Page 13 of Half Baked

“Tara here at Seaside Bakehouse in Foxport, Massachusetts with owner Poppy Wheeler. Tell us, what are you making for us today?”

“Today I’m going to make you lemon lavender scones. It’s a flavor combination very close to my heart, growing up drinking lemon lavender tea with my grandmother. To me, these scones are the essence of home.”

“That sounds delightful, tell us about your grandmother. Was she a baker too?”

I begin grating the butter as I respond. “My grandmother was a fierce, stubborn woman. She claims that I inherited those traits from her too. But then again, she insisted on a lot of things.” I laugh, taking the bowl of butter shavings and moving them to the freezer. “And yes, she certainly was a baker. Never professionally, but she could have made a go at it. When she passed, I came up with these scones as a way to remember her, but with my own twist on her signature flavor.”

“She sounds like she really influenced your career,” Tara reflects.

Measuring out the dry ingredients and whisking them together, I nod. “Annette certainly has left her mark.”

“What else?—”

“Pop!” A deep voice yells with urgency as the door to my bakery is thrown open.

We all turn to the newcomer in unison, surprise frozen on my face as Hayden enters in his full firefighting gear.

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

“There’s a fire next door. I need you all out of here.”

“Wait what? But there’s nothing in here! Look, everything is fine.” Motioning around me, I shoot him a pleading look.

Not today. Not now.

“Poppy, you’re out of here. Now.” He yanks his helmet and mask off as he approaches.

“But why? We’re in the middle of something pretty important. Please, Hayden.” I hate how pleading I sound. With Hayden of all people.

“More important thana fire?”

He’s crossed through the kitchen in just a few broad strides and is standing toe to toe with me. Or, more like white sneakers to chunky firefighter boots. With all his gear, there’s little to nospace between our bodies and his turnout coat is rough against my chest as he leans closer still.

I stand my ground, refusing to be the one that backs away. That backs down. Tilting my chin up, I level him with my best withering glare.

“You’re not going to intimidate me into leaving, Baywatch.”

“You must be confused by what’s happening here. I’m. Not. Asking. Either you leave on your own, or I’m carrying your ass out.”

“You can’t carry me out of a nonexistent fire,” I growl, all the while wondering if he can and will do just that. I wouldn’t put it past him. “Just give me a good reason, that’s all I’m asking.”

“Because I said so.”

“I said agoodreason.”

Hayden’s eyes spark with heat, and I hold his stare until his hands come around my waist and he throws me over his shoulder with ease.

“Hayden!” I slam my fists against his back furiously, desperate to ignore the way his hands shift to splay across the back of my thighs and his fingers tighten into my bare skin at the edge of my linen shorts.

“You’re a lunatic,” I mutter as we cross the threshold of my bakery.

His only response is to trail his thumb back and forth along my skin in a crescent shape that feels like it could remain permanently. The memory of the sweet sensation pulsing through me from his strong grasp on such a sensitive place will be permanently imprinted on my brain, at the very least.

This is Hayden, I firmly remind myself. No sensation I feel for him is sweet.

Lifting my head, I watch Tara and her team following us out. Embarrassment creeps into my cheeks at the reminder of what is happening. There is no way they are going to put me on theirshow after this childish fight they’re witnessing. Tears threaten to blur my eyes, and I blink frantically. I need to regain some control before everything slips away.

Halfway down the wharf, Hayden finally comes to a stop and sets me down. Before releasing me, though, he pins me by my waist once again and holds me in place. I can feel him peering down at me, and I take my time to meet his eyes.

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