That wasn’t the issue then.
“Who were you with in there? I saw a camera, which seems pretty weird unless—” It dawns on me who would have a camera in her bakery. “Was that the show?”
“What’s it to you?” Poppy snaps. Whatever shock she was experiencing must be wearing off.
“Fine, don’t tell me,” I growl, looking over to my crew. Guilt gnaws at me for being here with her rather than helping wrap everything up. “And you’re welcome, once again,” I add, turning back to her. It’s then that I notice the way her body seems to sag under some invisible weight. Something is wrong.
“Yeah, you’re so helpful. Coming in and ruining everything,” she murmurs. There’s a tremor in her voice as she whips around, turning away from me.
“Wait, Poppy.” I reach for her arm, but she jerks it just out of reach. Without another look back at me, she storms off, stomping those white sneakers.
Shit. I just ruined something for her. She didn’t have a violent look in her eyes because she was sad. And there was something else there too. Something I can’t quite identify. Watching her go, I lift a hand to my chest and rub at the intense pressure building there.
“Thanks for putting that out,” someone says behind me. It takes me a few seconds to tear my gaze away from Poppy, and when I do, I find that it is Sam speaking to me.
“I’m really sorry you’re dealing with this,” I tell him. “You’ve gone through it lately.”
“This is what I get for trying to be hands off and have a soft retirement. Turns out, my new manager didn’t know you have to clean out the grease trap.”
I nod, my face in a sympathetic frown. Build up in a grease trap? That’ll do it.
“But no damage outside of my place, right? The bakehouse is fine?”
“Yeah, everything stayed contained,” I assure him.
“Good. That’s good. Poor girl had enough problems during renovations, she didn’t need this too.”
I open my mouth to ask Sam what happened during Poppy’s renovations when Cap approaches. “Can I steal you?” he asks Sam.
With a nod goodbye, Sam walks away, holding onto information I desperately want about the bakehouse. I follow after them, returning to the tasks at hand. But as I pass by Poppy’s place, Sam’s words rattle in my head.
Poppy
There’s not enough caramel in the world to fill the cracks in my heart. But as I pour the sticky confection atop the shortbread, I’m determined to try.
And admittedly, it does feel slightly better to be baking in my home kitchen. I can almost feel my grandmother baking right alongside me.
My kitchen at home is simple, with creamy, antique white cabinetry and wooden butcher block counters. It is a U shaped kitchen set up, and I have a long wooden dining table that I like to push against the wall under the window and use as a makeshift prep table.
It’s more than enough space for the baking I’m doing today. And there was no way I was going to stick around in Hayden’s proximity after his alpha, caveman attitude today.
Who just throws someone over their shoulder in a building thatisn’tthe one on fire? The feel of his thumb swirling across my leg remains hours later, tattooed to my skin. It’s like heat is radiating there, similar to the effects of getting a sunburn.
I had gone home in a daze, hoping space would provide clarity to the way the day had played out. Now, in the familiar setting of my lifelong home, the clarity comes with a sense of being utterly forlorn.
I spread the caramel and turn to the bowl of chocolate I have ready to melt. Working in a steady repetition, I let myself slip into a comforting rhythm. Heat, stir, heat, stir, until the chocolate and butter are satisfyingly blended. Then I pour the chocolate atop the layer of caramel and smooth it out.
It doesn’t matter how many times I turn the problem over in my head while baking. As far as I see it, there are only two options that remain after I exhausted my first choice of calling Tara and begging her to reconsider. She wouldn’t be swayed, leaving me with the choices of doing the show with Hayden or withdrawing.
The worst part is, I’m not even the one who gets to decide this. My fate literally rests in the hands of the last person I would ever want to rely on. If I do ask Hayden, it’s all up to him. If he doesn’t do the show, I don’t.
Tears and fury bubble up within me equally. I have worked tirelessly to save money, to learn my craft, to get to where I am. And for what? In the end, I’m forced to take a chance on a man I am fairly certain hates me. To be on a show I’m not even sure I want to be on.
I want to scream at the top of my lungs, rail against the universe. I want to throw something. To break something.
But instead, I breathe. Long and deep and slow breaths. I’ll figure this out, but I need my girls to do it. Besides Nana Annette, they’re the only people I trust with the vulnerable sides of myself. They’ve witnessed it all firsthand—the self-doubt and the need to hold on so tightly to control that I unravel completely.
Pulling out my phone, I click straight to the group text. Tomorrow is the day of the week when my bakery is closed. And it seems like the perfect day to hit the beach.