That just happens to be one of my favorite shows, featuring restaurants, bakeries, diners, and bars from across the country. It highlights quaint small-town life and is a wildly popular show. And when I click through to the account, I see that this isn’t a fake. The message came from their verified account.
“Oh my gosh!” I spring out of bed, too excited to actually stop and read their message. I squeal and bounce and giggle until it’s out of my system enough to sit back on my bed and read on. With a steadying breath, I click on the message, hoping they want to repost the video or feature me on their page. Instead, it says that they want to interview me to be on the show.
“This isn’t real,” I gasp, bringing my hand to my mouth in surprise. I read through it again, this time aloud. “Hi Poppy at Seaside Bakehouse! My name is Tara and I’m the showrunner for Small Town Table. I stumbled across your account and think you might be exactly what we are looking for to be in a summer sweets feature. If you’re interested, give me a call.”
My eyes roam over the phone number she adds to the end of the message. This can’t be real. But there’s only one way to find out. I click on the number and wait.
“Hi, Tara? Yes, this is Poppy Wheeler at Seaside?—”
“Hi, Poppy! I’m so glad you called. Your desserts look amazing. And the snaps of your town, Foxport, are utterly enchanting.”
“We are pretty proud of our town,” I reply, a full smile splitting across my face.
“How do you feel about us coming for a visit? We can do an interview in which you’d walk us through your process of baking something, just as you would on the show.”
“Yes, absolutely. Your show is so well known, it’s an honor to be considered.” My head is whirling as I respond, not even sure what words are coming out of my mouth.
“Great, I’ll DM you my email address and we can get this scheduled.”
As soon as we hang up the call, I jump over to the internet to look up the show and who the showrunner is. A picture of a middle-aged woman with sleek hair in a blunt cut and black framed glasses appears on my screen. I study the picture to make sure I remember her face, just in case it’s not the face that arrives for the interview. Because there is a rather large part of me still convinced this is simply a scam. It’s more believable than the alternative, honestly.
My mind drifts over to my bakehouse, imagining the aged equipment as well as the empty spaces for the remaining things I need to acquire. This show would solve that problem. Not just the equipment problem, or the being able to hire staff problem, but it would also help with the past due bills that are piling up.
I’m still paying more out than I’m bringing in right now. I even met with a bank last month about a loan, but I didn’t have anything other than my grandmother’s house for collateral. And there was no way I was going to risk that.
First, it was a rotted subfloor that needed to be replaced before they could lay down the tile. Apparently, this is a common problem when the building is on a wooden wharf. But then the thickness of the drywall wasn’t up to code and that all needed changed out.
I had assumed all drywall was the same thickness. Turns out, I was wrong.
I had assumed a lot of things when I made my budget and signed the lease, though. And by the time it was all said and done, I might as well have thrown my budget and business plan out the window.
But if Small Town Table is interested, there might be hope for my bakery, yet.
Chapter 4
Hayden
The town square is quiet as I pass through, headed for the historic brick and white pillared building that sits proudly as the focal point of downtown Foxport. Its spire creeps high into the dusk sky, glowing in all its glory. I’m not late, but I’ve successfully managed to wait until the last possible minute to arrive. My hope is that I can slide in unnoticed by our mayor.
I had called on an update about the permit today, hoping to have some news for the meeting after sending in the new application early this morning. But all I was told is that it’s in processing. I even asked my buddy, Tripp, the sheriff, to see if he could find out anything else in the county system. That was also a dead end.
But as my feet reach the bottom step of town hall, I plaster my patent, carefree smile on my face and bound up to everyone expecting this version of me.
Confident. Relaxed. The rich boy who likes to chase adrenaline highs because he can. Poppy should call me Point Break instead of Baywatch.
And apparently, for the third time this week, if I think about her then she appears.
“Hi, Poppy Seed.” I stop at the entrance to the meeting room and wait for her to approach down the hall.
“Why are you everywhere?”
“Didn’t anyone teach you how to talk to people?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at the fiery woman with the gorgeous strawberry blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes. She takes my bait, setting her jaw and narrowing those piercing baby blues at me.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to be less full of yourself?”
“Ouch,” I drawl sarcastically. “I expected better from you by now.”
My friends are seated with hers in the front corner of the room, the hazard of a small town. Or the hazard of one of her best friends being Wes’s sister and Tripp’s girlfriend. Another also happens to be best friends with my younger brother, Beckett.