Page 24 of Half Baked

“I wouldn’t?”

“You don’t eat the things I bake.”

Right. That is what she thinks. What I’ve led her to think, I should say. “Guess it’s time to change that,” I reply calmly. “I mean, if it’s good enough for TV, it should be good enough for me.”

“It should be more than good enough,” she mumbles, returning to clearing a space on the counter. “Are you going to insult my baking on the show? I already had to scrap my signature scones because I didn’t want you making that face of yours on camera at them.”

That comment hits me square in the chest. “You changed your line up because of me?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” she says, crossing her arms and leaning a hip against the cabinet beside her. If looks could kill, I would have used up more than my fair share of lives around Poppy. “Don’t worry, I came up with a great summer fruit theme. Just give me a minute and we’ll start.”

“We don’t have to do this now, take a break. You’re looking a little flushed,” I notice, studying the red tinting her cheeks.

“I’m fine.” She washes the remnants of her first round of baking from her hands and takes a water from the fridge. “Did you want anything?”

“No, I’m good. But look at you learning manners, Poppy Seed. That was actually civil.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

A chuckle escapes me. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And promise you won’t use that ridiculous nickname on the show.”

“I will make no such promise.”

“Hay—”

“What are we making today?” I change the subject, rising and taking my spot at her side.

She hesitates. Debating if she’ll let the nickname go for now, I assume. Then with a sigh, she says, “Mini lemon meringue tarts. And we’re going to start with the shortcrust tart shell. Do you want to measure or handle the mixer?”

“Um, I’ll mix?”

I watch as she works, portioning out the butter, powdered sugar, then salt.

“Mix,” she instructs.

“Already? Don’t you need more things in there?” I peer into the bowl at the minimal ingredients.

“Not yet. First, you mix these.”

“Doesn’t seem very efficient,” I murmur. There’s no need to look over at her, I can feel her glare burning through me. I’m skeptical, but still do as I’m told.

“You can’t just rush through everything in baking. One misstep can completely change the outcome.”

“That would be a good thing for you to teach me on the show,” I point out, stealing a glance at her.

Poppy raises her eyebrows, seeming pleasantly surprised. It feels like a small victory.

“It would be,” she agrees.

“See, that wasn’t hard. You should practice being nice to me now, because that attitude of yours might not come off so good once the camera is rolling.”

“Andyou just ruined the small moment of peace we were having,” she snaps.

Turning back away from me, she cracks an egg and lets the contents fall in, followed by a few drops from a small amber bottle.

“What’s that?” I ask, trying to get her talking to me again.

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