Page 37 of Whisked Away
“Yes, but in front of Ms. Sinclair?”
“Oh, it’s Ms. Sinclair now, is it? With the way you two were just looking at each other, I was starting to think Mrs. Hart.”
“Grammie Rae, I know you mean well?—”
She stops my speech with a dramatic sweep of her arm, and her voice gets low and serious. “She saw it. The magic.” My furrowed brow must give away my confusion, but Grammie Rae sets her stirring spoon down and walks closer to me, her voice low and serious. “Most of the tourists can’t see a thing. The wards, you know? But you saw that Ms. Sinclair did.”
She had. I’d heard the gasp slip from her mouth and watched her lips part. It’s true. Even though we’re not supposed to use magic in front of others out of an abundance of caution, most people can’t see it. But Alex had.
“Magic chooses people it wants sometimes,” Grammie Rae says.
“What do you mean?”
She nods over to where Alex is embroiled in a laughter-filled conversation with Mia and Rachel, like they’d all graduated school together and not like they’d just met.
“I’m saying the magic is choosing Alex. She belongs here with us. Hmm?”
I’m about to ask more questions, demand a better answer, but then Alex walks back over, and Grammie Rae gets that twinkle in her eye again. “Tell me now, Ms. Sinclair”—at this, she grins at me—“has Ethan here informed you about the Bonanza?”
Alex turns to me, her brow furrowed, a smile still lingeringfrom her conversation with her new friends. Panic ripples through me, a stone dropped into a lake. Dean Markham wanted Alex gone two weeks ago. He would not approve of extending her stay yet again.
“Grammie, Ms. Sinclair has important deadlines and?—”
“Nonsense!” Grammie lifts the spoon and waves it, sticky bits of honey candy dripping down the handle. “This is the food-lover’s event of the season. Ever since he’s moved here, Ethan has won every year. Frankly, it’s time someone gave him some actual competition.” Her lips curl into a grin. “What do you say, Ms. Sinclair? Care to show our local baker extraordinaire how it’s done in the city?”
I clear my throat. “I wouldn’t say I win every year.” It’s a weak deflection, and I’m not motivated to argue, anyway. I should be. I should encourage Alex to return home. Discourage whatever this is building between us. But I’m not the one asking her to stay this time, and what could a few more days hurt, anyway?
“Oh, hush,” Grammie Rae says. “False modesty doesn’t suit you, dear. You’re cute enough without it.” She turns toward Alex. A handful of curious customers have wandered up to the booth, but Grammie’s entire attention remains fixed on us. “Please say you’ll stay. It would mean so much to have a food expert give our local celebrity baker some competition.”
The hair that’s come free of Alex’s ponytail sticks to the part of her cheek that I’d brushed the candy away from. She’s holding her cone so tightly she dents the paper. “I… I suppose I could try to rearrange some things.”
A breath rushes out of me. I was sure she’d say no. I still can’t believe that she seems to want to be here. To be with me. Her gaze meets mine at that moment, and my heart thunders.
“Wonderful!” Grammie Rae claps. “Oh, everyone will be so excited. A real New York City food writer in our littlecontest. I’m going to spread the word.” She bustles forward, greeting the next customer.
Alex peeks up beneath the wisps of her windswept hair, and my heart stops pounding for a moment. Grammie Rae’s words echo through my mind. Magic chooses people it wants.
Hope is the world’s most painful emotion. Even allowing myself to imagine that Alex might be different, that she might love the Cove, love—other things in the Cove. I shiver.
“What did I just agree to?” she asks.
I chuckle. “Let’s just say you might want to bring a change of clothes.” I look down at her leather flats. “And maybe leave any shoes you care about at the B&B.”
Alex
“What do you think is appropriate clothing to milk a cow in?”
I’m digging through the limited wardrobe I’ve packed for Magnolia Cove. Despite not knowing the answer, I’m pretty sure silk and cashmere are definitely not it. I shift the phone and wedge it between my ear and shoulder.
“Wait,” Tish says, her voice muffled over the phone line, “do you plan to milk a cow?”
“It’s apparently part of the competition. Everyone has to gather their ingredients fresh around the farm while under a time limit.”
There’s a beat of silence, filled only with static over the line, before Tish bursts into laughter, the sound blending with the clatter of her tea plates. “Girl, you’ve got it bad.”
I stand in front of the mirror, holding up the only pair of jeans I’ve packed. I never once imagined wearing them on an actual farm. Some food writers scale mountains and trek into the wild to discover where their ingredients come from. I’ve always been more comfortable in Michelin-starred dining rooms.
I look at myself in the mirror—really look. My skin’spicked up some color from Magnolia Cove’s sunshine, I’ve embraced the beachy waves, and there’s something in my posture—like I’ve finally let go, finally relaxed.
