Page 67 of Half Baked

“There’s a good chance. But don’t expect me to follow you around all night like a damn puppy.”

A gruff laugh escapes me. “I’ll happily be the one to follow you around like a damn puppy.”

I press a kiss to her forehead with a smile. I won’t be able to stop smiling all day, more than likely. “Ready?”

She nods, catching her bottom lip in her teeth. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Stepping back out, the sun is blinding momentarily. And when my eyes adjust, Stevie is standing before us. “There you are. Were you looking for a scrunchie?”

I look over to Poppy, who flashes a knowing smile to her friend. “No, I don’t need one.”

“The thing for your hair?” I ask. “It looks pretty this way.” Reaching over, I twirl a strand of her strawberry blonde locks between my fingers.

“I like this,” Stevie says casually, waving her hand between us.

“Me too.” I grin. I’m glad Stevie was the one that caught us walking out together. She’s a soft place for Poppy to land, quietly supportive.

Behind her, Beckett comes strolling over. “The regatta is about to start,” he informs us. I have a feeling he’ll be a step away from her at most all night. Holding up the bottle he’s carrying, he tilts it towards Stevie. “I found these at a little corner store in Boston. They’re the ones you like, right?”

Her face lights up as he turns the label to face her. “They are. I can’t believe you found them!”

Beckett shrugs nonchalantly, opening it and handing it to her, like this was just a coincidence he stumbled upon them. But I know my brother better than that. He probably spent hours researching before traveling across town to a tucked away corner of Boston, desperate to hunt them down.

Stevie takes a long drink before holding it out to Poppy. “You need to try this. It’s an orange blossom honey beer.”

A soft hum of approval escapes Poppy’s lips as she sips the beer. And somehow, that simple sound has me planning ways to make her hum for me later.

“Fitzy just started the race,” Tripp calls across the lawn. I look over, seeing everyone making their way to the cliff’s edge. The regatta moves up the coast of Pearl Beach, past the harbor, and out around Manchester Point, putting the finish right in front of us.

“Grab a drink on our way?” I ask, my hand gently cupping Poppy’s elbow. She nods to me, and we split off from everyone heading down the lawn.

Crossing the patio, I lean around the waterfall edge of the bar and pull out one of the special beers she just tried. “This? I guarantee you that Beck stocked up with more than Stevie will ever drink.”

Poppy laughs. “I believe that. Yeah, I’ll take one.”

I pass her the drink and grab myself a seltzer. Testing the waters, I press my hand to the small of her back as we walk to meet the others. Poppy hesitates for a second, then leans towards me and settles into my embrace. I run my thumb up an exposed portion of her spine, eliciting a shiver just as I hoped. Her eyes dart to the side, a spark igniting in them as they connect with mine.

“No change of heart with me doing this?” I ask, sliding my thumb up and down.

“I don’t scare easy, Baywatch,” she scoffs, a small smile on her lips.

We reach the edge of the group, and I keep my arm around her as we watch the small dots in the distance growing nearer. It’s the perfect day for the race, mild in temperature and sunny, with a steady breeze around ten knots. I steal a glance at Poppy as she watches the competitors in the distance. She seems relaxed and comfortable here, and it settles a tightness in my shoulders I didn’t realize had been there.

“Who do you know that’s racing?” she asks, looking up at me.

“Hmm?” I blink back, having been distracted by the way her hair curled around her in the breeze.

“What racer do you root for?”

“Oh, no one in particular. Jamie talked about joining next year, but I’m not even sure who is sailing out there right now.”

Poppy tilts her head at me. “What makes you do the clambake for it every year then?”

A sad smile slips onto my face. “My dad used to compete. Mom started the clambake as a way to celebrate him.”

“Oh,” she breathes. “That sounds like a sweet tradition.”

“Yeah.” I lean in to say in her ear, “It turned out to be a more important tradition than we thought. The first few years after we lost them, Beck and I would be miserable through race week. Then one day, we decided it would help to bring the tradition back. And it did, so we just continued.”

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