Page 13 of Whisked Away
“What is she doing here?” Dean hisses as soon as I’m within earshot.
“Her job,” I answer, keeping my voice low. “She’s a food writer, Dean. This is what she does.”
“We agreed to a puff piece for a tourist magazine,” he snaps. “Not some in-depth exposé by a top publication.”
I run a hand through my hair. “What do you want me to do? Turn her away? That’ll only make her more suspicious.”
Dean’s jaw clenches, his frustration mounting. “I want her trip cut short. Let her sample the food, write her article, then tell her to leave.”
“I can’t just?—”
“You can, and you will,” he cuts me off. “Unless you want to risk more magical exposure. Risk everyone else in this community by following your heart again.”
His words hit harder than I’d like to admit. The truth is, he’s right. I wanted more than the magical community could ever offer, and that desire had caused enough legal chaos to fill an entire file cabinet at the Witches and Warlocks Council.
“I’ll figure something out,” I mutter.
With that, Dean turns sharply and storms out of thebakery, leaving me standing there—pulled in three directions: my duty to the town, my professional ambitions, and the lingering shame of my past mistakes.
With a heavy heart, I head back to the table. Alex looks up as I approach, her smile lighting up her face in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. I push the feeling aside, reminding myself of the risks, but there’s no denying the flicker of hope that ignites within me. This could be my shot—my chance to show the world what the Whisk is really about.
Others won’t find out about the magic. I’m more in control now. Dean just loves worrying about something. And I just happen to make a good punching bag.
“Everything okay?” Alex asks, concern creeping into her voice.
I force a relaxed smile. “Just an island tourism issue. Nothing to worry about.” The half-truth feels off, but it’s the best I can offer.
“Great,” she says, turning back to her laptop. “I was going to say, ‘Where were we?’ but we never made it past the first question. The magic that makes up the Whisk.”
Her eyes glisten with the warmth of sunlight—but it’s more than just that. It’s curiosity. The kind that could get us both into trouble. It’s probably what makes her such a damn good journalist—her ability to unearth the tiny details that make readers feel like they’re right there with her.
I can’t lie to her anymore. I won’t. But I can’t tell her everything either. So, I’ll do the only thing I can: give her just enough to satisfy her curiosity, and pray it’s enough to keep her from digging deeper.
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “You know, my Nan always said it’s about the love you bake into something.” The words come out sounding more cliché than I intended, and Alex’s fingers stop clacking againstthe keys.
“Love, huh?” she says, her tone dry. “That’s your secret ingredient?”
The trite answer has disappointed her. But maybe that’s for the best. The less intrigued she is, the safer we all are. Still, I can’t help but feel a pang of regret as the sparkle in her eyes dims.
“Well, that and a few family recipes I’d be skinned alive for sharing, plus a dozen years of experimenting.” I gesture to the plate of nibbled-on pastries. “Some things have to remain a mystery, you know?”
Alex leans back in her chair, studying me with those sharp eyes. “Mr. Hart, I think you’ll find I’m very good at solving mysteries.”
There’s a challenge in her voice that makes my pulse quicken. Part of me wants to rise to it, to show her everything the Whisk—everything I—can do. But Dean’s warning echoes in my mind, and I feel the familiar prickle under my skin that warns me to stay in control.
“I don’t doubt that,” I say, keeping my tone light. “But some secrets are worth keeping, don’t you think? Leaves a little magic in the world.”
Her lips thin, but she doesn’t press further. Instead, she closes her laptop with a snap. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to do some more... thorough investigation during my stay.”
The way she says it makes it hard for me to force a smile. I don’t know how to convince this woman to leave early, to ask her not to go nosing around in things. “I spent a year in Paris and learned quite a few of my tricks there.”
This gathers her attention again. A few local kids come in and walk over to the cookie case. They press their hands and noses against it, and Zoe sighs, but says nothing. That glass remaining smudge-free is a splinter under her nail, always bothering her, but she loves the kids too much to say anything about it.
“Who did you train with?” Alex asks.
I suddenly wish I had a cup of coffee and could wrap my hands around it, fidgeting with the handle. I’ve made a mistake. She won’t find my experience there impressive. “No one you’d know. A few of my neighbors were natural-born bakers. Or maybe it was generations of family secrets. I charmed them into sharing a few with me.”
She takes another bite of the cinnamon roll and chews it thoughtfully before answering. “My sister is about to study in France.”
