Page 38 of Whisked Away
“Oh god,” I whisper, “what if I do?”
Tish squeals through the phone. “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing. When was the last time you felt this way about someone, honey?”
I sink onto the bed, still clutching the jeans, a million thoughts tumbling through my head. “I… I don’t know. This is crazy. I’m here to write an article, not fall for some small-town baker with impossibly blue eyes.”
“Girl, you’re doing us all a favor. Do you know how many people are in love with him on ClipClop?”
“No one,” I say, defensively. Then, softer, “I just mean, no one really knows the real him. He’s not just gorgeous, he’s kind. And patient. You should see him with Jas, this kid he mentors. It’s like… he sees the best in everyone, and helps bring it out. And Ethan as a baker? He’s amazing. He really gets it.”
There’s a pause, but not because the line cut out. In the background, I hear the usual hum of Celestial Sips’ morning crowd.
“Oh god, I do have it bad, don’t I?” I groan, my voice full of disbelief. “What am I doing? This isn’t me. I don’t fall for guys I write about. I don’t take part in farm baking contests. I don’t…”
“Live a little?” Tish finishes, her voice gentle. “Alex, honey, when was the last time you did something because it made you happy? Not for work, not for your sister—just for you?”
I flop back onto the bed, the quilt and embroidered pillows catching me. “I… I don’t know.”
“Exactly,” Tish says, soft but firm. “Maybe this ridiculous farm baking contest is exactly what you need. And maybeEthan-the-baking-hunk is, too. You don’t have to marry him, you know. Just… enjoy the moment.”
I sit up, catching my reflection in the mirror again. The woman looking back at me seems different—lighter, more open. “Maybe you’re right. But that doesn’t solve my immediate problem. What am I going to wear to milk a cow in?”
Tish bursts into laughter on the other end of the line. “It’s too much to ask for video evidence of this event, isn’t it?”
I scowl, but she laughs even harder, and despite my annoyance, I can’t help but smile. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Find the local general store. Buy yourself some sturdy boots, a pair of overalls, and the most ridiculous flannel shirt you can find.”
“Overalls?” Okay, calling Vivian to ask for yet another extension—and hearing her opinion of me sink with every word—might no longer be the most horrifying part of this decision.
Tish is cracking up, though. At least one of us is having a good day. “The morning rush is picking up. I’ve got to go. If you love me, you’ll send me pictures later.”
As I hang up, a smile tugs at my lips. Maybe Tish is right. About everything except the flannel. There are lines I won’t cross.
I look back at the mirror, the woman reflected in it holding my gaze with a certainty I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. I can’t explain it, but Magnolia Cove feels like home, even though I’ve only been here a few weeks. There’s something different here. Something… magical.
I release a breath and straighten up. Regardless of how enchanting this trip feels, I still have to write the article about the Whisk. Vivian won’t accept the sugary, charming spin I’m tempted to take. It’s just a little too cotton-candy sweet forGastronomy Eats.Maybe that’s been the problem all along. Maybe I’m tired of gnawing at bitter roots because they’re ‘avant-garde.’ Maybe I want something that actually feeds the soul. Something warm, indulgent, and undeniably real.
I think of Ethan’s rough finger scraping honey candy from my cheek, the way his eyes had darkened.
There’s nothing fake or manufactured about the Whisk or its owner. Nothing to critique about how Ethan kneads every loaf of bread by hand, or orders random, expensive ingredients to experiment with, always exploring. And there’s no flaw in how Zoe knows exactly when to surprise a regular with a box of treats ‘just because.’
But ‘small-town bakery’? That’s not palatable enough for the Manhattan brunch crowd to scroll through between sips of mimosa. It’s too kitschy. Not pretentious enough. It lacks that sense of intrigue for people who can eat their way around the world in a single block.
My journal lays open on the side table. The first line I’ve written for the article glares at me.The Whimsical Whisk relies heavily on small-town charm to mask its…
It’s what Vivian wants me to write, but I haven’t even been able to finish the first sentence. Whatever I write after this will be a lie. But this is who I am. This is what I’ve worked so hard to become.
Isn’t it?
I slam the journal shut and shove it into the table’s drawer. I’ll think about that later. For now, I need to purchase a pair of overalls.
That’s how I find myself dressed in a pair of overalls and a t-shirt that says Magnolia Cove: Small Town, Big Wonders, along with a pair of surprisingly comfortable emerald boots when Ethan drives up to the B&B.
He’s behind the wheel of an old blue pickup truck—thekind you see in butter commercials and holiday rom-coms. The truck rumbles when he cuts the ignition. As Ethan jumps out, my breath catches.
He’s wearing a simple white t-shirt that clings to his muscular arms and chest, along with a pair of well-worn jeans. He drags his fingers back through his hair, and if I hadn’t gotten to know how humble and self-effacing he was, I’d think he was doing it just to show off those perfectly sculpted abs. People shouldn’t be able to consume so much sugar and still look like that. It’s a crime.
“Well, well,” he says, his voice warm. “Look who’s gone native.”
I shove my hands into the overall pockets and pull them wide, stretching the material out. They’re surprisingly comfortable. “When in Rome, right?” I shrug. “Or should I say, when in Magnolia Cove? Besides, someone suggested I should leave any clothing I appreciated at the inn.”
