10. Hayden
Hayden
“ W ant a beer?”
I lift my chin towards the patio doors, as if seeing Tripp in his kitchen will help me hear him over the roar of the ocean waves.
“Beer?” he calls louder, holding up an amber bottle for good measure.
“Yeah,” I shout back with a nod and thumbs up.
He gets the message, ambling back out with two bottles dangling from the fingers of his left hand and a tray of raw steak balancing in the right.
“Where’s Ivy tonight?” I ask as he crosses back outside.
“Dinner with her dad. He’s still feeling guilty about the guy he brought into the law firm last year. They go out monthly now, just the two of them.”
He tilts his wrist to angle a bottle towards me. I accept it as I ask, “You still keep tabs on that guy, right?”
A snort escapes him. “Absolutely.”
“Good.”
The guy in question had made an inappropriate pass at Ivy around the time Tripp was still sulking around like a lovesick puppy, his own feelings locked up tight. Needless to say, he had responded swiftly to the sleaze.
Satisfied and not at all surprised that he’s got an eye out for the young lawyer’s return, I kick back and look out at the ocean while he drops the steaks on the grill.
It would be nice to have what they have—that partnership. Connection. It’s also nice that things haven’t changed since Tripp and Ivy got together.
I wasn’t sure what to expect initially. Would he drop out of our summer lacrosse league? Stop coming over for football games? Would our friendship change considering that one of Ivy’s closest friends loathes me?
No—to all the questions that snagged in my brain.
In fact, Tripp was the one that reminded me when it was time to sign up for summer league.
And I appreciate it, but after getting whomped at the game tonight, I’m wondering if maybe it isn’t time for us both to hang up our sticks.
One of the college kids on our team even called me sir.
I’m twenty-eight going on fifty-eight apparently.
“Hey, Ivy told me something pretty crazy when she got home yesterday.”
“Oh yeah?” I glance over my shoulder once again to see a smug look on his face.
“Yeah. At first, I thought she was joking. That’s how crazy it was.”
I raise an eyebrow and wait.
“Ivy said that you are going to be Poppy’s co-baker on the show.”
“I don’t think that’s what they’re called.”
“What?” he asks.
“Co-baker. I don’t think that’s a term.”
“Then it’s true?” He laughs, flipping a steak.
“It’s true.” I flash him a grin. “They want to put this pretty face on TV. Or I guess on a streaming service.”
“Do you even know how to bake?”
“I know my way around a kitchen. Baking is the same as cooking, really.” I pause to shake my head at him. “Besides, do you think she’s going to let me actually touch anything?”
“I think you’ll try.”
“I will.”
“Man.” He chuckles. “You two are going to kill each other.” There is not an ounce of doubt in his words.
“Probably,” I admit through the beer bottle against my lips.
“Why would you agree to this?”
Apparently, Tripp is feeling wicked chatty tonight. What’s with the twenty questions?
I take another drink, trying to decide how to respond. There’s a voice in the back of my mind telling me that I absolutely know why I agreed to this. For the same reason I’m waiting around for construction to finish on a new build for the rescue team.
It’s Poppy. Even with all her frustrating, grating, demanding fire, I can’t seem to shake the way my chest tightens when I think about her.
I sigh. “Because she asked.”
Tripp doesn’t say anything for a while. Instead, he clamps his mouth closed and turns his attention to finishing the steaks.
I hear the click of the grill turning off as I keep my attention on the steady roll of waves coming into the shoreline.
They curl, and white tips form just before they crash against the rocks.
My skin itches to be out there, a constant pull I feel.
When Tripp comes over to the table and drops a plate in front of me, he mutters something about forgetting the pasta salad Ivy has in the refrigerator and makes a quick trip back inside.
He returns with two more drinks as well and we eat in peace, the baking conversation long over. At least, that’s what I assume.
“Are you going to tell her?” he asks, scooping out another helping of pasta.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“I just think Poppy would ease up on you if she knew that you gave it up.”
“I think you’re wrong,” I say.
“I know with Ivy?—”
“You finally get a serious girlfriend and now you’re an expert on women?”
“I’m doing better than you,” he smirks.
“I don’t want to date.”
“That’s what I used to say too.”
“The women I meet either want my money, or they listened to a podcast about my parents and are fascinated. It’s just easier to stay single,” I tell him.
“Speaking of?—”
“We don’t need to speak about any of this.”
“Shut up and listen.” With his arms folded on the table, I have a feeling Tripp is using his sheriff glare on me.
I have to admit, it’s kind of intimidating.
“Have you thought about what it will mean to go on this show and put yourself back in the public eye? You worked your ass off to get away from it all.”
“They aren’t going to mention my last name on the show or anything like that. This is about Poppy. It’s about baking.”
Tripp shrugs, taking a drink. “I’d tell you to take your time and think about it, but if you back out now, Poppy will end you.”
“She would make it slow and painful, and she would smile the whole time,” I snort. “ That would earn her a spot on a show. Those true crime junkies would have a fascinating new Thompson death to investigate.”