Page 23 of Half Baked

“I don’t want to date.”

“That’s what I used to say too.”

“The women I meet either want my money, or they listened to a podcast about my parents and are fascinated. It’s just easier to stay single,” I tell him.

“Speaking of?—”

“We don’t need to speak about any of this.”

“Shut up and listen.” With his arms folded on the table, I have a feeling Tripp is using his sheriff glare on me. I have to admit, it’s kind of intimidating. “Have you thought about what it will mean to go on this show and put yourself back in the public eye? You worked your ass off to get away from it all.”

“They aren’t going to mention my last name on the show or anything like that. This is about Poppy. It’s about baking.”

Tripp shrugs, taking a drink. “I’d tell you to take your time and think about it, but if you back out now, Poppy will end you.”

“She would make it slow and painful, and she would smile the whole time,” I snort. “Thatwould earn her a spot on a show. Those true crime junkies would have a fascinating new Thompson death to investigate.”

Chapter 11

Hayden

The dirt drive to Poppy’s house is lined with lush rows of peach trees. I feel like I’ve been transported to another town, maybe another time with the mature branches twisting and stretching wide from their trunks. I half expect to be greeted with a chilled glass of homemade sweet tea as I see the classic farmhouse waiting at the end of the drive.

It all gives me an inexplicable sense of warmth, and as I take in the long shadows stretching from the orchard in the late day’s sun, I can imagine Poppy seeking shelter from the heat beneath these branches. Maybe she’s barefoot, with that wild hair of hers that matches the peaches she’d pluck from the low hanging branches.

Being invited to her home feels like an honor. Like just maybe, a part of her does trust me. At least enough to let me see her home rather than meeting at the bakery.

It’s our first practice run before shooting the pilot episode. She’s not wasting any time preparing, insisting I come over after worktoday.It had to be today. But it doesn’t surprise me. Last year, when she presented at a town meeting, she had color coordinated charts and highlighted binders. Poppy doesn’t do anything halfway.

As I park beside her Bronco, she steps through the front door and leans against a porch post. Her hair fans out over her shoulder and curls across her collarbone in the summer breeze. She’s in a sundress that matches the blue green of a wave’s curl, and the hem of it floats in the gentle wind enough to bring my attention to her tanned legs. I snap my gaze up quickly to find that glint in her eye that draws me in each time.

She looks every bit my siren.

“Hi.” I step up onto the porch, transfixed. But she has no problem breaking this spell. With a curt nod, she turns away from me and disappears through her front door. I follow, immediately hit with a cozy sense of home.

I take in the wide arches and white shiplap walls that adorn the inviting living room. With a sofa I’d want to sink into and never leave and an aged fireplace hearth, I find myself picturing Poppy relaxed here. Or at least trying to. I’m not sure she has a relaxed side to her… it’s hard to tell when she is busy mustering all the energy in the world to scowl at me anytime I’m around.

“Over here.”

Turning to my right instead, I follow her voice and the sugary sweet scent lingering in the air, and step into the kitchen. “Whoa.” I stop in my tracks. “What happened in here?”

“This is just what a kitchen looks like when you use it.” Poppy scowls.

We’ve only been inside for a matter of minutes, yet she’s managed to cover her hands in a sticky flour mixture. And she’s attempting to itch the tip of her nose with her shoulder unsuccessfully.

“Need a hand?” I offer, moving deeper into the room.

“No, I just need to clean this up so we can start.”

There are tiny little pies laid out on the counter before her. Like the baking is already done. “Start? I think you did that without me.”

Her eyes roll impressively slowly. “I just couldn’t decide on a fruit filling. I needed to try them all to decide which one we’ll make.”

I pull out a dining chair and sit back, watching her whirl around the kitchen. For once, she seems entirely unbothered by my presence. She must be too distracted to worry about me.

“You know, I’d enjoy helping with that part too.”

Poppy stops in her tracks and turns to me. “No, you wouldn’t.”

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