Page 61 of Whisked Away
Alex
The rain pounds against the windows, matching the tumultuous beating of my heart. Missy is on her way out, umbrella in hand, a whirlwind of energy and independence. She’s grown so much. For so long, I’ve seen her as my little sister—needing help tying her shoes, needing someone to watch out for her. But that’s not who she is anymore; she’s a woman carving her own path.
“Don’t forget your mail,” she calls over her shoulder, tossing a stack of envelopes onto the coffee table. “I’m staying at Jenna’s tonight. I’ll bring more milk home tomorrow.”
As the door clicks shut behind her, I sink onto the couch, fingering through the pile until I spot it—the latest issue ofGastronomy Eats. My breath catches as I take in the cover. The photo is of Ethan, but not like the Foodie Frenzy image where they’d photoshopped him into wrinkle-less perfection, completely fake.
No, in this image, the light is golden and hazy, his face slightly out of focus, but the wrinkles around his eyes are visible. He had just finished laughing at a comment I made.The actual subject of the photo is his hands—strong and sure, rolling out a pie crust.
There’s magic in this picture, just not the kind Magnolia Cove hides.
With trembling fingers, I flip to my article and read. The words flow like a river, a story not just about the Whisk and Magnolia Cove, but about the true magic of food and the stories it crafts. The tale of a little boy creating courage with a mixer, a woman who brings her exuberance and passion into her relationship with customers, a fourth-generation pie recipe passed down with love. And at the heart of it all: Ethan—a man who makes room for every person around him to shine. Who absorbs bits and pieces of everyone he meets, his empathy and compassion transforming them into food that embodies what baking should be about. Home. Comfort. Love.
It’s the best piece I’ve ever written. Even Vivian agreed with that. Despite taking a different angle, she was pleased with it. I never once mentioned magic or Magnolia Cove’s secrets. Because the real magic, I’ve realized, is the people. The relationships that create the food. Everything else is just... extra.
I close the magazine, my shoulders rolling back even as my heart thunders anxiously. Alongside the article, I’d turned in my resignation. Missy got her scholarship—I smile at the thought—but I still have bills to pay. I’m terrified, but it’s time to pursue my own passions.Tell Me Something Sweetis getting a revival, focusing on heart-filled recipes. I’ll pick up some freelance work too. When Missy moves, I’ll get a roommate. I don’t have it all figured out yet, but for once, that feels okay.
A knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts. I laugh softly, setting the magazine aside. “Forget your keys again, Missy?”
But when I swing the door open, it’s not my sister standing there.
It’s Ethan. And Dean.
My heart stops, then surges back to life at double speed. They’re both dripping wet, rain plastering Ethan’s curls to his forehead. His eyes are a storm—hope, fear, longing—each emotion battling for dominance. I drink in the sight of him, too stunned to believe he’s actually standing there.
I remember how I silently cried into my pillow for weeks after I came back. I scolded myself for it, for the foolishness of it all. Writing the article had brought the best parts of Ethan back to me—his soft smiles, the thoughtfulness in his pale blue eyes. But now, standing in front of me, he’s real again, and I realize something else. The man I created for that article wasn’t him. He was a myth.
This is the real Ethan.
The man who laughed about his Parisian neighbor’s dislike of him—as long as she kept sharing her recipes. The man who drives his grandfather’s classic car and fits in as well at a farmer’s market as he does on the cover of a pop-culture magazine. The man who has secrets and shame he hid from me. The man who pushed me away.
“I... Can we come in?” Ethan’s voice is soft, uncertain.
I step back and gesture for them to enter. “Of course.”
There’s a pause as Dean closes the door behind them. Ethan sweeps his gaze across the apartment. If I’d known he was coming, I would have shoved more stuff into closets. It’s not messy, exactly, just lived in and blaring with the details of mine and Missy’s lives. A few cameras sit on a desk in the corner, magazines are stacked haphazardly on a side table, and baking paraphernalia litters the counter.
Ethan’s attention returns to me, and I forget about the apartment. About Missy or my career or Magnolia Cove or anything else.
I’d longed to see him again. Even for just a moment.
“There’s something I need to tell you—show you, really,” he says so quietly I strain to hear the words over the rain’s clatter. “Sorry for bringing Dean along. I had to.”
“Because he’s your parole officer?” The words slip out before I can stop them. Ethan smells like vanilla, even five hundred miles from Magnolia Cove. He looks like home, and it makes my heart ache.
Ethan grimaces. “Not exactly. You know about magic already, but?—”
“She what?” Dean speaks for the first time since walking in. His eyes have turned into ebony beads, but then he sighs and gives Ethan a nod before jerking his black leather jacket off and turning toward the windows like he has to shift his focus to the city’s illumination in the distance to stop himself from intervening.
A shiver runs down my spine. I hadn’t fully considered the weight of knowing Magnolia Cove’s secret—and what it could mean for me.
Ethan exhales a long, slow breath. I ache to curl into him, to touch his skin just to make sure he’s real. His eyes lock onto mine with a fierce intensity, as if trying to forget Dean’s presence in the room. “What I said that night on the cliff… I was trying to push you away, to keep you and the others safe.”
“I understand that now,” I say softly, my voice tight with the sting of old wounds. “But it still hurts that you didn’t trust me.” I’d known it since Zoe’s magical display at the B&B, and I’d suspected it long before. Ethan’s jaw clenches, his eyes flicking away like he can’t bear to face the truth. That lack of trust had been our undoing.
“Yeah, but there’s more.” Ethan turns away from me, his profile carved in tension. The man who’s captured my heart—the ClipClop heartthrob, the baker with a soul warmer than his banana bread—is standing in my shabby apartment. Heclears his throat, and when he looks at me again, his eyes are raw. “I was a coward. I was afraid if you knew who I really am?—”
“I want to know.” My voice is barely a whisper. I want to reach out, to brush the curls from his forehead, to let my fingers trace the curve of his cheek, the line of his lips. A part of me is terrified that if I don’t touch him now, he’ll vanish into thin air. “I’ve always wanted to know you, Ethan. Maybe at first as a journalist, but later…” I glance at Dean’s stiff shoulders, his stance like a sentinel by the window. If only he weren’t here for this conversation. “Later, I wanted to know you—the real you.”
