Page 11 of Whisked Away
I ignore her, carefully removing the tray and setting it on the cooling rack. The aroma fills the kitchen with notes of vanilla and orange zest. They look perfect—golden brown with a slight sheen from the egg wash. But looks aren’t enough, not for Alexandra Sinclair.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let a tendril of magic flow from my fingertips into the scones. It’s subtle, barely noticeable unless you know what to look for. A faint shimmer, like heat rising off pavement in summer. I infuse them with warmth, comfort, and a sense of home.
Everyone on the island can tap into General Magic. Only the powerful can do the things most people think of asmagical—create wards, alter memories, shape-shift. But the bakery doesn’t need those kinds of powers. A kiss of comfort is enough.
When I open my eyes, Zoe is watching me with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “You sure about this, Ethan? Dean’s already on edge about the publicity.”
I remove the oven mitts and hang them on their hook. “What choice do we have? If I don’t use magic and help take the edge off, she’ll write us off as just another tourist attraction. If I do...”
“We risk exposure,” Zoe finishes. “Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”
“Exactly.” I grab a plate and arrange the pastries. “But maybe, if we can impress her enough, she’ll focus on the quality of the food rather than the gimmick.”
Zoe snorts. “Yeah, because journalists are known for their ability to ignore a juicy angle.”
She has a point, but I’m not ready to admit defeat just yet. We had a poor start, but while we infused baked goods at The Whimsical Whisk with a touch of magical comfort, it didn’t alter their taste or texture. I’d spent years perfecting my cinnamon roll dough proofing. I special-ordered the muscovado brown sugar from the Philippines. And I added a tablespoon of orange rind—not enough to notice, but just enough to contrast against the sweetness. I was obsessive with my tests and never released an item on the menu until I was fully confident in it. The Whisk’s offerings could stand on their own—if she’d let her critical eye drop for a moment and actually try them.
“Just... keep a watch on things out there while I finish this up, okay?”
“Sir, yes sir.” Zoe gives a mock salute before sauntering out to the front.
I take my time arranging and rearranging the pastries, making sure each one is positioned just so. It’s probably overkill, but I can’t shake the feeling that everything is riding on this first impression. Well,secondimpression, if you count our disastrous meeting earlier.
Finally, I emerge from the kitchen, plate in hand. Alex has set up camp at a corner table, laptop open, a look of intense concentration on her face. The morning sunlight streaming through the window catches in her hair, turning it to spun gold.
I shake my head, banishing the poetic thought. Thiswoman is here to judge us, maybe even expose us—or, though I hardly dare to hope, significantly boost our profile. I’d imagined her coming to write one of her cover pieces, but her tone has shifted my suspicions. Why would someone like Alexandra Sinclair write an article about the Whisk? She wouldn’t. Now my brain can’t stop imagining the food criticism section in the back ofGastronomy Eats.
With all that in mind, I can’t afford to get distracted by the way she bites her lip as she types.
“Special delivery,” I say, approaching her table.
She looks up, her lip unfurling from her teeth’s clasp, her hazel eyes turning honey. “That’s quite the sample.”
“Consider it a peace offering,” I say, setting the plate down. “For, you know, assaulting you with pastries earlier.”
A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected from Alexandra Sinclair, but this woman somehow isn’t it. For one thing, I’d expected her to be older. To write forGastronomy Eatsat her age is impressive. She must have worked her ass off to reach this position. Yet her smile says there’s more to her than just a stodgy food critic.
I’m trying very hard not to notice the cupid’s bow of her lips or the way a strand of hair slips forward and brushes her skin. Yet, I find my gaze lingering a moment too long on the curve of her neck as she looks up from her laptop.
“Well, I won’t say no.” That smile graces her lips again. It makes my heart race, and I’m pretty sure it’s from the dread that she might hate the Whisk. Hate it, and write about it in an article that slaps my name and face in front of every person I’d ever hoped to gain respect from. She could ruin every one of my dreams—the dream of becoming a true expert in the field, the kind of baker whose name is studied in culinary schools, whose cookbooks sit dog-eared on the counters of professionals. Someone who isn’t just a gimmick, but a master of the craft.
I hold my breath as she takes a bite, watching for any sign of the magic taking effect. For a moment, nothing happens. Then I see it—a slight softening around her eyes, a barely perceptible relaxation of her shoulders.
“This is...” she starts, then stops, cocking her head at the pastry.
“Not what you expected?” I offer.
She shakes her head, taking another bite. “It’s good,” she admits, sounding almost reluctant. “Really good, actually.”
Pride surges in my chest but is quickly tempered by the knowledge that this is just the beginning. One good scone will not be enough to win over Alexandra Sinclair. Not if she came here looking for the worst. I’m already mentally preparing to go home tonight and comb through every copy ofGastronomy EatsI own to analyze her critiques.
She nudges the cinnamon roll but doesn’t rip into it. “I’m surprised this doesn’t look like something out of a kid’s birthday party—all neon frosting and sprinkles.”
My hands grow clammy, and my magic shifts within me. Too many potent emotions can cause me problems, especially around the Lunar Occultation—when celestial shifts make magic unpredictable, pulling at it like tides. I clear my throat. “I didn’t take you as aFoodie Frenzyreader.”
She folds her fingers together and rests her chin on them. “I’m not.”
“Me either.”
