6. Poppy
Poppy
T he steady sound of waves crashing on the beach should settle me. I watch as people play at the surf break, carefree in the summer sun. There’s joy in the air, and I’m desperate to absorb it. But all I’m feeling is anticipation, and maybe some nausea.
Tara and her team from Small Town Table are enroute, my audition beginning any minute.
I lean forward over the wooden rail of the wharf and inhale deeply.
So many variables go into what most people think is a simple process.
And it can be simple with patience and attention to detail.
But there are also plenty of things that are out of my control.
The mixer might not even turn on, for example.
“I can do this,” I remind myself. I can do all of this; the show is simply a means to an end. A way to secure everything hanging in the balance.
Turning back towards my bakery, I take in the storefront. It glows in the sun—bright, and welcoming.
Brass letters read The Seaside Bakehouse above the sky-blue door, and then in smaller letters below that, because salty and sweet were made for each other .
I started scribbling that saying on all of my plans when I found out this building was coming up for lease.
It seemed like a sign that I belonged here; it had come to me in a dream about my nana.
“Poppy Wheeler?”
I look down the wharf to see three people approaching me. A woman with a blunt bob and thick glasses frames is in the center and I immediately recognize her from the website. Tara.
“Yes, hello. Welcome to Foxport,” I say, extending my hand to them.
“I’m Tara, and this is my assistant, Hannah,” she replies, motioning to the younger woman with wavy golden hair and wire rim glasses to her right. “And this is Trevor.” She turns to a man with messy, honey brown hair and a wrinkled button down opened over a T-shirt.
I shake hands with each person as we murmur pleasantries to one another. They seem more down to earth than they do Hollywood. It would make sense, if they’re the visionaries behind such a charming, heartwarming show.
“The parts of town that we’ve seen thus far are just lovely. And your bakery ,” Tara remarks. “Adorable.”
“Thank you! Let’s head in, I’ll show you the rest of it,” I say, a flurry of butterflies erupting within me.
“This tile floor is that perfect blend of trendy yet classic,” Hannah notes when they step inside.
“It’s bright, and has good natural light coming in. That will be great for shooting,” Trevor says. Passing behind the display, he leans closer and smiles. “Those look good.”
“S’mores brownie cupcakes,” I reply, meeting his gaze. Trevor’s green eyes crinkle at the corners from his grin. He seems nice, and I can see myself feeling comfortable talking to him behind the camera. Of course, that’s only if I were to be picked for the show.
“Tell us about your place. How long have you been here?”
“I received this location back in October. Prime business properties are most often owned by the town here, and they only rarely become available. It was kismet, getting this location. Then I spent a few months renovating. So, I’ve only been in here four months, actually.”
“And have you been enjoying it?”
The question catches me off guard and I’m not sure why. Tara is probably just making conversation. But it’s such a genuine question, like she’s really interested in me as a person. I feel a surge of confidence, they want to be here talking to me. They reached out to me. I can do this.
“It’s been the most difficult, frustrating, wild, lovely, wonderful ride,” I answer with a smile.
Tara nods knowingly. “Wonderful.” We’re all standing in the back of the bakery now; around the items I’ve laid out and prepared for today.
“Let’s jump on in. Trevor will set up his camera and then you’ll start baking. Along the way, I’ll ask you some questions and we’ll just have a little chat while you work. Sound good?”
“Absolutely.”
I throw my apron over my head and reach to tie it behind me.
Trevor doesn’t need much time to set up, he’s only got a single camera with him.
Unfolding the tripod, he secures the device and flashes a thumbs up.
Hannah perches on the counter beside him, pen and notebook poised in hand, ready to take notes.
“We are now recording,” Trevor tells us.
“Tara here at Seaside Bakehouse in Foxport, Massachusetts with owner Poppy Wheeler. Tell us, what are you making for us today?”
“Today I’m going to make you lemon lavender scones. It’s a flavor combination very close to my heart, growing up drinking lemon lavender tea with my grandmother. To me, these scones are the essence of home.”
“That sounds delightful, tell us about your grandmother. Was she a baker too?”
I begin grating the butter as I respond.
“My grandmother was a fierce, stubborn woman. She claims that I inherited those traits from her too. But then again, she insisted on a lot of things.” I laugh, taking the bowl of butter shavings and moving them to the freezer.
“And yes, she certainly was a baker. Never professionally, but she could have made a go at it. When she passed, I came up with these scones as a way to remember her, but with my own twist on her signature flavor.”
“She sounds like she really influenced your career,” Tara reflects.
Measuring out the dry ingredients and whisking them together, I nod. “Annette certainly has left her mark.”
“What else?—”
“Pop!” A deep voice yells with urgency as the door to my bakery is thrown open.
We all turn to the newcomer in unison, surprise frozen on my face as Hayden enters in his full firefighting gear.
“What are you doing here?” I snap.
“There’s a fire next door. I need you all out of here.”
“Wait what? But there’s nothing in here! Look, everything is fine.” Motioning around me, I shoot him a pleading look.
Not today. Not now.
“Poppy, you’re out of here. Now.” He yanks his helmet and mask off as he approaches.
“But why? We’re in the middle of something pretty important. Please, Hayden.” I hate how pleading I sound. With Hayden of all people.
“More important than a fire ?”
He’s crossed through the kitchen in just a few broad strides and is standing toe to toe with me. Or, more like white sneakers to chunky firefighter boots. With all his gear, there’s little to no space between our bodies and his turnout coat is rough against my chest as he leans closer still.
I stand my ground, refusing to be the one that backs away. That backs down. Tilting my chin up, I level him with my best withering glare.
“You’re not going to intimidate me into leaving, Baywatch.”
“You must be confused by what’s happening here. I’m. Not. Asking. Either you leave on your own, or I’m carrying your ass out.”
“You can’t carry me out of a nonexistent fire,” I growl, all the while wondering if he can and will do just that. I wouldn’t put it past him. “Just give me a good reason, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Because I said so.”
“I said a good reason.”
Hayden’s eyes spark with heat, and I hold his stare until his hands come around my waist and he throws me over his shoulder with ease.
“Hayden!” I slam my fists against his back furiously, desperate to ignore the way his hands shift to splay across the back of my thighs and his fingers tighten into my bare skin at the edge of my linen shorts.
“You’re a lunatic,” I mutter as we cross the threshold of my bakery.
His only response is to trail his thumb back and forth along my skin in a crescent shape that feels like it could remain permanently. The memory of the sweet sensation pulsing through me from his strong grasp on such a sensitive place will be permanently imprinted on my brain, at the very least.
This is Hayden, I firmly remind myself. No sensation I feel for him is sweet.
Lifting my head, I watch Tara and her team following us out.
Embarrassment creeps into my cheeks at the reminder of what is happening.
There is no way they are going to put me on their show after this childish fight they’re witnessing.
Tears threaten to blur my eyes, and I blink frantically.
I need to regain some control before everything slips away.
Halfway down the wharf, Hayden finally comes to a stop and sets me down. Before releasing me, though, he pins me by my waist once again and holds me in place. I can feel him peering down at me, and I take my time to meet his eyes.
When I do lift my gaze, he says, “I’m not a lunatic for insisting that you’re safe. I think you might be the lunatic for kicking and screaming, Poppy Seed.”
He flashes me a cocky grin and brushes his hand along my chin before turning and heading back towards the commotion. Absent-mindedly, my hand drifts up to touch my chin where he just caressed me. He had been… tender.
Watching him go, I sniff the air and realize that I can indeed smell smoke. How did I miss that? And could my bakery really catch on fire too? I’m watching the scene in horror when Tara comes to stand beside me, a smirk playing on her lips. “Who was that ?” she asks.
“That was no one. I’m sorry. We can move to my house, and I can finish?—”
“No need.” She cuts me off with a shake of her head. “That was delightfully entertaining, talk about having heat in the kitchen. I want to feature you on the show with one condition.”
“Really? You do? Oh my gosh, thank you!” I’m giddy, a smile bursting across my face. And then her final words sink in. “Wait, what’s the condition?”
Tara raises her hand and points a long, polished finger at Hayden just before he disappears inside the burning pizzeria. “He bakes everything with you in the episodes.”
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. Stubborn heart, don’t fail me now.