9. Poppy
Poppy
I t’s funny how the wealthiest people think their expansive mansions could actually be called cottages. I guess that’s one thing Nathaniel Thompson got right, he never tried to pretend his home wasn’t five times bigger than those around it.
From what I heard of Hayden’s father, he prided himself on it. He wanted people to know exactly how successful he was. And thus, the Thompson Estate was named Cliff House.
On the northside of Manchester Point, the estate sits high up on a bluff that slopes down to its own private bay. Something I only know through hearsay, because you can’t see it from the road. And I’ve never graced Cliff House’s doorstep. Until today.
It’s impossible to miss the plaque on the stone wall informing me that I’m in the right place. And I get my first bout of good luck when I turn into the drive and find the gate open. Maybe I’ll make it to the foyer before Hayden turns me away.
Behind the stone wall, a perfectly manicured lawn stretches on in a brilliant, lush green. Lining the drive are rows of neatly trimmed hedges, which soon open to a wide square of stone pavers and in the center, a granite, tiered fountain.
I park and attempt to pick my jaw off the floor.
I knew this place would be a lot, but was wholly unprepared for how gorgeous it is in person.
Turning to my left, my eyes follow the driveway around to what looks like a six-car garage.
It appears to be connected to the front corner of the house.
If this can even be called a house. The wing connected to the garage is twice the size of my grandmother’s home alone, and it seems to be the smallest section.
From that wing, it bends and comes across the back of the fountain square.
Centered behind it sits a double front door, painted in a crisp white that stands out from the classic gray, wood shingle siding.
White pillars frame the door, holding up a balcony on the second floor.
And above that sits a third floor, complete with a glass lookout tower like a captain’s watch.
My heart races as I wipe my clammy palms on my bare thighs. I feel silly sitting here in a little sundress like I needed to look nice for this. Nothing I own could even be considered good enough when one’s mansion looks like this.
Jumping out onto the drive, I adjust the white and blue floral dress and flip my hair back over my shoulder. I bite my lip and stand there, staring at the front door. It dawns on me that I shouldn’t be here, giving him home field advantage while I ask for a favor.
I reach for the door handle beside me to make my escape, then pause again. But what if he saw me pull in? I can’t flee, letting him know how inferior I feel.
Lifting my chin, I march toward the front steps. Before I lose my nerve, I rap on the door with determination. When no one answers, I knock again.
Can you even hear someone knocking on a door with a house this size? I reach over and ring the doorbell instead.
Still no answer.
I look towards the far corner of the house and notice a little wooden gate and a path. Maybe he’s around back working on that obnoxiously perfect tan of his.
With no lock on the gate, I’m able to flip the latch open and step through. Pillowy white hydrangeas, the size of my head, line the walk that seems to go on forever. “How big is this place?” I mutter to myself.
Eventually, I reach the back lawn, complete with a two-story balcony and a sprawling patio.
The hydrangeas frame in the patio, with rows surrounding an outdoor kitchen and dining area, a pool house, and a pool that is lined with glistening turquoise tiles, making it look like it belongs at a European resort.
I’m eager to get a closer look at everything, but it feels like an invasion of privacy to step across the patio. I’m already trespassing as it is. Instead, I step onto the lawn and head out and around toward the stone stairs leading down to the sea.
“Hayden?” I call from the top of the staircase.
Maybe he’s not here. Although why anyone would leave the driveway gate open when they aren’t home is beyond me. This place is too marvelous for trespassers to stay away.
“Hayden!” I try again, louder this time.
I should have listened to Stevie and called him ahead of time. Now I’m just stalking around his estate.
Peering down the staircase, there is a landing where it bends at a ninety degree angle and continues. I skip down to the landing and freeze.
From here, I can see a beautiful sandy beach carved out from the cliffs.
Like a secret oasis, it stretches across the width of the property in a crescent shape.
And rising from the water like Poseidon himself, is Hayden.
His chiseled, tan chest glistens from the water droplets that cling to him, and he shakes his head, face tilted upward so his hair falls back perfectly.
His black swim trunks cling to his thighs, hiked up to reveal broad, rippling quads.
I never thought I was a thigh girl, yet I cannot look away.
A few paces into the sand, he drops a surfboard and lifts his gaze towards his estate. Towards me.
Heat blazes across my cheeks, and in a panic, I turn and rush back up the stairs. I can’t ask him for this favor, not after being caught watching him from his own backyard.
Hayden
I blink rapidly, scrubbing a hand over my face and clearing the salty water from my vision. I’m not imagining it. That’s Poppy, in a devastating little dress that’s hugging her in all the best ways. And she’s retreating at an impressive pace.
Before I realize what I’m doing, my legs are carrying me quickly through the sand and up the stairs. I take them two at a time, cursing my muscles for being sore from surfing.
I reach the lawn and stop, scanning the yard for her sleek, strawberry blonde hair. When I don’t immediately locate her, I shout for her instead. “Poppy!” My voice is lost in the breeze coming from the sea.
I can’t imagine she went inside my house, so I cut across the patio to the side path. Turning the corner, I skid to a stop, nearly knocking into the woman I’m looking for as she leans against the side of my house.
She flattens against the siding in surprise, her hands coming up to protect herself from being crushed. They land on my chest as a startled squeak escapes her. Then she realizes, with wide eyes, that she’s groping my bare pecs. Frantically, she drops her hands once again.
I catch pink staining her cheeks before she ducks her head to hide her face. Her long, sleek hair falls forward over her shoulder, and it hides her from me further.
She’s out of breath, probably the reason she stopped around the corner here. And I watch as the blue flowers on her dress dance from the motion of her chest heaving for air.
A million questions race through my mind, but I settle on the most logical, and appropriate, one first. “What brings you by, Poppy Seed?” The corner of my lip tips up as I lean in and plant a hand against the house beside her head.
“You’re dripping on my dress,” she mutters.
I take a step back and drag a hand through my hair. “Better?”
“I’d prefer if you were like, five more steps back, at least. But yes.”
“You’re being a little rude for someone that came seeking me out.” I fold my arms across my chest and raise an eyebrow. “So again, what brings you by?”
“Temporary insanity. Forget it,” she replies, turning to continue up the walk.
“Wait.” I reach out and catch her wrist in my hand. “Come inside.”
Her eyes jump from my grasp on her, to my face, and back to my hand on her wrist. I can tell that her brain is working frantically inside that cute little head of hers. I’ll decide for her.
“Come on,” I say, giving a gentle tug and pulling her around to the back doors of the house. She doesn’t fight me, letting me lead her into the kitchen. I pull out one of the rattan stools at the island and motion for her to sit. Again, she obliges without protest.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, studying her face curiously. “Okay?”
“Okay,” she replies with a roll of her eyes. That’s at least a familiar behavior for my girl.
I nod, reassured that she won’t flee, and rush through the house to my room. I grab the first articles of clothing I see, changing into sweatpants and throwing a T-shirt on at record speed.
I can’t imagine what Poppy would be doing here. Alone, no less. Is she upset about me throwing her over my shoulder during the fire the other day? No. If that was the reason, she’d be tearing into me by now.
Taking the back staircase, I pop back out on the other side of the kitchen from where she’s expecting me. “Where did you just come from?” she breathes when I appear. “This house is insane.”
“Can I get you anything?” I ask, ignoring her mumblings.
“No, I’m fine.”
“So, then why the visit? Missing me?”
“I miss you like people miss a sunburn.”
“Charming,” I deadpan. “But can I remind you once again that you came to seek me out.”
I lean back against the counter, facing her, and wait. She looks genuinely ill, like what she has to say might kill her.
“You know I was given an audition for a baking show.” She pauses, waiting until I nod. “That’s who I was with when you manhandled me out of my own bakery the other day.”
“Saved you,” I correct. But as she drops her gaze and starts picking at her lip, a knot forms in my gut. “Did that fuck up your audition?”
“It depends on who you ask,” she grumbles. “Just like everyone else, you have them fooled.”
“Everyone loves a hot fireman.” I grin.
She throws her head back and takes a moment to study the coffered ceiling. After a heavy sigh, she looks my way once again. “What they loved was our interaction, apparently it will make for good ratings.”
“Wait…”
I push off the white marble counter behind me and lean forward on the island instead. Resting on my forearms, I bend closer and closer towards her until she’s forced to look up at me. I think I know what she’s getting at, but I need to be sure.
“Poppy, tell me why you’re here.”
She huffs, throwing her hands up in the air.
“The stupid people from the stupid show have the stupid idea that you and I would make for good ratings. Together. They said they’ll offer me the spot only if you join me, which is dumb because you have nothing to do with anything and we hate each other and?—”
“Take a breath,” I tell her, reaching forward and clasping a hand on her arm. When she does, it sounds more like a huff than a breath. But it calms her down, nonetheless. “So, you’re asking me to do the show with you?”
“No.”
“Just wanted to catch me up on how much people like me, then?”
“Fine, yes. I am asking if you’ll go on the show with me.” She groans.
I watch with amusement as she digs her palms into her eyes, as if having to utter those words was truly painful.
“What do we have to do?”
“There would be six episodes, a mini-series. We would have to bake together six separate times on camera. That’s it. You’d come learn how to make the recipe I pick before shooting day. Then we would just walk through it again for the show.”
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Just like that?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.
“Apparently.”
I can’t say no to this infuriating woman, which only makes her more infuriating. She could have asked me to do anything, and I would have agreed. It’s been that way for longer than I’d care to admit.
“What do you want for this?”
I rub the back of my neck and frown. “What do I want?”
“What do you want for agreeing to do this? You know, what I would owe you in return.”
“You really think that little of me, don’t you?” I hold up a hand. “Actually, don’t answer that. Just know that I don’t want anything from you.”
“I have to pay you back for this.”
My hand lowers at the softness of her tone. Her eyes look a little sad, and genuine. That’s the thing about Poppy, I can read her expressions better than anyone.
Softening my own tone, I suggest, “Let’s just say I get an IOU.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Poppy chews on her lip, studying me with those piercing eyes. And I happily gaze back into them, holding her stare. Her brain is working through this, something like a war probably happening in there. Finally, she says, “But you can’t just cash it in on anything, I get veto power.”
“Of course,” I agree. I would be worried if she didn’t veto something. Turning towards the fridge, I offer, “Are you sure you don’t want anything? I’m starving after spending the morning in the surf, I can make us something.”
“Make us something?” she cocks her head in surprise. “But no, I’ll leave you to it.” Standing, she starts towards the back door.
With two steps, I beat her to it, my fingers closing around the handle. I watch her eyes widen. From this close, I can see the various shades of blue in her eyes. Grinning back at her, I ask, “When do we start?”
“I’ll let you know when I know.”
There’s a breathiness to her voice that only serves to spur me on. “Yes, chef,” I murmur.
She scowls.
My smile deepens.
This is going to be fun.