Page 41 of Half Baked

He lifts his hands to hold me tight against him, burrowing his face against my neck. A thrill runs through me as his warm breath tickles the sensitive space beneath my ear. With his lips gently brushing my skin, he murmurs, “Poppy Wheeler, are you happy for me?”

“Believe it or not, I am,” I whisper. “I really am glad you got the permit.”

A low hum of approval sounds in his throat, deep and devastatingly sexy. I’m going to dream about that sound tonight. A dirty, filthy dream.

“Don’t get used to it, though.” The tremble in my voice betrays my words.

“Too late, pretty girl. I know it’s possible now.” Hayden sweeps a rogue strand of hair behind my ear and smiles down at me.

I don’t argue, disarmed by his gentle touch. Instead, I ask the many questions swimming in my head. “How does this work inyour schedule? Do you stay a firefighter? Are you only available at certain times?” The most pressing question sits on the tip of my tongue, but I’m too worried to hear the response.How safe is your new job?

“I keep a flexible day schedule as a firefighter. And the hope is that the sea team isn’t needed often, considering we only cover the tri-county coast. But until I can build a second team, I’m always on call.”

“That sounds like a lot,” I muse, allowing my fingers to intertwine with the hair at the nape of his neck. As I do, a flash of heat passes across his eyes, sending my own twin flame through my core. Apparently, we’re trying a lot of new things today.

His voice gruff, he replies, “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“But how does that work with our schedule for the show? How can you be here right now?”

“I wouldn’t back out on you.”

Shaking my head, I clarify, “No, I mean, isn’t this going to be too hard for you? Meeting for this twice a week now that you havetwointense jobs?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” There’s a finality to his words, as if it’s not up for discussion. As if he’s talking about more than our short-term agreement.

It’s too much, and I’m drowning in the sea of his gaze. “We should be baking,” I blurt out, dropping my hands from his hair. “You’re not ready for the next episode.”

He remains silent, studying my face. After a moment, the corner of his mouth twitches upward. Whatever he sees in my expression, he doesn’t seem disheartened.

“Okay.” He nods. Then with a pass of his thumb along my cheekbone, he steps back and turns towards the peaches waiting on the counter.

The instant he leaves, my body wants him back in my space. But my heart has been racing dangerously, and I can’t seem tocatch my breath. The steady chop of the knife echoes in the silence between us. I listen, letting my breathing flow in time with his movement.

It’s something my grandmother taught me when I would become overwhelmed. She’d call me into the kitchen and tell me to pair my breath with whichever repetitive movement was required at the time. Usually, I was the one also partaking in the movement. But I let myself embrace whatever seems to happen when he’s here, falling into Hayden’s rhythm.

Like a bubble around us, it’s easy to forget our animosity when we’re alone at my house. Easy to forget that I dislike the handsome man willing to stretch himself to help me.

After a moment, Hayden speaks again. “How long ago did you plant those peach trees?”

“Oh, I didn’t.” I look up to find him watching me over his shoulder, waiting for me to say more. “My grandfather planted them for my grandmother the year he built this house. Nana was an avid baker. And apparently, she stole his heart with her peach cobbler. They got engaged after courting for only a month. He built her this house and planted the peach orchard; they got married at town hall the day he finished construction.”

“Sounds like they had the real thing,” he replies warmly. “She was the one that taught you to bake?”

“She was,” I answer with a smile. “It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with it, just like Nana.”

“You should talk about that on the show. And we should make her cobbler. That would be perfect.”

I sigh, looking down at the graham cracker crust I’ve finished pressing into the tins. “That was my plan, but I’m worried that is too much like the tarts we made last time. And even though I mentioned her in the interview, Tara hasn’t seemed interested in putting it in the scripts.”

“Well, I’d like to hear more about it,” he tells me, his voice sounding significantly closer.

I turn to find Hayden standing behind me, holding the bowl of prepared peaches. He passes it to me and moves to my side at the table. “And I think you should make the recipes that mean the most to you. I can definitely fumble my way through cobbler instead.”

A small laugh escapes me. It would be perfect to make Nana’s cobbler. And I have all the ingredients to switch them out. “You have time to scrap this?” I ask, motioning to the tins of graham cracker crusts.

“I do. And this way we can talk about our own script.”

“We don’t get to make our own script,” I say skeptically. “Sure, we kind of went off book last time. But…” Even as I protest, I think about how nice it would be to control the narrative.

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