Page 58 of Whisked Away
“You’ve pushed every deadline I’ve given you on this piece. Missed meeting after meeting. More than doubled your travel time. If you were a less-valued writer or had neglected any of your other articles, I’d fire you.”
I gulp at the implication, my heart thundering. Magic or not, bills still have to be paid. I can’t afford to be fired.
“I’ve remained patient because you’re one of our best,” she continues. “But you’ve exhausted the patience I possess.”
“I know, and thank you. I promise I’ll have the article to you by the end of the week.”
“By midnight tomorrow.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “And it had better be the best damn thing you’ve ever written. This piece needs to sing, Alex. It needs to sell enough copies ofGastronomythat our board stops breathing down my neck about budget cuts and ‘adapting to a modern media landscape.’ I need you to take some of The Whimsical Whisk’s magic and put it into an article, understand?”
I flinch at the wordmagicbut nod. “It will. I promise.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment. “Good. Now, is there anything you need from me to get this done?”
“No, I—” I begin, but she’s already reaching for something on her desk.
“In that case, this came for you earlier.” Vivian holds out an envelope.
I take it, confused. There’s no return address, only my name,Gastronomy Eats, c/o Alexandra Sinclair.Thick red letters are stamped across the front:First Class. Overnight.
“Thank you, Vivian. I won’t let you down.”
She skims her eyes over me, then lifts her chin. I can’t tell if it’s an expression of faith or simply ayou know the way out.Either way, I take the cue and leave as gracefully as I can manage.
When I’m in the elevator, finally alone, I open the envelope.
A whiff of something familiar fills the air. Cinnamon and the rich tones of overpriced vanilla… Ethan. My hand shakes as I fish the papers free.
I find myself staring at an application form for a scholarship program.
My eyes widen as I scan the details. It’s for the exchange program in Paris that Missy has been dreaming about. A full-ride opportunity that would cover everything—tuition, travel, food. It’s perfect. And the deadline… it’s tomorrow.
Tears spring to my eyes.He did this.Ethan found this opportunity and made sure it reached me in time.
A realization hits me like a tidal wave. I never believed the lies he told me on the ridge overlooking the ocean. I knew Zoe was right—they were falsehoods meant to push me away. But some doubt must have lingered in the back of my mind. A fear that real love didn’t exist. That it was always a lie. A false magic that comes crashing down.
Ethan loves me too. But we can’t be together because of our differences. Because of the secrets he keeps.
I clutch the envelope to my chest just as the elevator dings open on the ground floor. Stepping out of the lobby and into the smog and rain of a New York City day, my chest aches with joy for Missy, with relief over the financial situation, but even more deeply with a pain that threatens to swallow me whole.
In that moment, standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk, I have never felt more alone.
Ethan
The bakery used to be my sanctuary. Now, it feels like a prison. It’s been weeks since Alex left, but the ache in my chest hasn’t dulled.
I knead the dough with more force than necessary, trying to lose myself in the familiar motions. Trying not to think about the feel of Alex’s skin beneath my palm, the rich tenor of her laughter, the heartbreak in her eyes that last night.
The quiet that once brought me peace now feels oppressive, every silence a reminder of what I’ve lost.
The blue of early morning has brightened just enough to softly illuminate the empty booth by the window. Alex’s booth. A fresh wave of pain sweeps through me. I turn away, forcing my attention back to the task at hand.
The back door bangs open, and I don’t need to look up to know it’s Zoe. She bursts in like a hurricane of color and noise, her bright clothing a stark contrast to my mood.
“Morning, Boss!” she chirps. “Hope you’re ready for some tunes, because I’ve got a playlist that’ll knock your socks off!”
Before I can protest, she’s already fiddling with the speaker, and an upbeat tune rings through the space, a chorusof voices echoing the lead singer. I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to tell her to turn it off. I know what she’s doing—trying to pull me out of my funk. Part of me appreciates it, but a larger part wants to wallow in my misery.
“Zoe,” I start, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand.
