Page 74 of Half Baked

“How about we talk without him, girl to girl.”

That’s a bold new angle. I quirk an eyebrow at her. “You want to talk abouthisfamily without him?”

“No, my dear. I want to talk about your business without him. And it is your business alone, right?”

Part frustrated and part curious about how she thinks she can strong arm me, I take a step to the side and motion for her to come back into the kitchen. Pulling out a stool for her I lean back against the counter and cross my arms.

“What are your concerns about my business?”

She takes a seat and slides glasses onto her face before withdrawing her tablet. “I’ve taken the liberty of crunching some numbers for you. And with an advance, you’d be able to completely overcome the roadblocks you’re facing right now.”

“Excuse me? How do you have my numbers?”

“Oh, I don’t, I just know the cost of operating. You have no staff despite the little detail I know about you having a standing order from the café that includes delivery. That means you can’t afford a second set of hands, even part time. And I know what your inventory here is like. From there I just need to make a few basic assumptions for rent and other expenditures.”

Finding whatever she’s looking for, Tara hands the tablet over and slides her glasses up onto her head. “The number on the left is our first offer that we discussed to do the show. The number on the right is my revised offer as of today.”

I scroll through the spreadsheet before me. She’s not far off in terms of my expenditures and budget. Other than the one glaring detail about the debt I racked up on renovations—which I am happy to keep from her.

Reaching the bottom of the data, a sharp breath hisses from my lips. The number is more than double the original contract. My eyes scan it three more times for good measure before I look up at Tara. “What changed?”

“Hayden Thompson,” she answers frankly. “With his story, we can pull in a whole new market and double our viewers. Double the viewers means double the pay out.”

Fire burns in my chest, flicking and swirling about as it only gains fuel with each passing second. My eyes narrow as I work to manage my breathing and douse the flames threatening to consume me. I’m trying to channel my best Hayden. Calm and collected in the face of bullshit.

But I’m not calm. I’m a fireball. A hurricane. A force to be reckoned with. And I cannot believe I thought Tara was kind and understanding the first time we met. But I guess that’s her hook, coming to small towns and spinning a tale of heart.

Stillness washes over me as I reply with tight, even words. “I’ll stick with the original offer, and you’ll leave him out of it. No mention of his family or his last name.”

“Don’t be foolish, I know what you can do with this money. Think of your business.”

“It’s funny, I didn’t realize I had signed on for a financial advisor when I agreed to the show.”

Tara’s high-pitched laugh rings out, casting a shrill echo through the bakery. “I do love that sharp tongue of yours. But I’ll cut right to the chase—the original offer isoffthe table.”

“You’re trying to tell me I have no options?”

“You get more money, and we focus everything on the Thompson mystery. We can plan all the meals about a menu for wealthy New England elite and how they spend their summers.”

“Or?”

“Or we pull you from the show completely. To me, it’s a no brainer.”

Finally, that elusive calm washed over me. Because there is nothing to fight about. I straighten my shoulders and hand the tablet back to Tara. With a smile, I say, “It’s a no brainer for me too.”

Hayden

The sound of slamming, clanking stainless steel greets me as I step into the bakehouse. Poppy is typically a stickler for precision, the opposite of whatever is happening back in her kitchen. Rounding the corner, I come to a halt and take in the mayhem before me.

Baking sheets and mixing bowls are strewn about, a cloud of flour floating in the air. At the center of it all, Poppy huffs at the mixture she’s whisking and slides it across the counter. I catch the bowl as it skids my way and grin at the surprised look on her face.

“What did this stuff ever do to you?” I ask, peering at the bowl in my hand.

“The peaks weren’t stiff enough,” she scowls.

Setting the bowl to the side, I close the distance between us and wipe the mixture from her cheek. “Is everything okay?”

She looks up at me with a pained expression. “What are you doing here?”

---