Page 57 of Whisked Away
Tish gives me a look that says she’s not buying it for a second. “Let me give you a reading. It’s been a while.”
It’s been more than a while. I’d only allowed her to read the tea leaves for me that first time when I’d interviewedher about the shop forGastronomy Eats. I’d never believed in magic. Before.
Now, the word ‘magic’ sends a pang through my chest, reminding me of the way morning sunlight spilled into the Whisk and the heavenly smells that permeated the air.
“Fine.” I swallow all but the last of the tea, then push the cup toward her. “Work your witchy wonders.”
Tish’s eyes sparkle as she swirls the lingering tea and leaves around the cup, then gently turns them over onto the saucer. We wait in silence for a minute while she allows it to settle.
I remember doing this the first time. How she put so much attention and focus on it while I maintained a strictly neutral, professional expression. I’d known then that magic didn’t exist. Things have changed, and despite my lingering skepticism, I’m watching the cup just as intently as Tish.
She flips it over and tilts it toward the light. “All right, let’s look. Immediate future first. I see… hmm… a message with financial gain coming your way.”
“You sound like a fortune cookie,” I snort, but there’s no real bite to it. After Magnolia Cove, I’m not sure what to believe anymore.
Tish shoots me a mock glare, then returns her attention to the cup. “Hush, you. There’s more. I see… a journey. Not a physical one, but a journey of the heart or the soul. And… oh, interesting.”
“What?” I lean forward despite myself. Even if everything she’s said so far sounds as vague as a newspaper horoscope, with a little imagination, anyone could make those details fit their lives.
“There’s a bear. I don’t see that one very often.”
She’s frowning at the cup, and I shift in my seat, trying to remind myself I don’t believe in this stuff before I say, “And what does that mean?”
Knowing my luck, it means my life is about to become un-bear-able. Okay, that’s a corny thought, even for me, but my muscles tense, waiting for whatever premonition this rare sign means.
“Strength and endurance.” Tish tilts the cup again, into the light. “The ability to endure challenges. What’s strange is that the bear isn’t alone. There’s another figure beside it. That could mean that you’re about to experience support from another. Or that you’ve already gone through trials.”
I sit back in my seat. “That’s awfully vague, Tish.”
She sets the cup down, her gaze locking with mine, and there’s something in her eyes that makes my skin prickle—a knowing look, like she sees right through me. “The leaves don’t give specifics, darling. They just point the way. It’s up to you to walk the path.”
Her words hang in the air, oddly resonant, like a truth I didn’t realize I needed to hear. My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my stupor. I glance at the screen, groaning as I read the message. “Speaking of paths, I’ve got to go. Vivian’s waiting, and I’m pretty sure ‘magic and tea leaves’ won’t work as a valid excuse for being late.”
Tish stands, pulling me into one of her massive hugs, her arms warm and comforting. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” I linger there for a heartbeat, the warmth of her embrace a stark contrast to the rush of reality waiting for me outside. Reluctantly, I pull away, gather my things, and head for the door.
“And Alex?” Tish calls, her voice softer now. “Keep your heart open. You never know what might find its way in.”
I offer a small smile, a fleeting moment of reassurance before stepping out into the buzz of a New York City morning. The sidewalk stretches before me like an endless runway, and I slip back into my “city” clothes—crisp blazer, pencil skirt, my hair pulled tight into a severe bun. The contrast stings. I miss the comfortable t-shirts and flour-dusted aprons from The Whimsical Whisk. I miss the wind in my hair andEthan’s gaze softening when he looked at me... No. I shake the thought away.Focus, Alex.
When I finally make it up to the office, Vivian’s waiting, arms crossed, her perfectly pressed blazer creasing just slightly in the middle. “Well, well. Ms. Sinclair in the flesh. Please, take a seat.”
I shut her office door behind me, standing tall despite the knot in my stomach, then walk across the room with measured steps. I perch on the edge of a chair, spine ramrod straight. “Vivian, I?—”
“Save it,” she cuts me off, her voice icy, clipped. “You’ve been back for days, and still not a single word about The Whimsical Whisk. Care to explain?”
I swallow hard, the words stuck in my throat. “It’s… complicated.”
“Complicated?” Her perfectly manicured nails click against her watch face, the sound sharp, demanding. She once embodied everything I wanted to be—independent, polished, well-paid. Alone. That loneliness hits me hard, like a punch to the gut. It might work for her, but I can’t live like this. Not anymore.
“You once wrote a stunning piece about haute cuisine during a cholera outbreak, Alexandra. What could possibly be ‘complicated’ about a small-town bakery?”
If only she knew. If only she understood the magic that hums beneath the surface of this place, how the people care for each other like a family, how a baker with gentle hands and a guarded heart sacrifices everything to protect a world she barely comprehends.
I take a breath, choosing my words carefully. “This assignment was different from any other, and I’m still processing the experience. I went there expecting a gimmick and found something real.”
Vivian eyes me with suspicion, her gaze sharp as a blade, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“I want to do the experience justice.”
