Page 18 of Spicy or Sweet
The first thing I notice is the mess. It’s not dirty, but my god, it’s cluttered. There are bowls, utensils, cooling racks, and decorations all over Shay’s island and the countertops. I’m surprised she hasn’t crept over to my island. The sink is empty, but there are dishes stacked beside it.
The second thing I notice is… her. She didn’t strike me as a music fan, but Shay is dancing around, singing along to Fleetwood Mac as she sprinkles edible glitter over a giant macaron. Her hair is clipped back, but I can picture it swinging around like golden rays of sun. Something about her swaying her hips to “Dreams” is captivating. I can’t look away—which is just as well, because if I have to look at the mess again, I might pass out.
I wait for her to put the glitter down to clear my throat, and thank god I did, because she jumps out of her skin, her hand flying to her chest.
“Fuck. You scared the shit out of me,” she says, her cheeks turning pink.
“Sorry,” I answer, taking a step into the kitchen.
Shay turns the music down, and I have no choice but to take in the mess before me.
“What’s all this?” I ask, gesturing vaguely to the room.
“All…” Shay trails off, looking at the island before her.
“Yeah, that. The general vibe of an asteroid hitting the kitchen?”
“Sorry,” she says, a guilty expression crossing her face. “I tend to work in a pretty chaotic way and then clean up at the end of the day. I find the cleaning relaxing. I’m guessing you don’t work like this?”
I set my bag gently by my island, leaning on the cool granite. “I don’t know how anyone works like this. How do you find anything?”
“I have a system,” she says quickly. Her elbow catches a bottle of what looks like almond extract, and it tumbles to the ground. Thankfully, the cap is on, but I’m starting to understand how she spilled an entire bottle of food coloring. “I’ll do a better job of keeping the mess to my island,” she says as she picks it up, and no part of me believes that’s possible.
But, in the interest of being as nice as possible on our first day working together, I don’t say that.
“Are you ready to get started on the movie stuff?” I ask instead, and she nods eagerly.
“Absolutely. Just give me two minutes to make some space.”
Two minutes? Now this Ihaveto see.
I watch, somewhat awed, as Shay stacks dishes and bakes with expert precision. I can tell she’s done this before by the speed at which her hands move, sorting things into categories: food dye, sprinkles, ingredients, produce. I’ve got to hand itto her, because she has everything stacked neatly by the two-minute mark.
It’s notnotimpressive, but more impressive would be not making a mess at all, in my opinion.
She rounds her island so she’s standing on the other side of mine and drops a worn notebook on the countertop. For the first time, I notice the pencil tucked behind her ear.
It’s kind of hot. And I hate that I’m thinking about it.
“So, how has your day been?” Shay asks, and I’m so distracted by the pencil that it takes me a second to process the question. And when I do, the only word my mouth manages to form is: “Huh?”
Shay gives me a warm smile. “Have you had a good day? Busy?”
“Um, yeah. It’s been fine. Medium busy, I guess,” I answer, trying not to show how much I really don’t want to do this. If someone had told me two weeks ago that I’d be small-talking with Shay, I’d have assumed hell was about to freeze over. “How has your day been?” I ask because it’s the polite thing to do.
I don’t hear a word of Shay’s answer, though, because she pulls the pencil out from behind her ear and twirls it in her fingers. In fact, I don’t even notice she’s stopped talking until she clears her throat.
“So… yeah. That was my day.”
“Great,” I say, hoping itwasgreat, or I’m going to seem like even more of an asshole than usual. “Let’s get started.”
Shay flips open her notebook, and I grab my tablet from my bag on the floor. I’ve always been a digital planner—I love the ease of moving things around as I need to—and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t enjoyed trying to plan out my schedule between The Enchanted Bakery and the movie work. Seeing how little free time I have? Awful. But seeing everything come together on my screen? An unbeatable feeling.
I have everything color-coded, estimated times for every task, and a supply list that auto-updates when I paste the recipes I’m working on to it, split into my business expenses and the expenses I need to invoice the network for.
Shay has a checklist with a diagram of the cross-section of some kind of layered cake sketched out right in the middle of the page.
“It’s a white chocolate and yuzu millefeuille,” she says, noticing my gaze. “I’ve been testing the recipe for a few weeks, but it’s missing something I haven’t been able to put my finger on until today.”
