3. Poppy
Poppy
I step into the low lit, hazy restaurant. If you can consider Rusty’s a restaurant—its vibe is more like that of a dive bar. But it has the best crab melts in town, maybe even in the state. And no tourists dare wander in here. After all, Rusty doesn’t even have a website they can scan first.
Sliding onto a shiny red barstool in the corner, I drop my chin onto my hand as my elbow settles on the counter. Pulling my phone out, I open the video I recorded and watch it once more.
“The usual?” Rusty himself approaches me.
I nod in confirmation, settled by the simplicity of the interaction. If I don’t have to speak a word through dinner here, I’ll be thrilled.
Not one second after the thought crosses my mind, someone slips onto the stool beside me.
A quiet sigh escapes me, of course. There are four more empty stools down the line, and who knows how many more around the corner.
But this person takes the spot beside me.
Their plastic shrimp basket clatters as they deposit it onto the bar, followed by their half empty glass.
I lift my gaze, curious who would move over here to sit by me. But my eyes don’t have to travel far before I figure it out. A large, golden tanned hand comes to rest beside the glass, and I recognize it immediately.
“What brings you to Rusty’s, Poppy Seed?”
“Food,” I snort, furrowing my eyebrows as my eyes travel the rest of the way up to his face. “Why did you move over here?”
“To sit by you.”
He says it so plainly, like this is commonplace for us to sit together and share a meal. I watch his throat bob as he takes a gulp of his beer. All the while, I feel my scowl pinch tighter.
“What do you want?”
A gruff chuckle escapes him. “Nothing, I just thought…”
“ Thought ?”
“You ever heard of a siren?”
Rusty returns, depositing my sandwich and glass of white wine before me. Wordlessly. Exactly how this evening should be going.
I lift a chip from the red and white paper lining the plastic basket and mumble, “Like the sound? Yes, I believe I’m familiar.”
“No, a siren from sea tales. An extremely attractive woman that lures men in but is evil and deadly.”
“And why am I being graced with a history lesson right now?”
Casting me a sidelong glance, he shrugs. “I don’t know, just something about this moment.”
After another handful’s worth of chips, I move on to the crab melt. There’s no doubt he’s looking to get a rise out of me, and I have no intention of giving him the satisfaction. But when I look his way again, there’s a wariness in his eyes that gives me pause.
“Why did you really move over here?” I ask again, this time my voice is laced with actual curiosity.
“Guess I’m a glutton for punishment.” His jaw tightens, as if he’s grinding his teeth. And there’s heat in his eyes. It’s that look he always gets when I’m around.
“You’re giving me that look. But I’ll remind you once again that you approached me.”
“What look is that?”
“The I hate Poppy look.”
Reaching over, he plucks a chip from my basket. “Why are you watching videos of yourself baking?” He’s clearly ignoring my comment, but I had forgotten the baking reel was open when he came over.
“It’s called running a business.”
“I’ve never seen you do those though.”
His words cause me to stop eating, food nearly at my lips.
Does he look at the bakery socials? I shake my head, dropping the sandwich and reaching for the glass of wine.
“Wren says these videos will reach more people than other posts. So, I’m considering it.
But I’ll probably be the only person to ever watch this.
” I rap my knuckles on my phone, surprising myself with how open I’m being with him.
“Do you like the idea of posting that?”
“No.”
“Then you have your answer.”
My scowl returns as I swivel to face him fully. It would be that simple to the rich boy who never had to struggle like this. “Do things always work that easily for you?”
“Is something going on with the bakery?” Hayden asks in return. And something almost like concern flashes across his features. The last thing I need is his pity.
Shoving the remaining crab melt in my mouth, I chase it with the final sip of white wine and jump off the stool.
It only takes a minute for me to withdraw the necessary cash for my meal, but in that amount of time, Hayden has already waved Rusty over and pointed to my empty basket and glass. “On my tab,” he tells the proprietor.
Rusty nods and walks away again. Great, I’ll never get him to come back and reverse Hayden’s request.
“Here.” I hold the money out to Hayden instead. I don’t like the idea of owing him. But he only glances at the bills and shakes his head, refusing my money.
“About the bakery,” Hayden presses, snatching the last shrimp from his basket and rising from his seat as well. Apparently, he’s leaving with me. Also great. “What’s going on?”
We step into the warm evening air, a sky full of stars sparkling above us tonight. In any other circumstance, I’d stop and soak it in. But I need to get away from him as soon as possible. “It’s not your building, remember?”
“I remember that well.” He follows me through the parking lot, staying close to my side.
“Good. Then remember this—not your building, not your problem, Baywatch.”
“ Poppy, ” he breathes as we reach my Bronco. His jaw tenses as silence hangs in the air between us. Then with a shake of his head, he says, “I hope everything is okay,” and turns to go.
I stand with my hand on my driver’s side door and watch him cross the parking lot to his little green sports car. Unlike his life, if I want things to be okay, I have to try. And that’s really all it comes down to. I need to do everything I can to keep the bakehouse going.
Pulling my phone out, I post the reel before I can change my mind. Who says spite posting is a bad thing? It turns out, Hayden gave me the answer after all.
I roll over in bed with a groan. My phone will not stop vibrating on the nightstand; the noise is incessant. I reach out and snatch it up, expecting to see my group text thread as the culprit.
But it’s not.
With a jolt, I sit forward in bed, staring at the notifications.
I believe the term blowing up is fitting for this situation.
Views, comments, and new followers pour in.
“Oh my—” I breathe as my attention catches on a direct message notification.
It’s from Small Town Table. But not the Small Town Table. It can’t be.
That just happens to be one of my favorite shows, featuring restaurants, bakeries, diners, and bars from across the country.
It highlights quaint small-town life and is a wildly popular show.
And when I click through to the account, I see that this isn’t a fake.
The message came from their verified account.
“Oh my gosh!” I spring out of bed, too excited to actually stop and read their message.
I squeal and bounce and giggle until it’s out of my system enough to sit back on my bed and read on.
With a steadying breath, I click on the message, hoping they want to repost the video or feature me on their page.
Instead, it says that they want to interview me to be on the show.
“This isn’t real,” I gasp, bringing my hand to my mouth in surprise.
I read through it again, this time aloud.
“Hi Poppy at Seaside Bakehouse! My name is Tara and I’m the showrunner for Small Town Table.
I stumbled across your account and think you might be exactly what we are looking for to be in a summer sweets feature. If you’re interested, give me a call.”
My eyes roam over the phone number she adds to the end of the message. This can’t be real. But there’s only one way to find out. I click on the number and wait.
“Hi, Tara? Yes, this is Poppy Wheeler at Seaside?—”
“Hi, Poppy! I’m so glad you called. Your desserts look amazing. And the snaps of your town, Foxport, are utterly enchanting.”
“We are pretty proud of our town,” I reply, a full smile splitting across my face.
“How do you feel about us coming for a visit? We can do an interview in which you’d walk us through your process of baking something, just as you would on the show.”
“Yes, absolutely. Your show is so well known, it’s an honor to be considered.” My head is whirling as I respond, not even sure what words are coming out of my mouth.
“Great, I’ll DM you my email address and we can get this scheduled.”
As soon as we hang up the call, I jump over to the internet to look up the show and who the showrunner is.
A picture of a middle-aged woman with sleek hair in a blunt cut and black framed glasses appears on my screen.
I study the picture to make sure I remember her face, just in case it’s not the face that arrives for the interview.
Because there is a rather large part of me still convinced this is simply a scam.
It’s more believable than the alternative, honestly.
My mind drifts over to my bakehouse, imagining the aged equipment as well as the empty spaces for the remaining things I need to acquire.
This show would solve that problem. Not just the equipment problem, or the being able to hire staff problem, but it would also help with the past due bills that are piling up.
I’m still paying more out than I’m bringing in right now. I even met with a bank last month about a loan, but I didn’t have anything other than my grandmother’s house for collateral. And there was no way I was going to risk that.
First, it was a rotted subfloor that needed to be replaced before they could lay down the tile. Apparently, this is a common problem when the building is on a wooden wharf. But then the thickness of the drywall wasn’t up to code and that all needed changed out.
I had assumed all drywall was the same thickness. Turns out, I was wrong.
I had assumed a lot of things when I made my budget and signed the lease, though. And by the time it was all said and done, I might as well have thrown my budget and business plan out the window.
But if Small Town Table is interested, there might be hope for my bakery, yet.