Page 22 of Half Baked

“Hey, Ivy told me something pretty crazy when she got home yesterday.”

“Oh yeah?” I glance over my shoulder once again to see a smug look on his face.

“Yeah. At first, I thought she was joking. That’s how crazy it was.”

I raise an eyebrow and wait.

“Ivy said thatyouare going to be Poppy’s co-baker on the show.”

“I don’t think that’s what they’re called.”

“What?” he asks.

“Co-baker. I don’t think that’s a term.”

“Then it’s true?” He laughs, flipping a steak.

“It’s true.” I flash him a grin. “They want to put this pretty face on TV. Or I guess on a streaming service.”

“Do you even know how to bake?”

“I know my way around a kitchen. Baking is the same as cooking, really.” I pause to shake my head at him. “Besides, do you think she’s going to let me actually touch anything?”

“I think you’ll try.”

“I will.”

“Man.” He chuckles. “You two are going to kill each other.” There is not an ounce of doubt in his words.

“Probably,” I admit through the beer bottle against my lips.

“Why would you agree to this?”

Apparently, Tripp is feeling wicked chatty tonight. What’s with the twenty questions?

I take another drink, trying to decide how to respond. There’s a voice in the back of my mind telling me that I absolutely know why I agreed to this. For the same reason I’m waiting around for construction to finish on a new build for the rescue team.

It’s Poppy. Even with all her frustrating, grating, demanding fire, I can’t seem to shake the way my chest tightens when I think about her.

I sigh. “Because she asked.”

Tripp doesn’t say anything for a while. Instead, he clamps his mouth closed and turns his attention to finishing the steaks. I hear the click of the grill turning off as I keep my attention on the steady roll of waves coming into the shoreline. They curl, and white tips form just before they crash against the rocks. My skin itches to be out there, a constant pull I feel.

When Tripp comes over to the table and drops a plate in front of me, he mutters something about forgetting the pasta salad Ivy has in the refrigerator and makes a quick trip back inside. He returns with two more drinks as well and we eat in peace, the baking conversation long over. At least, that’s what I assume.

“Are you going to tell her?” he asks, scooping out another helping of pasta.

“Don’t know what you mean.”

“I just think Poppy would ease up on you if she knew that you gave it up.”

“I think you’re wrong,” I say.

“I know with Ivy?—”

“You finally get a serious girlfriend and now you’re an expert on women?”

“I’m doing better than you,” he smirks.

---