Page 20 of Whisked Away
“-andra Sinclair? The food writer everyone is talking about?” she teases, and Grant smiles indulgently at her.
“The very one.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed a famous journalist would read smutty thrillers.”
I shrug. “Sorry to break the illusion, but I’m just a regular person like everyone else.”
Her responding laughter is warm. “So, what did you think of the twist in the middle? I didn’t see it coming at all.”
“Me either, but the way the author wove in the clues was brilliant.”
“I know, right? I was up half the night! Our book club talked about it for over an hour.”
A woman walks up and announces that a table is available. “Well, nice to meet you, Alex! Enjoy your dinner!”
“You too.”
Once I get a seat in the bustling diner, I order the piementioned in the brochure. The owner sits me in a vinyl booth where the cracked red seat squeaks every time I shift. The linoleum floor has seen better days, and the jukebox in the corner looks like it’s been here since the ’50s.
But none of that matters when I find myself staring at a slice of cherry pie that looks like it belongs in a food stylist’s dream portfolio.
The crust is golden and flaky, the lattice top so beautiful it practically makes my inner perfectionist swoon. Steam rises from the filling, carrying the intoxicating scent of ripe cherries and warm spices. It’s the kind of pie that would have culinary school instructors wiping away tears of joy.
And that’s the problem.
I take a bite, and the flavors explode on my tongue. The cherries burst with sweetness, their tart edge perfectly balancing the rich, buttery crust that melts in my mouth. For a moment, I swear I can taste sunshine, laughter, and the pure bliss of a summer day. Which, I know, is ridiculous. Those aren’t even flavors.
I set my fork down, a frown tugging at my lips. How is a greasy spoon diner in the middle of nowhere serving pies that could rival those from the world’s finest bakeries? Where are they getting these impossibly fresh ingredients? And why isn’t there a line out the door for this culinary miracle? The place is no busier than any other quiet night in a small town.
“Everything all right, honey?” Hazel asks, appearing at my elbow with a coffee pot. Her gray hair is piled high on her head, and grease splatters her apron.
“It’s delicious,” I say, because it is. “I just… how do you do it?”
Hazel winks, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling. “Family secret. Can’t go spilling that to a big-city reporter, now can I?”
As she walks away, I could swear I see a shimmer in the airaround her, like a desert mirage. I rub my eyes, the world blurring for a moment before snapping back into focus.
The late nights must be getting to me.
What time I haven’t spent working on other articles, I’ve used the excruciatingly slow internet at the bed and breakfast to search for answers… aboutanything.
About Magnolia Cove.(Which barely exists outside of Ethan’s bakery.)About Ethan.(Who barely exists outside mentions of The Whimsical Whisk.)About everything on this island that doesn’t make sense.
It’s a wonder this place has even made it onto the ClipClop app, much less gone viral. People must take videos and post them when they’re back on the mainland, because there’s not enough internet in every shop combined to do that from Magnolia Cove.
I’ve even shot off an email to another journalist asking for help with research.
There’s just something about this place that doesn’t quite add up.
There’s something about Ethan that doesn’t make sense.
I’m probably staying up so late working because if I try to sleep, my mind goes to him.
To his gigantic smile and the way he bows his head if he’s praised.
To the teasing but clearly affectionate relationship between him and Zoe.
To him discussing how he gained his passion for baking at his grandmother’s side, then refined it by charming Parisian neighbors and working his way into their kitchens with his broken French and overly eager manners—both of which they scolded.
