Page 43 of Whisked Away
Ethan laughs softly. “Hey, I like crappy, cheap hamburgers.”
“Tell me you’re lying,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “The great baker, Ethan Hart, who special-orders fifty-dollar vanilla extract, could actually be caught eating fast food?”
“Sure could.” His grin is slow and easy, and before I can stop myself, I find myself moving closer. He shifts, and now every inch of us is touching, from chest to knee.
My heart races again, and I’m back to thinking impossible things—life-upending, world-shifting things. “I haven’t seen any food chains in Magnolia Cove.”
“Nope, you won’t. Can’t find that here.” His voice drops, eyes drifting toward the sea, the water stretching between us and the rest of the world. There’s love in his tone, but also something more—a bitterness, a weight I can’t quite place. It’s not his family, because his dad’s here too, and they seem close. Whatever it is, it feels too personal, too tied to this place, for me to ask about it now. Especially when I’m about to walk out of his life.
“Tell me something,” I say, blurting it out before I can stop myself. “Something about you I don’t know yet.”
Ethan’s thumb brushes across the strap of my overalls, slowly, his touch sending a shiver down my spine. “Hmm… Did you know I’m terrified of heights?”
I turn my face to look at him, eyebrow raised. “Really? But you’re so… tall.”
He grins, dimples appearing. “Height doesn’t matter when you’re hanging off the side of a cliff, trust me. Learned that the hard way on a disastrous camping trip in college. Okay, your turn. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
I run my fingernail along the rough surface of the log beside me, a small shell wedged into a groove. I try, and fail, to dislodge it. Should I tell him that I’m planning to write an article that could embarrass him? Or that I’m considering not writing it at all, risking my job in the process? The indecision roils inside me, like a boat caught in a storm. I take a deep breath, deciding to be honest, to share something I’ve only told Tish. “I… I have a food blog. Or, I did. I haven’t updated it in years, but it’s still out there.”
Ethan pauses, his thumb stalling. “Really? What’s it called?”
“Tell Me Something Sweet.” Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I tuck myself closer to him. “It was my passion project in college. I wrote about hidden gem bakeries, family recipes, the stories behind different desserts. But then I became responsible for my sister, put all my energy into landing the job atGastronomy…”
“And had to give up your dream?” Ethan’s voice is soft, his words almost a whisper.
I nod, the weight of it sinking deep into my chest. “Yeah.”
The tight spot in my throat returns, and my eyes prick. I can’t cry here in front of this man over decisions made years ago. I take a breath of the brackish air. “It was the smartchoice, the only one, really. I had to focus on my career, work twice as hard as anyone to build my reputation if I planned to make it work and support myself and Missy.”
“It’s funny, I thought you were doing exactly the thing you love.”
“I am.” Aren’t I? Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I’ve found the shadow of the thing I actually love that pays me the most. I remember my disregarded article on Vivian’s desk—the hand-lettered title I’d placed on it. The story that will now never see the light of publication. “I have to do what pays me, not just what interests me.”
The words taste hollow, but I say them anyway. It’s what I was raised to believe—what I watched my mother live by. She used to paint, once. Beautiful, sweeping landscapes, golden light catching on the edges of the brushstrokes. I still remember the smell of oil paint clinging to her, how she’d hum while she worked. But she stopped. There wasn’t time between double shifts and keeping everything running after Dad was gone. Passion is a luxury; responsibility isn’t.
I press my lips together and shake the memory off. Ethan wouldn’t understand. He built a life out of the thing he loves. But not all of us get that choice.
Ethan swipes hair that’s blown into my face away and smiles down at me. “And that is how you ended up stuck traveling to Magnolia Cove to write about a kitschy bakery with magical, rainbow marketing.”
A laugh bursts from me, and he joins in. He doesn’t move his hands from my cheeks. His calluses scrape against my skin, and I stop breathing, only wanting to focus on his touch, on the intensity of his gaze.
“It’s not too late, you know,” he whispers. “To chase your dreams.”
But it is. Missy is the one who gets to follow her heart now. Once she moves out, I might rekindle the blog. I couldinfuse it with my name, my notoriety, ifGastronomy Eatswould allow the indulgence. They might not. I’d signed a pretty hefty non-compete with my contract, one that keeps my voice tethered to their brand.
“And you?” I ask instead of answering. “Any unfulfilled dreams hiding behind that firefighter facade?”
He smirks, but it feels almost sad, and his hands drop away from me. “I always wanted to travel more. See the great bakeries of the world, learn techniques from different cultures. But…” He gestures vaguely. “I made a home here instead.”
And created a bakery he’s poured all his passion, studying, and love into. A bakery I’m about to shatter in my article. It won’t hurt his bottom line—I doubt many people who frequent the Whisk readGastronomy Eats. But I know Ethan. It will break something within him.
I reach for his hand, needing the connection. “If you ever decide to take that world tour, call me. I know all the best hidden gems in New York and a few other places as well. Maybe our travels might match up at some point.”
Ethan smiles, but there’s a sadness in his eyes that makes my chest ache. “I’d like that,” he breathes.
We sit in silence as darkness drapes across the sky, and thousands of stars glisten to life over it. I lean in closer to Ethan and rest my head on his shoulder again. Something about this feels so right. “I’m going to miss this,” I whisper.
Ethan’s arm tightens around me, and he presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Me too.”
