Page 7 of Whisked Away
“What’s this, then?”
I snatch the envelope and unfold it, my breath rushing from me as my eyes land on the byline.
Gastronomy Eats.
It’s addressed to me.
“That’s some sort of big production, isn’t it?”
The envelope crinkles in my grip. Dean has no idea.Gastronomy Eatsisn’t just big—it’sthebiggest food magazinein the country, maybe even the world. It’s built careers, put restaurants on the map, and is taken seriously by every major name in the industry.
I should know. I subscribe to it.
“It has a niche audience,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“Make sure that whatever comes of this”—he taps a finger hard enough on the envelope that a corner slips from my fingers—”we maintain our secrets. Be more mindful of what you say to the press this time.”
His dark eyes flick up to mine, a silent warning in them. I stare back, refusing to yield. He may be my keeper, but that doesn’t make me his lapdog.
With a scoff, he moves past me. “I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow.”
Before I can respond, he’s through the door, the bell jingling. Tourists veer away from him—whether from his demeanor or some subconscious awareness of the magic emanating from him, I don’t know.
Oven timers ding. Zoe lifts massive trays filled with half a dozen doughy loaves and slides them in. I should tuck the envelope away and help, but I can’t stop staring at it.
Someone atGastronomy Eatswrote to me. It’s probably too much to hope that they want to feature the Whisk in a story. Damn, I’d take a side panel or even just a mention. If two lines about my bakery make it into the magazine, I’m cutting them out and framing them.
With trembling hands, I open the envelope and pull out the letter. I read it once, then again.
“Something wrong?” Zoe slides the last tray of bread into the oven and resets the timer, her brow knitting as she studies me. “You look like you just found out buttercream was outlawed.”
I force a smile and lift the paper in my hands. “Gastronomy Eatssent me a letter. They want to send someone here tointerview us. They—” I swallow hard, barely believing the words as they leave my lips. “They want to write afeatureon us.”
Zoe’s reaction mirrors the one I must have worn just moments ago. The color drains from her skin, making her tattoos stand out in stark contrast. Her lips part, but no sound follows. For a long beat, the bakery holds its breath with us—the steady hum of the ovens, the warm, yeasty scent curling through the air, the soft swish of the air conditioning the only things filling the silence.
Then, she lets out a whoop so loud it startles a pair of tourists outside. She throws her hands up and leaps clean over the counter, crashing into me with a hug. The impact knocks me back a step, but I return it just as fiercely, grinning like an idiot.
We’ve done it. Even within the tight confines of our world—the secrecy, the rules that keep us hidden, the way Magnolia Cove can feel more like a gilded cage than a sanctuary—we’ve managed to catch the attention of a serious magazine.
My mind races with possibilities. I have recipes I’ve poured my soul into but never shared. Maybe they’ll publish some. Maybe this will bring enough visitors to the island to not only help us but our neighbors, our friends.
Zoe pulls back just long enough to snatch the envelope from my hands. She skims the letter, her eyes widening before she lets out a sharp whistle. Then, with zero shame, she launches into an impromptu happy dance—hips wiggling, envelope flapping in the air. A few passersby stop to watch, some amused, others baffled. Not that it bothers her. Nothing ever does—a quality her wife finds both charming and mildly exasperating.
“Did you see who they’re sending?” she asks.
I take the letter back and smile, my heart doing anunsteady little flip. I’d already read the name. I’d already panicked—and celebrated—over it.
“Alexandra Sinclair.”
Gastronomy Eatsisn’t sending an intern. They’re sending one of their top writers. Her stories grace the covers more often than not. She’s not just a writer—she’s a storyteller. She takes the most intricate processes or simplest food stories and weaves them into something unforgettable.
I tried macarons again after swearing them off forever because of an article she wrote about a French family who’d been making them for five generations. I still hated the cookies—too pretty for how disappointing they actually taste—but we can’t agree on everything.
“I’m going to ask her exactly one million questions,” Zoe says.
“You absolutely will not.”
She doesn’t answer, just grins in thatoh-but-I-absolutely-willway.
