Page 18 of Whisked Away
My heart pounds as she takes a bite. The minutes seem totick by. Soon, the bakery will officially open, and the usual bustle will begin. Tarts and muffins, and dozens of cups of coffee, will be exiting with the customers. Alex chews the first bite thoughtfully. Her eyes close, and she freezes for a moment before swallowing.
“This is... wow,” she finally says, taking another bite. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.” She licks a stray crumb off her lip, and I force myself to look away.
“Good wow or bad wow?” I try to keep my voice casual.
“Definitely good. I feel... I don’t know how to describe it. I haven’t figured out how to describe your baked goods yet, Mr. Hart. It’s a strange thing— a writer at a loss for words.”
The guilt I felt earlier evaporates at the warmth in her tone. Maybe Zoe was right. Maybe this isn’t manipulation, but just... helping her see the magic here. Helping her see that it’s not a gimmick, even if she can’t know the full truth.
“If you insist on me calling you Alex, then you must call me Ethan. We’re not very formal around here.”
Alex smiles and takes another small bite of the tart. She closes her eyes again as she chews, and the quietest moan escapes from her. I realize I’m staring at her lips when she opens her eyes once more. “I met Zoe’s wife yesterday.”
I need to return to the kitchen and not leave the entire breakfast rush to Zoe again, to stop indulging whatever draw Alex has for me, but her words pull me up short. “Mia is lovely.”
“She seems so. She told me you’re not from around here.”
I fight a sigh. Mia is the sweetest person—vanilla whipped cream to Zoe’s tart lime pie—but she’s also quick to share anything. It’s not because she’s a gossip; the opposite, actually. She doesn’t understand the purpose of lying. Zoe finds that as charming as a cookie’s crumb, as she once said, but it presents a problem. Now I need to figure out exactly what Miatold Alex.
“That’s true. I was born in a mountain town north of here. Always loved the ocean, though.”
“Is that why a guy like you moved here, then?”
There’s no half-truth to give her on that. I snag onto something else instead. “A guy like me? What does that mean?”
A pretty rose color spreads across her nose. “You know, all... capable-looking?”
“Capable-looking?” She’s asked it like a question, but I don’t know what she means. It doesn’t sound like embarrassment or fraud, though, so I’ll take it.
“I don’t know... like a firefighter. Or a model. A firefighter model?” Alexandra Sinclair, renowned food writer, is sitting in my little bakery and blushing until she’s pink in the cheeks. She covers her eyes with her hands. “Oh god, forget I said that. Something about this place makes me put my guard down.”
I’m grinning stupidly, though. She’d described the island as charming, but I’m finding her even more so. “I’m willing to take it as a compliment. Just don’t say it in front of Zo.” I nod to where she’s retreated, finishing the brioche. “She’s dubbed me with enough nicknames. We don’t need to add Chief to her list or have her explain the story to every single customer who comes in here.”
Alex laughs, her eyes sparkling. Her computer has gone dark, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ll keep it as our secret.”
A pang grips my chest. I want to believe her. I wish I could trust her and know that secrets could stay between us. But I’d trusted a human woman before, and I’m still paying for it. Paying for it in years, in lost opportunities, in the weight of a promise I was foolish enough to believe. I slide a chair out and sit, feeling less bumbling. “The story of how I started baking isn’t interesting enough forGastronomy Eats. I’ve read your articles—you’re always finding the most fascinating angles.Like that story last winter about the Maple Syrup Farm in Vermont.”
“Sugarbrook Farms.” She clasps her hands together. “I loved writing that story.”
She’s watching me intensely, but now the words are flowing for me. Discussing the world of pastries and flaky crusts, the bakers out there pouring their heart and souls into their work is easy. “I loved how you discussed their use of traditional wood-fire evaporators and how it adds a smoky taste to their syrup. I ordered some after reading the article.” She smiles at that, and it’s like the expression is its own fire, warming me. “They have an interesting background. A family history of working with maple trees and unique techniques. Mine’s boring.”
“Try me.” She takes another bite of the tart—a nibble, really. She eats things in the smallest tastes and chews each one thoroughly, as though she wants to give all her sensory attention to the flavor.
“I didn’t grow up on a fourth-generation farm. The closest thing I have is I helped my grandmother in the kitchen. She had this oven that was ancient—I swear that thing was around before a mortar and pestle.” Alex snorts, but she leans forward as well, drawing closer. “The smell of bread baking at her house was... well, like magic.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“It was,” I say, surprised by the wistfulness in my voice. Surprised that I’m not ashamed to share this story with this polished, well-educated woman who has a sister about to spend a semester abroad. My story isn’t anything special—I mean, except for the magical bits—but with this aspect, I can give her the entire truth. “She taught me that baking isn’t about following recipes. It’s about pouring your heart into what you create. About making something that might bring a little joy to others.”
“Is that why she named it the ‘Hopeful’ Raspberry Tart?” She lifts a forkful of the pastry in question.
Not exactly, but it’s also close to the truth. I shrug. “Food has the power to change how people feel. It can comfort, inspire, bring back memories?—”
“Or create new ones.” Alex sets the fork down, and it clinks in the silence between us. I’m not willing to break her gaze to see if Zoe is watching us, but I’d bet my secret banana bread recipe she is, and I’m going to hear about it later.
We’ve grown so close that with every breath, I catch the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the bakery’s sweet aromas. At some point, without thinking, we both leaned in—just slightly—close enough that the space between us feels charged, like the moment before a first bite of something decadent.
I clear my throat. “So, how does a gal like you end up in our little corner of the world? And before you have to ask, I mean a successful, big-city food writer?”
