Page 22 of Whisked Away
“Hey,” Ethan’s voice from the back room is gentle but firm, cutting through my thoughts like a knife skimming through butter. “There’s nothing weird about following your passion. You know, I used to feel different too. Like I didn’t quite fit in anywhere.”
“Really?” Jas sounds skeptical. “But you’re so cool.”
Ethan’s laughter rings out, warm and genuine. “Trust me, when I was younger, no one would have agreed with you on that. But you know what I learned? Being different, embracing what makes you unique—that’s what makes the world beautiful. Just like how different flavors come together to make an amazing dessert.”
“I guess,” Jas says, sounding a bit more cheerful. “And I bet none of those jerks can make a chocolate soufflé.”
“Exactly,” Ethan agrees. “Now, let’s make this the best darn truffles Magnolia Cove has ever seen.”
I’m smiling, warmth spreading through my chest. There’s something about Ethan’s words, about the gentle way he’s guidingthe kid,as Zoe dubbed him, that makes me see the Whisk’s owner in a whole new light. It’s more than just his good looks or his baking skills. There’s a kindness, a depth to him I hadn’t expected.
But as I turn back to my notes, that nagging feeling returns. The pie that tasted of happiness. The shimmer in the air. Ethan’s words about making the world beautiful.
What if... what if there really is something magical about this town?
I shake my head, trying to clear it. That’s crazy talk. There’s no such thing as magic. I’m a journalist, for crying out loud. I deal in facts, in things I can see and touch and prove.
And yet...
I think about the way Ethan’s scones seemed to melt my stress away. How Hazel’s pie made metasteemotions. The way flowers bloom impossibly large and vibrant all over town.
My fingers hover over my keyboard as I debate what to write. The rational part of my brain says to stick to the facts—the recipes, the techniques, the local color.
But another part, a part I’m not entirely comfortable acknowledging, wants to dive into the mystery. To explore the possibility that there’s more to Magnolia Cove than meets the eye. It’s not somethingGastronomy Eatswould ever buy. We deal in hard facts, true stories, and reliable recipe techniques. Yet, for the first time in my life, I’m drawn to something that seems more fiction than reality.
The air in the bakery feels charged, as if the very molecules are vibrating with an energy I can’t explain. I think of the inexplicable comfort of Ethan’s pastries, the way Zoe’s grin seems to sparkle with hidden knowledge, the peculiar phrases that slip out when the locals don’t think I’m listening. There’s a story here, one that defies the rigid boundaries of food journalism.
In the kitchen, Ethan and Jas laugh. The sound echoes through the Whisk, matching the space. Everything about the bakery—the island—feels like coming home after a long, miserable trip.
I stretch my fingers, then begin to type.
Magnolia Cove is a town of secrets, of flavors that can’t be described and sights that defy explanation. It’s a place where pies taste of summer days and scones can lift your spirits. Where abear of a man teaches a young boy that being different is beautiful, and where a jaded city journalist might just start to believe in magic...
I pause, my finger hovering over the backspace key. It’s not my usual style. It’s not the lush descriptions and sharp facts I usually write. But as I read over the words, my grin lingers.
I save the document, making sure I won’t lose my words. I’m uncertain anyone else will ever see them, but for some reason, I want to hold on to the story. Hold on to the experience. For now, I’m content to sit in this quiet bakery, listening to the sound of childhood giggles and the whisper of something that feels like magic in the air. Then, before fate—or Magnolia Cove—can throw another ridiculously charming local in my path, I snap my laptop shut, grab my things, and head out, leaving Ethan to mentor his young apprentice in peace.
Ethan
The evening light filters through the bakery windows, painting everything in soft, golden hues. It’s the kind of light that makes even day-old muffins look magazine-worthy. I’m wiping down the counters, lost in thought, when Alex’s voice cuts through my reverie.
“Hey, Ethan? Can I ask you something?”
I look up, my heart doing that annoying little skip it does whenever I see her. She leans against the display case, notebook in hand, strands of hair fallen loose from her updo. I have to resist the urge to brush them away. There’s something elegant about her—something that makes her stand out against the laid-back, coastal vibes of everyone else here.
“Sure,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “What’s up?”
She takes a deep breath, like she’s steeling herself. “I was wondering if I could work as an apprentice with you for the week. You know, to learn more about your baking techniques and take some pictures for the article. I’m really intrigued by the Whisk’s unique approach to baking. There’s something special about your pastries, something I can’t put myfinger on. I’d love to get a behind-the-scenes look and really understand what makes this place distinct.”
The rag slips from my hand, landing with a wet splat on the floor. “You want to... apprentice?”
A jolt rushes through me. On one hand, working closely together would be the perfect opportunity to show her the heart of The Whimsical Whisk,to prove we’re more than just flashy marketing. On the other hand, keeping our secrets hidden while she’s watching our every move? That’s a recipe for disaster.
Alex nods, her eyes brightening. “It would be great for the story. Plus, I’d love to learn from you. Your baking is...” A faint blush colors her cheeks. “Well, it’s kind of magical.”
Magical.The word echoes in my head, setting off alarm bells. I can almost hear Dean’s gravelly voice warning me about exposure, about the risks of getting too close. Telling me I needed to get Alex to leave as quickly as possible.
“I... I don’t know,” I stammer. I bend down and grab the rag just to have something to do with my hands. “It’s a busy time with the season picking up, and I already have Jasper coming in the afternoons three times a week.”
