Page 17 of Whisked Away
The early morning quiet of the bakery is my favorite time of day. It’s just me, the soft whir of the mixers, and the yeasty scent of dough rising in the proofing drawer. No customers, no Dean Markham, no Alex Sinclair making me question every decision I’ve ever made—or say more foolish things. No reminders of the life I lost, the one I should have had if I hadn’t let my heart—and my magic—get the best of me. Magnolia Cove was a second chance, but it wasn’t freedom. It was a leash, long enough to make me forget it was there until moments like these reminded me I wasn’t really my own man. Not yet.
I’m elbow-deep in a batch of brioche when Zoe bursts through the back door, her black leather jacket flapping out like wings with the motion.
“Morning, Boss!” she chirps, far too cheerful for the ungodly hour. “Ready for another day of culinary deception?”
I grunt, focusing on the dough beneath my hands. Zoe, undeterred by my lack of enthusiasm, whips out her polishing cloth and heads to the display case.
“So,” she says, her tone deceptively casual, “what’s the planfor our favorite foodie today? More evasive non-answers? Or are we going for the full smoke and mirrors routine?”
I sigh and finally look up at her. “I don’t know, Zo. I’m not... I’m not good at this. All I want is to make amazing baked goods and for more than just the five thousand people that live on this island to eat them. Maybe that’s asking too much.”
She slings her jacket off and hangs it on a peg before grabbing an apron. “Hey, no one’s asking you to be James Bond here. Just be yourself. You know, minus the whole secret you can’t tell anyone about that got you imprisoned here.”
“Right,” I mutter. “Just be myself. The non-magical, totally normal baker version of myself.”
Zoe rolls her eyes. “You know, for a big teddy bear, you sure do overthink things. Look, why don’t you just make her one of your special tarts? The raspberry ones always seem to put people in a good mood.”
I freeze, my hands stilling in the dough. The Hopeful Raspberry Tart. It’s one of my most potent creations, infused with just enough magic to lift spirits and soothe worries. Raspberries are back in season. Dad just brought me a dozen cartons from his hobby farm he had started since moving here. But using magic on Alex feels... wrong somehow. I spent the entire night regretting infusing the pastries I’d given her the day before. I say I want my baked goods to stand on their own, yet the minute they face real criticism, I don’t trust them.
“I don’t know, Zo. Isn’t that kind of... manipulative?”
She snorts. “More manipulative than lying to her face? Come on, Ethan. It’s not like you’re brainwashing her. You’re just... helping her see the best in things. Including you. And so what if it influences her review a bit? Would it be bad if a few more people visited and tried your cinnamon rolls? And before you interject, the answer to that would be no. Theworld is missing out. Plus, the boost in tourism to Magnolia Cove has been good for everyone. It’s all under control.”
I’m saved from responding by the front door swinging open. Alex walks in, her hair windswept and her cheeks flushed from the morning chill. My heart does a stupid little stutter that I would deny until my death.
“Morning,” she says, her eyes landing on me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but her gaze seems to linger longer than necessary. “Hope I haven’t arrived too early.”
“Good morning,” I manage, suddenly very aware of the flour on my arms and the dough stuck to my hands. “You’re welcome anytime we’re here. We’re always up before the moon sets.”
“Me too, but for less romantic reasons. Journalism and regularly traveling in different time zones does bad things for sleep schedules.”
Before I can respond, Zoe swoops in. “Well, you’ve come to the right place! Ethan here was just about to make his famous Hopeful Raspberry Tarts. You simply must try it.”
I shoot Zoe a look, but she just winks at me before disappearing into the back.
Alex takes another step in. Her slacks have a crisp tailored line and not a single wrinkle; the sleeveless sweater she wears seems as exotic as Magnolia Cove must appear to her. No one wears designer clothes around here. “Hopeful, huh?” she says. “That’s an interesting name for a tart.”
I wipe my hands on my apron. “It’s, uh, an old family recipe. Nan said it could lift even the gloomiest spirits.”
“Is that so?” She lowers her laptop to the same table she sat at before. Soon, I’m going to think of it as Alex Sinclair’s booth. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to test that claim. For journalistic integrity, of course.”
“Of course,” I echo, my mouth suddenly dry. “Coming right up.”
As I retreat to the kitchen, I can feel Alex’s eyes on me. It’s unnerving, like she seems to see right through me. Or maybe that’s just the paranoia talking.
I lose myself in the familiar motions of baking, letting muscle memory take over as my mind races. The tart crust comes together under my hands, delicate and buttery. As I spoon in the raspberry filling, I hesitate for just a moment before letting a tendril of magic flow from my fingertips into the fruit. I infuse it with warmth, comfort, a sense of home and belonging. It’s not mind control or anything nefarious—just a gentle reminder of good things.
As the tart bakes, filling the kitchen with the sweet scent of berries, I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. Am I crossing a line here? But then I remember the suspicion in Alex’s eyes, the way she seems determined to uncover secrets that could destroy everything I’ve built here. Everything this town has built.
I’ve already caused enough damage for our community. I don’t want to cause them issues again. All I’d like is to have a chance to pursue my passion.
The timer dings, jolting me out of my thoughts. The tart that emerges is picture-perfect, the raspberries glistening like rubies. I plate it carefully, add a dollop of freshly whipped cream, and take a deep breath before heading back out front.
Alex chews her lip as she stares pensively at her laptop. It’s distracting—too distracting. She looks up as I approach, and my breath catches. She’s beautiful. Any fool would recognize that. And I certainly qualify for that category.
“Here you go.” I set the plate in front of her. “One Hopeful Raspberry Tart. For journalistic integrity.”
She grins, as if the joke wasn’t the corniest thing I’ve ever uttered in my life. “It looks good. Let’s see if it lives up to the hype.”
