Chapter 21 Pop Tarts #2
I’m teasing, not wanting to push and lose this moment, but he nods, serious as ever. “How about you?”
“I’m not a chef.”
“Everyone has food memories. Some of the strongest moments in our lives are tied to food. Good and bad.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that.”
“It’s a constant.” He sips his beer. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. “We need food to survive, right? But we don’t
view it as survival. Every culture in the world puts food at the center in some way. We celebrate with it. Mourn with it.
Remember with it.”
I knew Jack loved food—it would be impossible for him not to—but the passion in his voice speaks to my heart. At the end of
the day, he loves to cook. Loves the power that food can hold. It’s undeniably sexy, hearing him speak about it.
I play with my braid as I try to think of a memory.
“I guess . . . there was this bakery we went to on vacation.” The scene unfurls in my mind like a sail.
I can practically taste the lavender icing, the lemon-scented pastry.
“In Carmel. All the way in California. They had the most amazing pop tarts.”
“Pop tarts?”
“Yeah, but not like the boxed ones. They were flaky and fresh and perfect. And the baker made each one look like a work of
art. There would be swirled icing, and bits of candied fruit, and sometimes edible flowers.”
“Breakfast for a princess.”
I smile. “Yeah. That’s exactly how I felt.”
At the thought of those sleepy California mornings—because of course I begged to go every day, once I had the first taste
of a perfect pop tart—my heart aches. I can’t deny that the distance has been good, but I miss my family. Letting Dad’s calls
go to voicemail has been hard. I know that when Julia calls me Pop Tart, she’s remembering those mornings too.
“I bet it would come back to you, if you tasted it again.” He nudges his shoulder against mine. “How old were you?”
“Eight.”
“That’s cute.”
“I’ve been told I was a terror.”
“That absolutely checks out.”
I swat at his arm. He dodges me, that infuriatingly handsome grin playing across his features again. I wonder if this is what
he’s like out of the kitchen all the time. Loose. Relaxed. Waxing poetic about fish. Like this, he could almost be a friend.
Or even . . .
“We should put a version of this on the menu,” I muse as we finish picking the bones clean. “Maybe it’s served in the foil
packet. Then you get to unwrap it yourself.”
He meets my gaze. “That’s a good idea.”
“You didn’t even—wait, really?”
“Interactive food is memorable. It’s a good idea, Poppy. You’re two for two today.”
I press my lips together, so I don’t smile too hard. Warmth spreads throughout my body. “Does this mean I can help with the
menu? I know you don’t think so, but I do care about the food. I really do.”
“I know. Let me think about it.” His gaze is sharp again; mind clearly whirring with ideas. He reaches into the bag he brought to shore, pulling out a notebook. “I’ve been looking through my old notes for inspiration.”
I open the worn composition book carefully, tracing my fingers over his messy scrawl. I know it’s just a notebook, but this
feels like a piece of Jack’s heart. On the first page, it looks as though he listed a bunch of sauces. Tomato, hollandaise . . .
“What’s velouté?”
His eyes light up. “In French cuisine, there’s the concept of mother sauces . . .”
This is it. I’m about to be murdered.
Death by cockroaches. Even in my most hideous nightmares, I couldn’t come up with something like this.
I whimper, backing away from the horrible, offending creature that has taken over my bedroom. I came out of my gloriously
long everything shower humming, still sun-soaked from the day on the island and ruminating over the unexpected praise from
Jack. He dropped me off when we got back to shore, curling his lip when he saw the apartment building. No wonder. The flutter
in my chest at the memory of his laughter lasted about three seconds before I noticed the roach. Kiara told me that the roaches
in Florida don’t fly, but they must do something, because when I tried to snag my phone from the nightstand, it shot up in the air, dive-bombing me like a fighter jet.
My phone is on the floor in the middle of the room. The roach is near the bed. My heart is beating a million miles a minute.
I am totally, completely trapped.
At least I have clothes on. The only thing worse than dying via cockroach swarm would be for someone to discover my naked
body in the aftermath. I shudder at the thought of all the places the roaches could invade. They like warm, right? And moist?
I’m going to hurl.
I chew the inside of my cheek furiously. I need to get to my phone. Jack will give me hell, but he’ll help me. Probably.
I drop carefully to my hands and knees in the bathroom doorway. The roach twitches. I swallow a scream. I inch forward, as slowly and quietly as I can. Where there’s one, there has to be more, right? Insects travel in groups. In gangs. A cockroach gang is on its way to burrow under my skin, unless—
My hand curls around the phone. I breathe out shakily. I scoot backward, still eyeing the roach as I scroll for Jack’s number.
He picks up on the first ring.