Page 5 of Whisked Away
Besides, I’ll make it work.
I shrug, like I actually believe the BS I’m feeding myself. “I spoke with my editor today, and it looks like I’m up for a promotion. It’ll probably be just enough of a raise to make this work.”
“Wait, seriously?” She runs around the counter and wraps me in a massive hug, her vanilla-scented shampoo filling my breath. Pulling her tight, I tangle my fingers into her hair.
My anxieties wash away. This is what really matters.
“Oh my god, congratulations! You’ve been overdue for it—no one works as hard as you, Alex.” Missy pulls back. “Tonight we celebrate! I won’t take no for an answer.”
She twirls away like a ballerina, laughter trailing behind her as she disappears into her bedroom. I can only hope that bycelebrate,she means splitting a bottle of wine over the restaurant leftovers I shoved in the fridge.
My heart flutters—an irritating little skip—before my stomach does a full, unwelcome dip. I shove the feeling aside and picture Missy in Paris, learning from the best musicians in the world, drinking in the city like it was made just for her.
Why should she give that up? Why should she drown in debt just so I can avoid torching some con artist’s bakery?
People say there’s no such thing as bad press. If anything, a scathing article inGastronomy Eatsmight actually boost the shady little operation in Magnolia Cove.
I roll my eyes at the thought. I’m pretty sure all the names are completely made up.
With a sigh, I grab my bag, digging out the copy ofFoodie FrenzyI picked up at the train station. The pages are already bent from my grip, but I flip straight to the one that started this mess.
Ethan Hart stares up at me, that damn twinkle in his eyes. He’s clearly a talented actor, and I hate to risk ruining his current schtick—but we all have bills to pay.
Running my thumb over the cheap, glossy paper, I notice a detail I’d overlooked.
Ethan Hart has dimples.
My heart and stomach do that weird thing again, but I practice my favorite hobby—lying to myself—and chalk it up to lingering anxiety.
Narrowing my eyes, I jab a finger at the overly perfect man’s photo. And then, in my best food-critic voice, I say to him, “Well, Mr. Hart, I’ll be seeing you soon.”
Ethan
There’s no quiet like the silence of a bakery at three in the morning, and there’s no noise like the same space at seven-thirty when everyone stops in before rushing off to work.
I love them both.
The Whimsical Whisk buzzes with people this morning—the usuals, like Mrs. Delehay, who always brings her Pomeranian in her handbag, which I pretend not to notice. Rachel and Grant, who still act like they’re newly in love on their morning muffin date. Or Charlie Luck, who’s eight and has a bigger sweet tooth than allowance. My assistant, Zoe, slips him freebies by the end of the week, and I pretend not to notice that too.
It’s the tourists that captivate me, though. People are surprising when it comes to baked goods.
A man in a button-down linen shirt—one step away from dressed for a business meeting—will walk in, give awhat the hell, it’s vacationshrug, and order a cinnamon roll he’ll eat with his fingers.
Or a family of five will file in, select a slice of cake,and quietly eat it in micro-bites over the course of half an hour in the booth by the window.
Tourists always bring bits and bobs with them too—a magazine discarded on a table, discussion of a sugar brand I’ve never tried, candy that isn’t sold on the island.
As much as I love The Whimsical Whisk—and I love the hell out of it—I adore the plank ceilings, the hunter-green cabinets I painted myself, and the yeasty smell that has customers closing their eyes and taking a deep breath when they walk through the door, jangling the bell. But despite that, the island it’s on isn’t just a home for me. It’s a prison.
A reality I’m reminded of by Dean Markham hanging around today, sipping on a free coffee and making small talk with a few of the locals. He’s tall and lean but muscular, with serious dark eyes that flit around the place—their color matching his black tee and jeans. I don’t know how many damn times I’ve told him he makes tourists uneasy. He’s ignored it just as often.
Sliding cookies out of the oven, my hands slip, and the tray crashes to the floor. I curse under my breath. Dean has a tendency to throw off my focus.
“I got it.” Zoe drops beside me, gathering up the fallen cookies with fingers used to heat, tossing them into the trash bin. She’s pulled her purple-streaked hair into twin braids today. “Why don’t you take over the register?”
“Thanks, Zo.” I grip her tattooed arm and trade places with her. I’ve been lucky to have her working with me for the last three years. There are few others in Magnolia Cove as interested in early hours and the peculiarities of baking as I am.
Slowly, the morning shuffle passes through. Zoe and I pull bread dough out of the fridge and prepare it for baking—loaves that locals will pick up this afternoon to eat with soupor scrambled eggs, and tourists will purchase for a picnic on the tiny stretch of sandy beach just outside of town.
