5. Poppy
Poppy
W hat the hell has come over me?
I break eye contact with Hayden, ducking my head until the heat beneath my skin settles once again.
It shouldn’t matter to me that he’s the rescue swimmer, and I shouldn’t have asked that just now.
Because no matter how many times I look away, with each glance back I find that his gaze never leaves my face.
He answers a handful more questions, never looking at the people asking them. I squirm under the stare he’s pinned me with and accidentally bump Wren beside me.
“You good?” she asks, an amused smirk on her face as she glances between me and Hayden.
“Just peachy.”
I make a point to not look his way again, staring at my hands in my lap until I hear his boots coming down the wooden stairs from the stage before us.
When Fitzy returns to the podium to dismiss the town, I spring to my feet.
“I have to go plan for the interview,” I offer to my friends before darting for the exit.
The problem is the sound of his boots follows.
I refuse to turn around, continuing through the annex and outside. Halfway down the town hall steps, Hayden asks, “Did you have a question for me, Pop?”
Whirling around, I scowl when I find him very near me. There are only inches between us, and I can practically feel the satisfaction wafting off him. I straighten my posture and tilt my chin up at him.
“Absolutely not.”
“That’s funny, I could have sworn I heard you ask something. My mistake, I guess.”
“I guess so.” I shrug.
With a breathtaking grin that stretches across his stupidly handsome face, he nods and says, “Have a good night.”
The warm summer breeze is doing nothing to lessen the heat rolling through my body on my drive home. I tell myself it’s from frustration, but once I step inside my front door, I locate my computer and search for videos of rescue swimmers.
It looks like a flour bomb went off in the kitchen of my bakehouse. I rub the back of my hand across my forehead and return my focus to work on the mocha scones. They’re the fourth type of scone I made today, seventh baked good overall. But who’s counting?
Nothing seems good enough for my audition. If I pick something outside of my favorite go-to items, I run the risk of blundering over the unfamiliar nuances. If I pick something I make all the time, it doesn’t feel special enough for an audition.
Self-doubt gnaws at me as moonlight shines through the front windows. I’ve been at this nonstop. Baking normally helps me slow down and quiet my thoughts, but now it’s causing them to whirl. And this is just the audition. What happens if they give me a spot on their show?
“Who am I kidding, they probably do a hundred auditions for one spot. They aren’t picking me,” I mutter under my breath.
“Don’t say that!”
My heart somersaults as I jolt upright, spotting my friend in the doorway. “Oh my gosh, Stevie. You can’t sneak up on a person like that.”
I clutch at my chest until the racing beats slow. Maybe I should start locking the door if I’m technically closed for the night.
“I literally called your name when I walked in,” she retorts, studying me. “I was picking up a pizza next door when I saw your lights on. What are you still doing here?”
“Trying to figure out what the heck to make for the audition this week.”
“You told us you had it all decided.”
“Well, I lied.”
“Obviously.” She rolls her eyes.
She sets the pizza on the counter and pulls out her phone. She’s typing furiously and then my own phone vibrates in my pocket. She obviously sent a message to our group text. But she’s not done, her phone to her ear now.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Beckett.”
“Why?” I cross my arms and frown.
“To tell him I can’t make it tonight—hi, Beck! Yeah, there’s a bit of a crisis happening at the bakehouse. I’m going to have to stay here.”
I open my mouth to protest when she holds her hand up to me. Stevie is rarely stern; I must look even more of a mess than I thought.
“No, nothing like that. It’s just a thing for the girls. Thanks though,” she continues. “Yeah, sorry about the pizza. I can?—”
She waits, listening to Beckett, I assume.
“Are you sure?” Another pause. “Okay thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You didn’t have to cancel plans; I know he’s not in town often.”
“No, it’s alright. He’s actually been coming back more,” Stevie beams. She pulls her hair into a high ponytail and steps into the kitchen. “So, what all do we have here?”
By the time I am done walking her through my array of failed attempts at finding the perfect pastry, Ivy and Wren come marching through the front door. “Why didn’t you tell us you were still working on audition prep?” Wren asks with authority.
Stevie moves the pizza to the middle of my prep table and flips it open, then says, “You had your audition planned. What do you think you are still worried about?”
“I was so excited about the things this could mean for my business, that I forgot it meant I would have to be on the show . I don’t like the idea of being so…
in the spotlight.” I reach for a slice of pizza and take a generous bite.
The audition hasn’t even happened, and yet I’m worrying about all the episodes already.
“Then let’s make a pros and cons list,” Ivy suggests, pulling a notepad from her tote.
“Pros. What will this mean for your business?”
“It means I get to keep it. There’s nothing bigger than that,” I admit. “I can pay off the renovation bills and get the equipment I need to operate. Also, I could hire someone to not have to do this all on my own. I would finally feel like I wasn’t drowning anymore.”
“I’m making those each their own pro,” Ivy decides aloud.
“What’s another pro, besides financial stability?” Wren asks.
“It would be cool to feel accomplished, being selected like that. Nana Annette would be so proud.”
“It’s already such an accomplishment that they want to meet you,” Stevie assures me.
“We’re all already proud of you. But this is about what you want, so let’s hear the cons,” Ivy says, plucking a handful of black olives off a slice and tossing them in the box before taking a bite of pizza.
“I’m worried that this is going to ruin the main reason that I bake. I don’t want to lose that feeling of comfort. Look how nervous I am, it’s the opposite of comforting.”
“Maybe we can help with that though. We’re here for you,” Wren assures me.
“I wish you could just audition with me.”
“Oh, how fun would that be,” Stevie muses. “But no, some of us should not be trusted in a kitchen.” She shoots a pointed look at Wren.
“Meaning me,” Wren agrees. “I’m a great taste tester though. And very willing to try all these potential candidates,” she motions around the room.
“But I don’t see the Annette scones,” Ivy notices. “If you made those for the audition it would be a way to stay true to yourself.”
My mind drifts back to how Hayden eyed the scones with disdain the other day. What if floral notes are too much for this show?
But no. I must be spiraling if I’m considering his opinion. “You all think they would be a good one to do?” I ask. I trust their advice over anything Hayden offers.
“Definitely,” Stevie confirms.
“They are your signature thing.”
“They’d be perfect.”
“And you can tell the story about Annette. How she helped raise you and taught you to bake. It’s that heartfelt piece that makes the show popular,” Ivy points out.
She’s right. A young girl’s dream tended to by strong family ties is the kind of “small-town charming” the show loves to highlight.
“Maybe this can be a way to honor her. Put Nana in the spotlight instead, kind of,” I hope aloud.
“Have you called your mom with the news? Maybe Heidi can help with the family component.”
I purse my lips. “I haven’t, she’s off at some meditative retreat in Arizona. But as far as the Wheeler women go, she’d be the one most likely to flourish on TV.”
“Do you think she would get upset if it was focused on Annette?”
“No,” I answer without hesitation. “She had me so young, she was always more like a big sister anyway growing up. I don’t think she’d be offended if I paint my grandma as the maternal figure in my life.”
They all nod, more than likely thinking back to our high school days with Heidi flitting in and out of town on her whims.
“Then I think you have your audition,” Wren tells me with a soft smile.
“I think I do too.”
My eyes drift around the room, taking in the array of baked goods covering nearly every surface in this kitchen. None of them feel right. Not like the lemon lavender scones.
I picture Hayden’s face as he turned his nose up at them this week and scoff to myself. Hayden Thompson doesn’t know what he’s missing.