Page 8 of Half Baked

That’s all to say, she’s stuck with me.

“I don’t have time for you,” she says with a dismissive flit of her hand, rushing over to the three women that have jumped up from their seats to greet her.

I watch with curiosity as the group hugs and bounces and acts like something truly momentous has just occurred.

“What’s with them?” I ask Tripp, sliding into one of the wooden folding chairs beside him.

He runs his hand through his dark hair and shrugs. “Poppy got some call today about being on a famous baking show. I don’t really know the details, but apparently it’s a huge deal.”

More indiscernible noises escape the pack of giddy ladies beside us. I think I catch the wordinfluencerand it’s enough to make me stop trying to listen. Just yesterday, I thought Poppy was saying she didn’t want to post videos. And Wren—one of the girls currently jumping around before us—was trying to convince her that they would help her business. But I guess she’s changed her mind about disliking the spotlight.

Before us, the mayor takes his place at the podium and bangs his gavel. “Everyone please take your seats,” he requests, his attention flitting to the future influencer and her pals.

“Itisa huge deal,” Ivy replies to her boyfriend, taking the seat on the other side of Tripp once again. “The last baker to be on Small Town Table got to design their own collaboration line of bakeware.”

“And one of the chefs has a spin off show,” Wren adds, taking a seat in front of us.

“Could you image designing your own line of bakeware?” Stevie, my brother’s best friend, asks. Her eyes are wide as Poppy takes a seat beside her.

Our resident baker only shrugs in response, though. Maybe Poppy isn’t fully sold on the spotlight after all.

A gavel sounds once again, this time more persistent. Fitzy must be getting restless that no one is quieting down. He slams it repetitively, shooting the crowd a disapproving look.

“I thought we hid that gavel from him,” Poppy wonders aloud.

“We didn’t just hide it, we destroyed it. He must have gotten a new one,” Wren says with a shake of her head.

“Attention!” Fitzy finally booms. “On our agenda today, we’ll go over our Fourth of July success, plans for the regatta, and get an update about our new rescue league.”

“Rescueleague? What does he think you are? Superheroes?” Tripp smirks at me.

“Hayden is a superhero!” Stevie jumps in. I knew Beck had good taste. Beside her, Poppy glances over her shoulder at me and rolls her eyes.

“I don’t know how you deal with talking at these things,” I mutter to Tripp. The townspeople think they’re all the governing body of Foxport. And I’ve listened to them harass him as sheriff on more than one occasion.

“Poppy, where are the snacks?” Wes asks as Fitzy drones on about the financial success of the Fourth of July celebration. Of course it was successful. We are a coastal destination, a Massachusetts town, and it was the nation’s birthday.

In the seat directly before me, Poppy reaches into her bag and withdraws a container. “Tonight, we have rocky road cookies.”

I cast a pleating look over to Ivy. I already know Poppy won’t let me take one, but I love her rocky road cookies. Ivy shows me mercy, as always, and pulls two cookies from the container before passing it on. When Poppy isn’t looking, she reaches across Tripp to hand me one.

“Thank you,” I mouth. Tripp chuckles through a bite of his own cookie and I elbow him to keep quiet. Just to be sure I’m not caught, I cram the whole thing in my mouth.

“Let’s talk regatta,” Fitzy is saying up front. “This year, race week will be the second week in August.”

“Do you still have a clambake on the final day?” Wes turns to me.

“Yeah, still going strong. When’s the last time you were living in town come regatta week?”

Wes hesitates, his eyebrows pinched as he thinks back. “I think it’s been a few years since I was home for summer.” Then his expression relaxes into a smile. “This is great, a party at Cliff House is the epitome of summer.”

I watch in amusement as Poppy stiffens, keeping her focus trained on the mayor. She has never come to a Cliff House clambake, despite my attempts to invite her in those early years.

Nudging her chair with my foot, I stifle a laugh as Poppy turns around slowly to glare at me. “You coming this year? I could show you a thing or two about baking.”

“Like you actually do the cooking yourself.”

“Actually he?—”

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