Page 40 of Whisked Away
I chuckle, but the real reason for staying—the reason I’m still here—sits right next to me, driving his dad’s old pickup truck, wind tousling his curls. I can’t say that, though. Ethan looks over at me again, and it’s like he can hear my thoughts, like the truth of them fills the limited space between us. I’m almost certain I can hear his heart pounding. The sun hits him, and he gleams like a statue of a Greek god, all sharp muscles and youthful beauty.
“I actually don’t know how to milk a cow,” I blurt out, needing to say anything to break the moment. “I’m going to have to make something dairy-free because I’m hopeless.”
“I’ll show you how.”
“I thought we were celebrity rivals?”
His smile widens until his dimples show, and god, I hope we’re getting out of this truck soon. If I have to spend another minute this close to him, I’m going to say or do somethingstupid. Something that definitely doesn’t align with Alexandra Sinclair, renowned food writer who needs a raise.
“What can I say?” Ethan’s still grinning. “I’m a sucker for a damsel in dairy distress.”
“Dairy distress,” I mutter. “If this is some scheme to improve your coolness factor, I’m pretty sure it ranks right up there with egg juggling.”
“Ouch.” He hooks his thumb around the wheel and turns it in a smooth motion that leaves me wondering what else his fingers can do. The truck pulls into a driveway, over a hill, then toward a farm—red barn and all. “I think you’ll find cow-milking skills to be significantly more useful.”
“We’ll see,” I grumble.
Ethan only laughs, but his hand drifts down toward my shoulder, and I lean into his touch. If this is what milking cows gets me, then I guess I’ll take it.
Ethan
Alex Sinclair has absolutely no idea how to milk a cow. She’s crouched on a wooden stool, swallowed by the adorable overalls she’s donned, frowning at the animal. The rules state I can’t physically help her, but attempting to talk her through it is just making things worse.
“Gently but firmly,” I whisper. My own pail of milk sloshes softly as I shift my stance.
“That’s what I’ve been doing,” she says before timidly reaching toward the cow again.
Outside the barn, others shout as they gather their supplies, and the crowd cheers. This might actually be the year I lose by running out of time helping Alex. She clunks her bucket against the hay-scattered floor in frustration. The cow startles and flicks her tail before shooting Alex a glare.
This is entirely worth losing the competition for.
“You know, you could actually just make a dairy-free dessert,” I offer.
“Children milk cows. I can do it too.” She peers up at Grammie Rae in the far corner, who is watching us to make sure we follow the rules. “Just explain it one more time.”
I sigh, but there’s no mistaking the determination in her eyes—the same relentless drive that probably landed her at the top of her field. It’s not just stubbornness; it’s the refusal to back down from a challenge. The same trait that made her a force in journalism is now being applied to, apparently, dairy farming.
“You need to squeeze a little harder. Then glide your hand up and down like you’re—” I trail off, and my cheeks heat. God, my thoughts around Alex lately have veered off a cliff. I can’t stand near her without wishing I could touch her.
Alex looks back at me, and her expression has transformed into one of twinkling eyes and smirking lips. “Like I’m doing what, Chief?”
I clear my throat, and she bursts into a laugh. But something about the conversation must have inspired her, as she turns toward the bucket, and a hiss of milk hitting the pail sounds.
“Yes!” She cries, startling the cow again. She sinks down then pats the creature’s side. “Sorry, girl.”
The barn soon fills with the sound of sloshing milk. As soon as she’s filled her pail enough, she jumps up, and we run back out toward the outdoor kitchen area.
The makeshift workspace is a flurry of activity. Contestants rush around, grabbing ingredients and fighting for stovetop space. Zoe furiously whisks something in one corner, her hair atypically disheveled, purple flyaways sticking to her sweaty brow.
“What are you making?” I call to her as I pass by, the strawberries I’ve gathered rocking in their bucket.
She grins maniacally. “Lavender-infused goat cheese ice cream with candied beets. It’s going to be brilliant or disgusting. Maybe both!”
I roar with laughter. I really do love the Bonanza. The chaotic energy of it, the cheers from people in the crowd,including Jas, who has made a poster that says, “GO ETHAN! BAKE THOSE CAKES!” in wobbly letters. The smell of fresh-chopped onions and ripe tomatoes, and the sizzle of pans on portable burners, fills the air.
Alex appears at my elbow, her arms full of cucumbers and dill. She nods towards Jas. “Your protégé seems excited.”
“He’s a good kid.” I grab a mixer and start whipping cream. Alex slices her cucumbers into thin circles, her brow furrowed.
