Chapter 32 Pop Tarts （Revised Recipe）
Pop Tarts (Revised Recipe)
Poppy
Jack didn’t come back to the houseboat last night.
It’s just as well, because I tossed and turned all night. My mind ran in circles like a hamster on a wheel. It wasn’t the
time to ask him about his past. I know that. But he kept pushing and pushing, demanding answers of me that I’m not fully sure
how to give. My impulsivity got me into yet another scrape, and his sent him running. What a pair we are.
I take my time getting ready. I didn’t bother cleaning the kitchen before bed, but now I do, throwing out the ruined food,
scrubbing the pans until they shine.
“This did smell really good,” I tell Gator, who is lounging in a patch of sun on the floor. He lifts his head, eyes glinting.
“He made it for me, didn’t he? He knows I’ve been loving the Les Halles Cookbook.”
Gator meows plaintively, as if to say, Sure, and what about breakfast?
“Right, sorry.” I fetch a can of wet food from the fridge and scoop it into his bowl. He ambles over, rubbing against my legs
in thanks. “Where did he go? Do you think he’s at the restaurant?”
Gator flicks his tail in answer.
“I know, I know. I messed up.” If there was ever a time to hold my tongue, it would’ve been then.
After fussing with the kitchen unnecessarily and taking way too long getting dressed, I finally head onto the deck, enjoying the salty breeze. It’s still on the early side, and the sun is already so strong, I can feel its rays fighting to get through my layer of sunscreen.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the rock music coming from the back of the restaurant. I wind my way past the décor
that Kiara and I dropped off yesterday afternoon and slowly ease open the door to the kitchen, half expecting Jack to snarl
if he sees me.
Despite my annoyance, I couldn’t help thinking last night about what his childhood must have been like. No wonder he’s so
guarded. I wouldn’t trust easily either, if I spent most of my life shuttled from one home to the next. Some part of him must
have been bracing, always, for the next rejection. His commitment to the restaurant makes all the more sense, knowing how
Sal helped him become who he is today.
As I watch, Jack takes out a baking tray.
A baking tray filled with golden-brown, uniform pop tarts.
He sets the tray on the cooktop. The air is thick with the scent of sugar and dough and jam, a trio of the best smells in
the universe. My mouth starts to water. He turns to another tray, filled with pop tarts that must be cooled, and drizzles
on thick, pale purple icing. Then he leans down, taking a pair of tweezers and painstakingly applying an array of jewel-like
sugared berries, edible flowers, sprinkles. My heart squeezes tightly. He transforms into an artist when he plates food.
“You even remembered the edible flowers.”
Jack looks up, piping bag in hand. His dark hair is streaked with powdered sugar, and he’s got a smudge of jam on his cheek.
I’m overwhelmed with the urge to tousle his hair and lick the jam before kissing him. Instead, I inch into the kitchen, keeping
a safe distance between us.
His eyes are dark, his movements feline. He picks up one of the finished pastries, sets it on a plate, and slides it across
the pass to me. It’s a neat pillow of dough, the edges pressed down with a fork, the top laced with pale purple icing. A sprig
of dried lavender adorns one corner, while sugared raspberries create a tantalizing swirl across the center.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“This is an apology pop tart?” I take a step closer. “I thought you couldn’t bake.”
“They’re harder to make than I thought.” His mouth quirks up. “Good thing I’ve been practicing.”
I stare. The thought of him perfecting pop tarts in secret is doing something funny to my chest. “This is where you were last
night?”
“Try it.”
I take a bite, shutting my eyes as a flood of flavors dances over my tongue. Raspberry jam in the middle, buttery pastry surrounding
it, and delicate lavender icing gracing the top. It’s the perfect balance of sweet and tart. I’m sure he knows it’s flawless,
but he still smiles wide at my reaction. After last night, I was worried I’d never see a smile like that again.
“I’m glad you like them.”
“Like? I like kale. This is in no way a ‘like,’ and you know it.” I take another big bite. A dollop of jam lands on my chest, just above
my tank top’s neckline. I flush, looking around for a napkin.
“Here.” He comes around the pass, rag in hand.
But instead of wiping me clean with it, he bends his head and uses his tongue. Heat sparks through me at the feel of his smooth
lips against the top of my breast, contrasted with the friction of his beard. My nipples tighten, anticipating his touch.
All the rational thoughts flee my mind as he drags down the tank top just far enough to reveal the lacy blue edge of my bra.
“Jack,” I whisper into his hair.
His tongue traces the lace. “I’m sorry.” He dips it into the hollow of my throat. “So fucking sorry I left you alone.”
I pull away far enough to look him in the eyes. They remind me of palm leaves today. There’s a guarded shadow in them, as
if he’s bracing himself for whatever I might say.
I cup his jaw, smoothing away a lingering bit of jam with my thumb. “It must have been hard, growing up like that.”
“I haven’t told many people about it.” His voice is quiet, thoughtful. “Here, I didn’t need to. They already knew. Everywhere
else . . . I told your father. That’s it.”
I hold back my surprise. I knew he was close enough with Dad, before everything happened. But I wouldn’t have expected that.
“I’m sorry, too. It wasn’t the right time to bring it up.” My heart aches for him all over again. “We don’t have to talk about
it. But if you ever want to . . . I’m here.”
He tugs on my braid. “Hey, you stole the second half of my apology.”
My lips quirk into a smile. “Oh, yeah?”
“Neither of us ever claimed to have good timing.”
“No.” I laugh slightly. “Our mouths are runaway trains.”
“The offer is the same,” he says, turning back to his tray of half-decorated pop tarts. “When you want to tell me what’s going
through your head when we’re together, I’m ready to listen.”
There’s a lump in my throat. I don’t know what to think about the fact he caught on immediately, whereas guys like Ryan never
noticed. The fact he wants to know the truth. I wish I knew how to explain this to him. “Teach me how to make the pop tarts.”
To Jack’s credit, he jumps into teacher mode without protest. We work side by side for the better part of an hour. It’s companionable,
part of the rhythm we’ve built for ourselves as we’ve gotten comfortable sharing this space. At one point, he stands behind
me, his hands guiding mine as we bring the dough together, an echo of the pasta-making lesson. For a heartbeat, it feels like
we could do this forever.
“It wasn’t always like this,” I finally make myself say, head bent to concentrate on the task of cutting out uniform rectangles
of dough.
“What wasn’t?” he asks.
I glance over my shoulder. He’s at the stove, stirring the cherry jam he’s making for the filling. His fingertips are stained
pink from pitting the cherries. I take a moment to admire him: hair curling at his nape, rag hanging from his belt, spoon
in his back pocket. Every bit a chef. His ankles are crossed as he leans against the counter, and he’s got a bandage on his
thumb. When I asked about it, he said it was courtesy of a rogue raspberry.
“Poppy?”
There’s no point in keeping secrets on a desert island.
“I know I brushed it off,” I say, fiddling with a bit of dough, “but the comments and messages I get—they do bother me. Even with filters, or limiting DMs, they sneak through.”
Compliments about my face, my body. Insults about the same things. Detailed descriptions of what someone would like to do
to me, if we ever met.
“Not really on the Fable account,” I rush to add. “It’s been weird, actually, even though our content keeps going viral—”
“I’ve been taking care of it.”
“What?”
“You gave me the login, remember?” Jack pushes his hair away from his forehead with a grimace. “I delete and block whatever
you don’t need to see.”
That stops me in my tracks. “Really?”
He shrugs. “It’s like I said. No one has the right to say things like that to a stranger.”
A breath of amazement escapes me. “I’ve been doing the same, when the comments about you cross a line.”
He sets down the spoon he was using to stir the jam, crossing the narrow space between us. He drags me close, nearly holding
me; my legs are between his spread ones, and his arms bracket me on either side. I swipe my tongue across my lips.
“You get in your head, don’t you?” he asks quietly. “Because of things like that?”
I nod. Flush creeps up my neck, my ears. “For years now, guys have had an idea of me in their mind, and when we hook up, it’s
impossible to measure up.”
“Measure up to who?”
“Me.” I laugh without humor. @itspoppywinfield, a perfect blonde with perfect outfits and an aesthetic that women envy and
men want to see up close. “Well, the influencer version of me. The one who doesn’t really exist. It’s been so hard to stay
in the moment and enjoy things like sex. I just . . .”
“Withdraw into yourself.”
“Yeah.” I pull on his apron, mostly for something to occupy my hands. My eyes flick upward. “It’s one thing to read something
online, and another for someone to say it to your face, you know? I’ve been scared of ruining the fantasy. Getting messy.”
“Real sex is messy.” His hand comes up, stroking the curve of my jaw. “Weird. A little gross, even. That’s my favorite part about it.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Hartman.”
“I don’t want you holding back with me.”
“You did it too,” I remind him. “You thought I’d be louder, different—”
“No, Poppy.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want you to be loud just because it’s my fantasy. I want it because I can tell it’s
what you want. You’re aching to let go, but you aren’t letting yourself.”
My breath catches. “You sound confident.”