Page 26 of Half Baked

Poppy

Sleep has me in its grasp. So much so, I’m imagining Hayden whispering in my ear. I’m imagining I just asked him to stay with me too. But the last thing my brain conjures up before the fatigue wins, is the faintest feeling of his lips on my forehead. And what’s strange is, that sweet sensation doesn’tfeelconjured up in my mind at all.

I open my eyes to the soft rays of morning light. Still on my couch, I must have slept straight through the night after Hayden put me here.

Wait.

Hayden.

I roll over and my eyes widen when I see him across the room. I didn’t imagine that part, he really is here. And he’s sound asleep in the armchair. Did he stay like that all night?

A pang hits me as I take in his large frame stretched out across a chair too small for him. There’s no way he’s comfortable. But as he sleeps, his face looks calm, content even.

I sit up to better study him. Hayden is remarkably handsome, somehow managing to look the picture of old money while having the ruggedness of an active, surfing, first responder. He has a strong jaw, covered in a short stubble, and a masculine brow line. It doesn’t matter that his eyes are closed, I can picture the serene, pale blue of them. Like the ocean on a calm, cloudy day.

If someone would have told me a week ago that Hayden Thompson would be sleeping in my living room, I would have laughed at the absurdity. Not to mention the dream I had about him kissing my forehead and calling mepretty girl. Maybe I still have a fever. I even imagined him telling me that he told Fitzy to give me the building. And I know that can’t be true.

“Food will make me lucid again,” I whisper to myself, wrapping the blanket tight to my shoulders and swinging my legs around to stand. My first attempt causes me to fall back onto the couch, unsteady on my feet. “Whoa,” I call out, reaching to stabilize myself for a second attempt.

“Poppy.”

My name sounds like a command on his lips. I must have woken the slumbering beast.

I start to rise again when large hands push me back down. And then Hayden is leaning over me, a furrow in his brow. “Where are you going?”

“Food,” I manage, looking towards the kitchen.

“Let me.” He moves into the next room and begins pillaging through my fridge and pantry. “Do you have anything healthy?”

“I had fruit, but then I baked with all of it. Oh, there are peaches outside,” I say, pointing out the front window.

Wordlessly, he steps out the door. I lean over the back of the couch and watch him walk up to a tree and pluck a ripe peach right from the branch. It causes a stir in me. The only people thathave harvested those trees in my lifetime are Wheeler women. But here Hayden is, looking right at home.

He returns and rinses the peach off before handing it to me. “Stay put. I’m getting ingredients,” he instructs, pulling keys from his pocket.

“You’re… what?”

“I’m making you breakfast. Real food. Eggs, maybe with some spinach. You can’t live off pastries and iced coffee.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” I mutter.

“Well look who’s getting some of her charming personality back.” That attractive smile of his widens. “Lay down, I’ll only be a few minutes.”

I must be sick, because I do as he asks—and stay that way until he returns. Letting myself drift back to sleep, I wake only when the front door creaks open once again. Hayden enters, a brown grocery bag in the crook of his arm.

“What are you making?” I sit up, trying to see what’s in the bag.

“Omelets and breakfast potatoes,” he calls back, opening cabinets until he finds the skillets.

“And you know how to make that?” For once, I’m not being sarcastic, I’m truly surprised.

“Yes, Pop. Believe it or not, I’ve been keeping myself fed for quite a few years now.”

“I just remember hearing about how you had a chef that worked for you.”

“My parents did,” he corrects me.

“Oh.” A significant amount of my Hayden knowledge is second hand, maybe I got that part wrong.

---