Page 10 of Whisked Away
Plus, I can’t deny that the aroma wafting from the bakery is tempting.
A part of me wants to reach out, to reassure him. Despite his towering frame, he seems to match the ‘teddy-bear’ nickname Zoe dubbed him with as he bends down to collect the pastries. The birds above eye him disapprovingly.
But I’m not here to soothe Ethan, the cover-model-turned-bakery-worker.
I’m here as a journalist. A sister who’s holding on by a thread, hoping she doesn’t lose her job. A provider who’s clawing for a promotion, a raise, a future.
And whatGastronomy Eatswants is clear: expose this place for the overpriced, overhyped tourist trap that it is.
“I suppose so,” I reply. “Though free samples can’t influence my write-up, of course.”
Ethan’s smile falters for the briefest of moments, before snapping back into place. It’s too perfect. Too warm. Too sweet. Just like this town.
He holds the door open for me. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As I step inside, the warmth and the aroma hit me all at once—like a cozy, intoxicating hug.
I brace myself against the charm offensive.
I have a job to do. Bills to pay. A story to write that’ll move me up to the next level in my career.
And if this place—and these people—end up hurt by the truth? Well, that’s the cost of progress.
Despite the fact that Zoe’s energy reminds me of the first time I met Tish... and Ethan seems surprisingly... authentic?
They work at a tourist trap. Even if it stings their pride, this article will be my ticket to better opportunities. To authentic kitchens that deserve the spotlight—places where my words could change lives, preserve food culture, and push people to explore something new.
That’s my focus.
And if I have to wade through sugar-coated hell to get there? Well, so be it.
Ethan
I’ve been staring at the same batch of scones for ten minutes, willing them to bake faster through sheer force of will. It’s not working.
“You know,”—Zoe leans against the kitchen island—”I don’t think your magic works that way, Boss.”
I shoot her a look. “I’m not using magic. I’m just... thinking.”
“Uh-huh. And does your thinking usually involve that much forehead sweat?”
I swipe at my brow, grimacing when my hand comes away damp. “It’s hot in here.”
“Sure it is.” Zoe grins, her maroon lipstick shimmering. “It has nothing to do with the fact that you literally knocked over a top writer atGastronomy Eatshalf an hour ago?”
My stomach does a backflip. Alex. Alexandra Sinclair. The woman I embarrassed myself in front of, ruining what was probably an expensive outfit and definitely her first impression of me and The Whimsical Whisk.
“I can’t believe that happened,” I groan, turning back to the scones and checking their color. Almost ready.
Zoe shrugs. “Could’ve been worse. At least she didn’t sue you for assault with a deadly pastry.”
I glare at her. “Not helping, Zo.”
“All right, fine. Take a breath, Sugar. It’s not as bad as it seems.” She peers over my shoulder at the scones. “Those for her?”
I nod, then slide on oven mitts as the timer dings. “Along with the cinnamon rolls and the lavender shortbread.”
“Trying to break her sweet tooth on day one? Cause her stomach distress and distract her with bigger problems so she forgets that shaky first impression? Bold strategy.”
