Page 29 of Whisked Away
Her fingers brush mine, warm and steady, lingering just a second too long. The air shifts, thickens. My pulse kicks up, my breath catching in my throat. Static hums between us—or maybe it’s not static at all. Maybe it’s my magic, slippingthrough the cracks, reaching for her despite my best efforts to contain it.
I should step back. Say something. Do anything but stand here, caught in this moment that feels too fragile, too dangerous.
But I don’t.
And neither does she.
“The muscovado sugar is from the Philippines,” I say, desperate to focus on something other than how her skin feels against mine.
“Mmm.” She leans in, inhaling the rich molasses scent. “Is it worth the import costs?”
“Always.” I’m not looking at the sugar anymore. I’m watching the way her hair falls forward, catching the kitchen’s golden light.
Alex hums in appreciation, her fingers trailing through the sugar, testing its texture—all the while continuing to graze my hand. “You can tell just by looking at it—it’s finer, richer. Holds more depth.”
“Exactly.” My voice is steady, but inside, I am anything but.
She glances up at me then, and I’m pretty sure we aren’t talking about sugar anymore.
Her gaze flickers to my mouth—quick, almost imperceptible—but I feel it.
My grip tightens on the edge of the counter. This is dangerous. She’s close enough that I could lean in, just a fraction, and taste to see if cinnamon has dusted her lips. I want to.
The air between us stretches, thick with something unspoken.
Then—
“Wow,” Zoe drawls, sauntering past the counter. “Didn’t realize we were crafting these rolls by hand-milling every grainof flour. You do make these daily, right, Ethan?” She taps the counter, glancing between us, her smirk as subtle as her tie-dye bandana.
I blink, stepping back. Alex laughs, shaking her head, but her cheeks are flushed with something softer, something unspoken.
Zoe waggles her eyebrows at me as she grabs a mixing bowl, her smirk pure mischief. I exhale slowly, forcing myself to move, to focus, to keep my hands busy with the dough. It should be easy—baking’s second nature, a rhythm I don’t even have to think about. But with Alex here, watching, laughing, filling up the space like she belongs here, nothing feels simple.
Because it’s not all banter and close calls. There are moments—quiet ones, usually in the early morning or late evening—when Alex watches me work with such intensity that I forget to breathe. When she asks questions that hit me in the chest, making me wonder if she can see straight through me.
“Why did you choose baking?” she asks one evening as I’m cleaning up. The last of the teenage hires have gone home, and Zoe’s off on a date with Mia. It’s just us, the soft hum of the ovens, and the lingering scent of sugar and spice that wraps the room like a warm blanket.
I focus on wiping down the counter, stalling for time. “I told you about my grandmother?—”
“No,” she interrupts gently. “I mean, why did you stick with it? What makes you pour your heart into every single thing you create?”
The truth rises in my throat, sharp and heavy: Because it’s the one thing that’s entirely mine. Because even with magic, it takes skill, patience, and love. Because when people taste something I’ve made, they’re tasting my soul—not fearing my power.
Instead, I shrug. “I just like making people happy.”
She steps closer, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small. “You’re good at it. One of the best I’ve seen, actually.” Her hand lands on my arm, and my skin burns where we connect. “You know that, right?”
I meet her eyes, drowning in their warmth. She’s so close I can see the flecks of gold in her irises, count each individual eyelash. My magic surges, wanting to show her exactly what I can do, wanting to lay myself bare before her.
The front bell chimes, shattering the moment. Dean stalks in, his dark eyes taking in our proximity with clear disapproval.
“Ms. Sinclair,” he says coolly. “I trust you’re finding everything you need for your article?”
Alex straightens, her professional mask sliding into place. “Yes, thank you. I’ve never been somewhere as magical as Magnolia Cove.”
Of all the words in the English language, she had to choose “magical.” I can practically feel Dean’s tension radiating across the room, his magic sharp and crackling beneath the surface. My own rises in response, a reflex as natural as breathing—a silent challenge, one I have no business issuing. I curl my fingers into fists, forcing it down before it can meet his head-on.
“Magical.” Dean’s voice could freeze hell itself. His jaw flexes, tension rippling through him before he exhales slowly, smoothing his expression into something civilized. “We’re glad you’re enjoying your stay.”
