” I answer.
She leans against the brick wall, pocketing her phone. I don’t know why I expect her to say goodbye and rush off. I’ve spent enough time around Shay recently to have learned that she never seems to be rushing, not like I am.
On a logical level, I know Shay’s a nice person. I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about her, other than that shekeeps to herself. But I’ve never given her the chance to be nice to me, because I’ve refused to spend any time around her. The past week is shaking the, admittedly made-up, impression of her I’ve been clinging to.
“I know this is all last-minute and stressful, but I’m excited to get to work with you, Noelle,” she says with a blinding smile. It feels a little like staring straight at the sun, and I struggle to hold her gaze.
I have no idea what to say to that, or what to make of the way it makes my stomach dip, so I just lift a hand, turn on my heel, and walk away.
8
SHAY
When Noelle said I’d be working in a basement kitchen, I expected something dark and dingy. I should’ve known better. This is bigger and better than the kitchen in my apartment.
There are a few small windows and a door as promised, but it’s still a basement. I’m not entirely comfortable, but I’ve been worse. The sheer size of the room helps. There are two large islands, tons of storage, four ovens, and a giant fridge/freezer. Everything is brand-new, after Noelle had it renovated over the summer. And that’s just the kitchen—there’s a walk-in storage room I haven’t braved. She mentioned something about the door getting stuck, and I’m not ready to risk that.
I asked her why she hasn’t used the kitchen yet, and she looked like she wanted to bite my head off as she told me she’s planning to hire more staff and use this kitchen over the holiday period, but hasn’t had time. I forced down my instinct to offer help because, though Noelle has been less frosty with me lately, I can tell she’s not happy about it. She moves between hot and cold at lightning speed.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying trying to figure her out. There’s something about Noelle that makes me want to peel away her layers and unwrap the mystery of her.
The polished granite is cool beneath my fingers as I run my hands over the countertop. It’s all so perfect, it’s hard to know where to start. I understand Noelle’s concerns, but for me, taking on a new project, in a new space, with a new person, is exciting. Though right now, it’s a little quiet.
I started working in my first kitchen when I was fifteen. It was a cramped little diner with no A/C and a half-dozen people too many, at any given time. I worked on pancakes, waffles, and pies every Sunday morning through the post-church rush, and I fell in love with the hustle and bustle of the kitchen.
Over the years, I’ve worked in more bakeries, restaurants, and patisseries than I can count, butÉpices et Sucréis the first place I’ve ever worked alone. I’m used to absorbing the energy of those around me, and I love watching people work and learning from their skills. Working alone is… well, lonely. And quiet.
I set up my spare phone to film B-roll, take a deep breath that’s too loud in the too quiet basement, and pull my tablet toward me. Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly lonely in my kitchen, I put on the Food Network, or one of the bakers I like on YouTube, so it feels like I’m working alongside someone.
Today, I turn on one of Noelle’s old lives. She’s making dark chocolate cherry brownies with a salted pretzel base, but I’m more interested in watching her bake than I am in what she’s baking. It’s good to know who I’ll be working with.
Everything she does seems to be almost instinctive. She weighs her ingredients, but all of her estimates are perfect. Her hands move smoothly over her workspace, cleaning up spills before they settle, returning to whatever she was working on a second before. It all just seems so natural.
