Page 2 of Whisked Away
“That’s a gimmick.” I jab a finger at the picture ofEthan Hart. As if that’s a real name.
“Okay, this is clearly a gimmick. There’s no way in hell that man knows a damn thing about baking.”
The man staring back has an infuriating mix of charm and confidence—golden-brown hair curling against his forehead, eyes too bright, too blue, too full of warmth and mischief. And those arms—muscular, tanned, peeking out from a perfectly fitted T-shirt and a pale-blue Hedley & Bennett apron.
I have the same apron in charcoal. And it has never looked that crisp.
“That man”—I jab at his photo again, as if he’s single-handedly responsible for all my life’s problems—“is a paidactor. I mean, he says he bakes with magic, for god’s sake. Plus, he looks like a firefighter from a calendar I once had.”
Vivian closes the magazine with a knowing smirk. “Five years I’ve known you, and I never would have pegged you as the type to own a sexy firefighter calendar.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I duck my head to hide the blush as I mutter, “We all have our indulgences.”
Especially those of us with zero love life and no intention of getting one. I’ve spent my entire adult life building a career—because stability, money, and control are what matter. Love is reckless, unreliable. I saw what it did to my parents, the way it left my sister and me in a precarious financial situation.
Love led my mother to cut her hours to part-time, my father to take less prestigious work that didn’t pull him away from our family, and both of them to choose an expensive suburb so my sister and I could have the best.
Now I’m stuck desperately trying—and failing—to find the balance between making enough to survive, providing for my sister, and doing something that doesn’t suck my soul away.
All thanks to love.
I had one serious relationship, and it ended exactly as I suspected it would. Anthony wanted me to focus less on my career, more on our relationship. But I’d already seen how that played out for my parents. No amount of emotions could compel me to sacrifice security for a pair of sad puppy eyes, no matter how compelling they were. No matter how much it hurt to watch them fill with tears when I ended things.
Romance is like the rainbow-puke cinnamon roll—super sweet for a moment but guaranteed to leave you with a nasty stomach ache soon after.
So, I’ll keep my firefighter calendar and the side of judgment if Imust.
“He’s a fake. The actual owner of this bogus bakery probably hired him because he has a pretty face.”
“Likely,” Vivian says. “But that pretty face is selling magazines—and lots of them.”
“Gastronomy Eatsis going to cover a fake restaurant with the corniest gimmick ever?”
Vivian scoffs. “No one said we’d be covering them. We want you to travel, spend a week or two in Magnolia Cove, and expose them. Then write a criticism that will take them off the map.”
I stand to my full height and pull in a deep breath. My father had been an art critic, and his one bit of advice to me was never to build a career on tearing others down.
It’ll leave you miserable, Alex.
Despite everything—the bills, my younger sister relying on me, the overwhelming responsibility—I’ve never compromised on that. I’ve poured my heart into finding new, promising eateries, then giving them press coverage that changed their lives.
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
Vivian frowns. “We have to turn the ship around and write pieces that will attract a new audience. If we don’t, I’m afraid we’ll need to make cuts soon.”
My breath catches. Her implication is clear.
I can’t lose this job. It’s steady. I’m doing something I’m passionate about—for real money. Few people are lucky enough to get that.
Most importantly, Missy’s senior year of college has brought enough expenses that I could have already started my own freaking restaurant. A little place of my own—cozy, intimate, where every dish tells a story. A dream I’ve shoved to the back burner so many times, it might as well be cold by now. But I vowed not to let her graduate saddled with debt and regret. Only one of us should have to live with that.
I have to keep this job.
“If I do it?” I ask.
“Then I imagine we’d strongly consider you for the next senior editor position.”
My palms grow so sweaty I long to wipe them on my dress. Everyone in the office knows I want that position. It comes with a significant raise—enough to take some of the pressure off.
