Page 21 of Whisked Away
I’m smiling again, and someone sitting at the counter looks my way. I clear my throat and finish my pie, savoring every bite even as I don’t understand it.
Therest of the day passes in a blur of interviews and note-taking, each conversation leaving me with more questions than answers. I chat with Tom Bryson, the owner of the bait and tackle shop, who swears the fish practically jump into your boat here. He spends a solid five minutes trying to charm me into taking one of his fishing tours—dropping phrases likeonce-in-a-lifetime experienceandyou haven’t lived until you’ve reeled in a redfish at sunrise.I politely decline, but he just grins and tells me I’ll change my mind before I leave town.
Then there’s the florist, who hides behind her desk, glaring at the sun streaming through the window but insists that her blooms last twice as long as others. And the surly teenager working at the museum? He just shrugs off my questions when the exhibits offer no more information than the books I bought.
By the time evening rolls around, my head is spinning, my notebook is full of useless notes, and my stomach is rumbling. My feet carry me toThe Whimsical Whiskalmost of their own accord, drawn by the promise of Ethan’s warm smile and the comforting scent of fresh-baked bread.
TheClosedsign is up, but lights still gleam inside. For a moment, I hesitate. I shouldn’t bother them after hours. I’m about to turn away when Zoe appears at the door, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our favorite foodie,” she says, opening the door. Flour dusts her hair, fading her purple streaks to lilac. “Come to uncover more of our nefarious baking secrets?”
“I was just hoping for a quiet place to work, actually. But if you’re closed?—”
“Nonsense.” Zoe waves a hand dismissively, nearly smacking me with the dish towel she’s holding. “Mi bakery es su bakery. Ethan’s in the back with the kid. I’m sure he won’t mind if you set up shop out here.”
Before I can protest, she ushers me inside. The bakery is quiet, the display cases empty save for a few lonely muffins. Lingering scents of the day’s baking hang thick in the air—cinnamon, vanilla, and something deeper, richer, that I can’t quite place.
“I’m heading out, but stay as long as you like,” Zoe says, grabbing her jacket from a hook. “Just don’t go snooping in the secret ingredient cabinet. That’s where we keep all the magic.” She winks at me, then calls out, “Ethan! Your girlfriend’s here!”
I splutter, heat rushing to my face. “Oh, that’s not why I’m here... we’re not?—”
But Zoe’s already out the door, her laughter floating back on the evening breeze.
Ethan appears from the kitchen, a flour-dusted apron tied around his waist. It reminds me of theFoodie Frenzyphoto where he’d posed in a perfectly starched apron—one I haven’t seen that clean since I got here. His curls are more jumbled than usual, and when he smiles, dimples crease his cheeks. My heart definitely doesn’t skip a beat at the sight. Nope. Not at all.
“Alex. Everything okay?”
“I’m so sorry.” I clutch my laptop bag like a lifeline. “Zoe let me in, but I can go if?—”
“No, no,” he cuts me off with a wave that sends another dusting of flour into the air. “You’re welcome to stay. I’m just working with a friend on a new recipe. Set up out here if you want.”
Relief washes over me. My room hasn’t been great for working, and I feel peaceful at the Whisk. It’s a feeling that keeps drawing me back. “Thanks. I promise I won’t get under your feet like I did in our disastrous meeting.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I believe I ran intoyouwith that tray of pastries, not the other way around.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that, Chief.”
He laughs, and as he disappears back into the kitchen, I settle at a table, spreading out my notes and opening my laptop. The keys clack loudly in the quiet room as I type up my observations from the day. But instead of focusing on my work, I find myself straining to hear the conversation from the kitchen.
“Okay, Jas,” Ethan’s voice carries through. “Now we need to temper the chocolate. This is tricky, but I know you can do it.”
“I don’t know,” a younger voice responds, uncertainty clear in his tone. “What if I mess it up?”
“Then we’ll start over,” Ethan says simply. “That’s the beauty of baking. There’s always a chance to try again.”
There’s a pause, filled with the sound of whisks against metal bowls. Then Jas speaks again, his voice smaller. “Do you think I’ll ever be as good as you?”
“I think you’ll be better,” Ethan replies without hesitation. “You’ve got a natural talent, kiddo.”
“Tell that to the kids at school,” Jas mutters. “They all think I’m weird for liking baking. Say I should play sports like my brothers.”
Missy comes to mind at his words. The grim years after our parents’ loss, when music was the only thing that kept her from drowning. Her passion set her apart, made her the odd one out in a sea of kids more interested in sports and social media. She’d come home in the afternoons, cello case dragging behind her, eyes red-rimmed from holding back tears.
She persevered, though, and now she’s at Juilliard, living her dream. A dream that’s come with a hefty price tag. Soon she’ll be in Paris, honing her skills under the guidance of masters in buildings older than the city we live in. It’s an incredible opportunity, one that could launch her career, but the cost…
I shake my head, trying to focus on the present. That’s why I’ve come to Magnolia Cove. It’s not just about advancing my career or writing groundbreaking exposés. It’s about making sure Missy gets her chance to shine after life tried to drag her down.
That’s why, despite the Whisk and its owner’s charm, I have to stay focused. I need to nail this article, uncover whatever is going on in Magnolia Cove, and return home with my and Missy’s futures firmly secured.
