12. Poppy
Poppy
S leep has me in its grasp. So much so, I’m imagining Hayden whispering in my ear.
I’m imagining I just asked him to stay with me too.
But the last thing my brain conjures up before the fatigue wins, is the faintest feeling of his lips on my forehead.
And what’s strange is, that sweet sensation doesn’t feel conjured up in my mind at all.
I open my eyes to the soft rays of morning light. Still on my couch, I must have slept straight through the night after Hayden put me here.
Wait.
Hayden.
I roll over and my eyes widen when I see him across the room. I didn’t imagine that part, he really is here. And he’s sound asleep in the armchair. Did he stay like that all night?
A pang hits me as I take in his large frame stretched out across a chair too small for him. There’s no way he’s comfortable. But as he sleeps, his face looks calm, content even.
I sit up to better study him. Hayden is remarkably handsome, somehow managing to look the picture of old money while having the ruggedness of an active, surfing, first responder.
He has a strong jaw, covered in a short stubble, and a masculine brow line.
It doesn’t matter that his eyes are closed, I can picture the serene, pale blue of them. Like the ocean on a calm, cloudy day.
If someone would have told me a week ago that Hayden Thompson would be sleeping in my living room, I would have laughed at the absurdity.
Not to mention the dream I had about him kissing my forehead and calling me pretty girl .
Maybe I still have a fever. I even imagined him telling me that he told Fitzy to give me the building. And I know that can’t be true.
“Food will make me lucid again,” I whisper to myself, wrapping the blanket tight to my shoulders and swinging my legs around to stand. My first attempt causes me to fall back onto the couch, unsteady on my feet. “Whoa,” I call out, reaching to stabilize myself for a second attempt.
“ Poppy .”
My name sounds like a command on his lips. I must have woken the slumbering beast.
I start to rise again when large hands push me back down. And then Hayden is leaning over me, a furrow in his brow. “Where are you going?”
“Food,” I manage, looking towards the kitchen.
“Let me.” He moves into the next room and begins pillaging through my fridge and pantry. “Do you have anything healthy?”
“I had fruit, but then I baked with all of it. Oh, there are peaches outside,” I say, pointing out the front window.
Wordlessly, he steps out the door. I lean over the back of the couch and watch him walk up to a tree and pluck a ripe peach right from the branch. It causes a stir in me. The only people that have harvested those trees in my lifetime are Wheeler women. But here Hayden is, looking right at home.
He returns and rinses the peach off before handing it to me. “Stay put. I’m getting ingredients,” he instructs, pulling keys from his pocket.
“You’re… what?”
“I’m making you breakfast. Real food. Eggs, maybe with some spinach. You can’t live off pastries and iced coffee.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” I mutter.
“Well look who’s getting some of her charming personality back.” That attractive smile of his widens. “Lay down, I’ll only be a few minutes.”
I must be sick, because I do as he asks—and stay that way until he returns. Letting myself drift back to sleep, I wake only when the front door creaks open once again. Hayden enters, a brown grocery bag in the crook of his arm.
“What are you making?” I sit up, trying to see what’s in the bag.
“Omelets and breakfast potatoes,” he calls back, opening cabinets until he finds the skillets.
“And you know how to make that?” For once, I’m not being sarcastic, I’m truly surprised.
“Yes, Pop. Believe it or not, I’ve been keeping myself fed for quite a few years now.”
“I just remember hearing about how you had a chef that worked for you.”
“My parents did,” he corrects me.
“Oh.” A significant amount of my Hayden knowledge is second hand, maybe I got that part wrong.
I don’t admit that though. Instead, I watch him make himself at home in my kitchen and I think about how I should be in the bakehouse’s kitchen right now.
“What’s happening in that head of yours?” he asks, setting a plate on my lap and taking a seat on the sofa beside me. His weight causes me to slide down the cushion until I’m pressed against him. I try to slide away again, but it’s akin to what shimming upward on a waterslide would do. Nothing.
“I’m supposed to be at the bakery right now. If I’m not there, it doesn’t open.”
Hayden nudges me to take a bite, and when I do, a moan slips from me. He grins crookedly at the sound.
“Good?”
“Not bad.”
“Mhmm. Listen, just a suggestion, but what if I took over all those little pies you made yesterday? And I saw those cookie bars in the freezer. That would give you some business today, right?”
“Don’t you have your own job to get to?” I ask, trying to ignore the warmth that tugs at my heart from his offer to do yet another favor for me.
“Yes, and it would be a waste of time to have to respond to an unconscious baker at the wharf when I can just help now.”
“So, you’re just being efficient.”
“Obviously.”
I take another bite and nod. “If it’s for purely selfish reasons, I guess I can’t stop you.”
A deep laugh rumbles in his chest. “Is there anything else you need before I go?”
I look over to see his plate cleared. How did he eat all of that already? I blink at him, not sure why I’m disappointed. “No, I don’t need anything. The bakery key is hanging by the door.”
“Anything that you like when you don’t feel good?”
“Oh, um. My grandma used to make me this lemon lavender tea. But?—”
“I’ll make some before I go, I saw it on your counter.
” He rises and moves back into the kitchen.
If there’s a record for the number of times a single person has surprised another in one morning, I’m certain we’ve surpassed it.
I watch him in lieu of responding. Because what can I say when he’s checked the disdain at the door?
“Is this what you make those scones with?” he asks, preparing the kettle.
I stiffen. “It is.”
He moves about my kitchen, locating a mug and preparing the tea. When the kettle whistles, Hayden plucks it from the stove and pours the hot water. “They’re amazing, you know.”
“What are?”
Coming back to perch on the edge of the coffee table, he waits for me to sit forward and adjust the blanket over my lap before I accept the piping hot mug. I close my eyes and bring it up to my nose, inhaling deeply.
Pure comfort in a cup. The memory of my grandmother’s love washes over me. For a split second, I allow myself to bask in the feeling. And when I open my eyes again, Hayden flashes me a soft smile that is achingly tender.
I’m not used to this one, I don’t see him use it around town.
“Those flower tea scones you make. I get one from the café every morning.”
My brain must still be foggy from the fever. I certainly didn’t hear him correctly. “But… I was there. You were disgusted just looking at them the other morning.”
“I’m sorry, Poppy. I didn’t think you considered my opinion. But either way. I shouldn’t have led you to believe they were anything short of perfection. Sometimes I get caught up in what is happening between us.”
Another wave of dizziness passes through me, but for a wholly different reason. “Happening between us?”
His smile becomes as blinding as the sun. “The disagreements, of course.”
Lifting the mug, I take a generous gulp of my tea. Right, disagreement. That’s the only thing between us.
“Of course,” I agree. After all, nothing else would make sense.