11. Hayden
Hayden
T he dirt drive to Poppy’s house is lined with lush rows of peach trees.
I feel like I’ve been transported to another town, maybe another time with the mature branches twisting and stretching wide from their trunks.
I half expect to be greeted with a chilled glass of homemade sweet tea as I see the classic farmhouse waiting at the end of the drive.
It all gives me an inexplicable sense of warmth, and as I take in the long shadows stretching from the orchard in the late day’s sun, I can imagine Poppy seeking shelter from the heat beneath these branches.
Maybe she’s barefoot, with that wild hair of hers that matches the peaches she’d pluck from the low hanging branches.
Being invited to her home feels like an honor. Like just maybe, a part of her does trust me. At least enough to let me see her home rather than meeting at the bakery.
It’s our first practice run before shooting the pilot episode.
She’s not wasting any time preparing, insisting I come over after work today.
It had to be today. But it doesn’t surprise me.
Last year, when she presented at a town meeting, she had color coordinated charts and highlighted binders. Poppy doesn’t do anything halfway.
As I park beside her Bronco, she steps through the front door and leans against a porch post. Her hair fans out over her shoulder and curls across her collarbone in the summer breeze.
She’s in a sundress that matches the blue green of a wave’s curl, and the hem of it floats in the gentle wind enough to bring my attention to her tanned legs.
I snap my gaze up quickly to find that glint in her eye that draws me in each time.
She looks every bit my siren.
“Hi.” I step up onto the porch, transfixed. But she has no problem breaking this spell. With a curt nod, she turns away from me and disappears through her front door. I follow, immediately hit with a cozy sense of home.
I take in the wide arches and white shiplap walls that adorn the inviting living room.
With a sofa I’d want to sink into and never leave and an aged fireplace hearth, I find myself picturing Poppy relaxed here.
Or at least trying to. I’m not sure she has a relaxed side to her…
it’s hard to tell when she is busy mustering all the energy in the world to scowl at me anytime I’m around.
“Over here.”
Turning to my right instead, I follow her voice and the sugary sweet scent lingering in the air, and step into the kitchen. “Whoa.” I stop in my tracks. “What happened in here?”
“This is just what a kitchen looks like when you use it.” Poppy scowls.
We’ve only been inside for a matter of minutes, yet she’s managed to cover her hands in a sticky flour mixture. And she’s attempting to itch the tip of her nose with her shoulder unsuccessfully.
“Need a hand?” I offer, moving deeper into the room.
“No, I just need to clean this up so we can start.”
There are tiny little pies laid out on the counter before her. Like the baking is already done. “Start? I think you did that without me.”
Her eyes roll impressively slowly. “I just couldn’t decide on a fruit filling. I needed to try them all to decide which one we’ll make.”
I pull out a dining chair and sit back, watching her whirl around the kitchen. For once, she seems entirely unbothered by my presence. She must be too distracted to worry about me.
“You know, I’d enjoy helping with that part too.”
Poppy stops in her tracks and turns to me. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“I wouldn’t?”
“You don’t eat the things I bake.”
Right . That is what she thinks. What I’ve led her to think, I should say. “Guess it’s time to change that,” I reply calmly. “I mean, if it’s good enough for TV, it should be good enough for me.”
“It should be more than good enough,” she mumbles, returning to clearing a space on the counter. “Are you going to insult my baking on the show? I already had to scrap my signature scones because I didn’t want you making that face of yours on camera at them.”
That comment hits me square in the chest. “You changed your line up because of me?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” she says, crossing her arms and leaning a hip against the cabinet beside her. If looks could kill, I would have used up more than my fair share of lives around Poppy. “Don’t worry, I came up with a great summer fruit theme. Just give me a minute and we’ll start.”
“We don’t have to do this now, take a break. You’re looking a little flushed,” I notice, studying the red tinting her cheeks.
“I’m fine.” She washes the remnants of her first round of baking from her hands and takes a water from the fridge. “Did you want anything?”
“No, I’m good. But look at you learning manners, Poppy Seed. That was actually civil.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
A chuckle escapes me. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“And promise you won’t use that ridiculous nickname on the show.”
“I will make no such promise.”
“Hay—”
“What are we making today?” I change the subject, rising and taking my spot at her side.
She hesitates. Debating if she’ll let the nickname go for now, I assume. Then with a sigh, she says, “Mini lemon meringue tarts. And we’re going to start with the shortcrust tart shell. Do you want to measure or handle the mixer?”
“Um, I’ll mix?”
I watch as she works, portioning out the butter, powdered sugar, then salt.
“Mix,” she instructs.
“Already? Don’t you need more things in there?” I peer into the bowl at the minimal ingredients.
“Not yet. First, you mix these.”
“Doesn’t seem very efficient,” I murmur. There’s no need to look over at her, I can feel her glare burning through me. I’m skeptical, but still do as I’m told.
“You can’t just rush through everything in baking. One misstep can completely change the outcome.”
“That would be a good thing for you to teach me on the show,” I point out, stealing a glance at her.
Poppy raises her eyebrows, seeming pleasantly surprised. It feels like a small victory.
“It would be,” she agrees.
“See, that wasn’t hard. You should practice being nice to me now, because that attitude of yours might not come off so good once the camera is rolling.”
“ And you just ruined the small moment of peace we were having,” she snaps.
Turning back away from me, she cracks an egg and lets the contents fall in, followed by a few drops from a small amber bottle.
“What’s that?” I ask, trying to get her talking to me again.
“Vanilla.” Poppy’s tone suggests that I should have known that one. But she answered, at least.
When she pours in the flour, it looks like she added too much. The mixture begins to turn crumbly instead of smooth. I don’t dare voice that concern, though. Instead, I follow her instructions to the letter, working our way through the lemon filling and meringue topping.
And it’s a good thing I don’t say anything, because the final product looks amazing. Now is as good a time as any to come clean about my love for her pastries—because I really want to try this one.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, lifting my focus from the mini pies on the counter. To my horror, I find her sitting slumped down in a dining chair.
It takes only two quick strides to cross the room, and I drop to my knee before her. “Pop, hey. Are you okay?” I ask, lifting her wrist to check her pulse. It’s slow, causing my own to spike.
“Poppy, I need you to answer me now. Tell me how much you hate my hair or something, please.”
I’m worried, bordering on panicked. Which doesn’t make any sense, considering my career as a first responder. But something about seeing her struggling to blink at me, her normally sparkling eyes looking dull and distant—it hits me right at my core.
Scooping her up in my arms, I carry her across to the living room and lay her on the couch. What would have happened if she was here alone? Has this happened before? My heart races and my jaw tenses as I look her over more closely.
“I’m fine,” a small voice squeaks at me. Way too small to be hers. “I just got dizzy, but I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. But I’m glad you’re alert again. Do not try to sit up, I’ll be right back.”
“So bossy,” she slurs. But it’s an improvement, she’s alert enough to have snark.
I hurry back to the kitchen, looking for anything that she may have by way of electrolytes, specifically sodium.
Digging through her pantry, I find pretzels.
That will work. Then I turn to her fridge, gawking for a moment about the fact that everything inside seems to be sugar based.
Reaching for a carton of juice, I shake my head and return to the living room.
“I need you to try getting these things down,” I demand, kneeling on the floor beside her.
“This is not a big deal; I just haven’t been feeling well today. Woke up with a fever, but I’m fine. Or I will be with rest. I didn’t take enough breaks when I should have.”
“Agreed, you need breaks. How has the fever been today? Have you checked it lately? Take anything for it?” I fire off questions as I tilt the juice towards her lips.
She doesn’t answer any of them. But she doesn’t push me away either. I was prepared for her to be a more difficult patient. But in no time, she gets the juice, pretzels, and some water down.
“I’m tired,” she murmurs, sinking back into the couch cushions, pushing the bag of pretzels against my chest. “And I don’t really feel hot anymore, kinda… chilly.”
I grab a throw blanket from the basket near the fireplace and drape it over her. I watch her eyes flutter closed as I check her pulse once more. It feels okay enough to let her rest.
“Okay, get some sleep, Poppy Seed,” I whisper, running a hand across her hair.
“Baywatch?” Her tired voice sounds confused, and it’s muffled against the little pillow between her face and the arm of the sofa.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“You’ll stay?” She sounds hopeful. My heart stutters in my chest.
“You’re not getting rid of me,” I promise, my voice scratchy.
She’s quiet for a moment, her breathing steady. I wait a minute longer to be sure she fell asleep, and then I stand, heading for the armchair across the room.
I’m a few steps away when a small noise escapes her. I turn back around, expecting to find her watching me, but her eyes are still closed.
“Did you say something?” I ask softly, crossing back over to kneel beside her once again.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get the building,” she mumbles. “Sorry about whatever thing it was that didn’t work out.”
I can feel the smile erupt across my face. Cradling her chin, I absently run my thumb along her cheekbone. She doesn’t pull from my embrace. Instead, she presses her face into my palm.
Emboldened by her reaction, I lean closer and whisper in her ear. “Pretty girl, nothing was wrong with it. I wanted Fitzy to give the building to you.”