Page 39 of Whisked Away
His gaze runs up me slowly, assessing. It feels like he’s touching me—fingers tracing along my thighs, over my arms, his breath warm against my neck. When he speaks, his voice goes gravelly. “It suits you.”
The way he says the words, I think he means more than just the clothes. Like maybe Magnolia Cove itself fits me. Like I belong here. If only that could be true.
He walks around to the passenger door and opens it. “I’d hate to be late bringing the celebrity to the big Bonanza.”
I laugh, but it’s mostly out of relief that he broke the tension. When I walk up to the truck, he offers his hand, and I accept. His fingers gripping mine cause me to shiver, and I don’t jump into the truck. Instead, I turn toward Ethan, and he’s already leaning down towards me, his mouth impossibly close to mine.
I keep thinking about that kiss—how it felt like awhispered secret, how I wish I could ask more questions with the rest of my body until I understood it.
“We’ll be late,” Ethan whispers, his breath brushing my cheek.
“Right. Of course.” I hop into the truck. He shudders, then shuts the door, like that was a struggle for him too. I take a deep breath and try to center myself. The truck is rich with scents—cloves, leather, and grass. Ethan jumps into the driver’s seat and cranks the engine with another rumbling purr that vibrates through the bench seat.
“I wouldn’t have guessed you drove a truck.”
He grins, and my heart is doing stupid somersaults. Tish was right. I’m head-over-heels, doodle-his-name-in-the-margins, melt-like-a-puddle crushing on this man. It should be embarrassing. Instead, I slide closer and find the middle seat belt.
“I don’t,” Ethan says. “This truck is my dad’s. The road out to the farm is pretty rough.”
I click the seatbelt into place. Ethan seems to consider where I’ve chosen to sit, then slides his arm behind the seatrest. My stomach swoops as his skin grazes the back of my neck. “So, what do you drive, then… a vintage Vespa?”
Ethan releases a rumbling laugh that matches the truck as he pulls out of the driveway. He seems so at ease with the windows cracked and a breeze playing with his curls. “I rode one in Paris once, actually. Vowed to never do that again. But no, I actually have a ‘67 Beetle. It was my grandfather’s.”
“Oh… that’s… unexpectedly cool.”
“Unexpectedly?” He looks out of the corner of his eyes at me, then fixes his gaze back on the road that’s taking us out of town. “I think a firefighter magazine model could drive a vintage car, and it would be expectedly cool.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t let that comment go to your head, Chief.”
He laughs. “I’ll have to come up with another way to impress you, then. Any suggestions?”
“Hmm… Maybe you could juggle some eggs today? I interviewed a sous chef who could do that.”
“Juggle eggs?” He slows as we ease onto another road that’s bumpier. Every jostle rattles through the truck. “Please tell me someone didn’t actually do that during an interview?”
“Oh, he absolutely did. Dropped a few too.”
Ethan cringes, the secondhand embarrassment adorable on him. “Well, I’m glad I’m not the most incompetent person you’ve ever interviewed, at least.”
The view changes as we drive on. Charming buildings give way to dark swathes of woods on one side and stretching, golden farmland on the other.
“You’re not incompetent, Ethan. Far from it.”
So far from that, it’s making the job I came here to do very difficult. Thinking about betraying this man as I sit next to him in his dad’s truck, fresh air whipping my ponytail back, his warmth sinking into my side, makes me want to ask him to pull over and let me out. Let me walk back into town with my head hanging in shame. His cheeks flush, which only makes me feel worse. I wish I could tell him he’s too good forGastronomy Eats—that we’re becoming a watered-down imitation of authenticity—all dramatic photos and hollow buzzwords.
Ethan shrugs. “Maybe I can’t juggle eggs, but I can gather them for today’s event, at least.”
“Gather them?” I echo, suddenly remembering the Bonanza. I sink down against the worn leather seat. “Oh god, that’s right. We’re going to have to do actual farm stuff today, aren’t we?”
Ethan cocks an eyebrow. “Never been on a farm before? Renowned food writer, Alexandra Sinclair? What about allthe farm-to-table, know-your-sourcing, sustainable-root dining trends?”
“I respect those trends.” My back straightens as I shoot up and inadvertently draw closer to Ethan and his vanilla-rich scent. “I’m all about supporting farmers. I just don’t want to actually… do the… farm stuff.”
“Farm stuff.” Ethan snorts. “Today is going to be really interesting. Come on, though. You’ve had to have visited a farm at some point in your life?”
Now it’s my turn to blush. “I went to school in Greenwich. We took field trips to places like the New York Philharmonic or the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Not exactly places with, you know, cows or cornfields.”
Ethan blows out a breath. “What made you decide to do the Bonanza, then?” He grins that easy smile that wrinkles his eyes. “I don’t believe Grammie Rae is that convincing, despite what she thinks.”
