Page 26 of Whisked Away
“Lavender cake is a very specific order,” I say.
Ethan’s grin reminds me of the picture of him inFood Frenzy. Except I realize what I mistook for artificial was actually discomfort. Now, his smile is broad, wrinkling his eyes, accompanied by a soft sigh. “Mrs. Delehay keeps thinking she’ll trip me up one of these days. Every week, she orders something different—and always at the last minute. The postmaster told me she started subscribing to food magazines just to keep me on my toes.”
He walks over to the fridge and comes back with a glass bottle of milk, setting it on the counter. Unscrewing the cap, he reaches for a measuring cup and pours, his movements precise. I step a little closer, curious despite myself, watching as he transfers the measured milk into a saucepan.
My arms cross. “The postmaster told you about a resident’s private mail?”
He huffs a laugh. “Small towns.”
“You’ve lived in several bigger cities if I’m right? You’ve mentioned that Parisian baking influenced your approach?”
He turns away to open a jar of dried lavender. I lean in slightly, watching as he shakes some into the pan. The softfloral scent curls into the air between us as he stirs slowly, then gives a one-word answer.
“Yes.”
Okay, then. My journalist brain is burning, my hand itching for a pen, but there’s something delicate in Ethan’s eyes when he meets my gaze—something that makes my breath catch.
He turns the pot down to a simmer and moves to the mixer. I take another step, drawn to the rhythmic motion of sugar and butter whipping together.
“What inspired you to move to a small town, then? The beach? The opportunity to bring big-city flavor to a niche audience?”
“Yeah.” His voice is raspy, and he won’t meet my eyes. More lies. But they feel like gentle half-truths, like telling a kid that Santa Claus is real.
I lift my chin, realizing too late just how close we’ve gotten.Too close.The heat of him radiates against my skin, and for a ridiculous second, I think about how easily he could drop his head and brush a kiss against my nose.
My heart leaps by the time he speaks again. “I suppose you’ve never felt trapped by your circumstances before?”
A laugh—bitter-edged—spills out of me. “Only every single day.”
He turns the mixer off and frowns at me. His eyes trace over my face like he’s seeking answers himself. I’ve never been on this side of an interview. I always hide behind my laptop, behind my professional merit.Alexandra Sinclairis a name splashed across matte-covered magazines—but never accompanied by a picture. Never anything personal.
It feels like too much.Too close.
“What has you trapped, then?”
I turn and grab the carton of eggs, then hold them out toward him.
Ethan doesn’t take them straight away. Instead, he continues to look at me in a way no one ever has—intense, unguarded, like he’s seeing right through all my defenses.
Our breathing fills the air between us. The bakery is so quiet—nothing more than the hum of ovens, the milk’s quiet simmer. Each breath tastes like vanilla. Ethan’s gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes. My breath hitches, and the urge to lean in and find out if hetasteslike the vanilla-scented air becomes unbearable.
I’m going to become the most unprofessional journalist that’s ever existed. I’m going to kiss the firefighter-calendar-look-alike baker at 3:30 a.m. in his bakery in this magical little town, and he’s going to taste like sugar.
“My dad’s here, in Magnolia Cove.”
Ethan accepts the eggs and turns from me, breaking the moment.
I let out a shaky breath.What the hell is happening to me?I’m going to get myself fired. I’m not sure what spell this little town and this gorgeous man have cast on me, but I need to finish out this week, get my answers, and get out of here.
Ethan cracks the eggs into a small bowl, then blends them in smoothly. He grabs a whiskey bottle and pours a generous splash of what must be homemade vanilla. The scent is so intoxicatingly rich I take a long breath, letting the aroma fill my senses. It’s warm and layered, with hints of caramel and oak—almost tempting enough to taste on its own.
“The circumstance that’s keeping me stuck,” I whisper, “is family too.”
Ethan turns back to me. I never understood what people meant when they said someone appeared haunted, but I do now. Ethan’s eyes have gone dark, his forehead furrowed.
The mixer is whirring on unsupervised, and for a fleeting moment, I think this might be the dessert Mrs. Delehay finally gets to boast about—beating Ethan Hart’s abilities.Because with the way he’s looking at me, I won’t remind him he might overwhip the batter. That he should check the milk.
No, I’m going to kiss him, run my hands over his muscular chest, rake my fingers through his curls, and end up fired for unprofessional behavior—and I don’t even care.
