Page 8 of Whisked Away
“This is about the Whisk, Zo. We need to position ourselves just right. This could be our one big opportunity.” Our chance to make an actual impact. The gimmick had drawn in more tourists, but maybe we could do more than that. Maybe I could make a real mark on the culinary world—even from my gilded cage.
“Mmhm.” She barely pays me attention as she unties her apron.
“You’ve got the bakery for the next hour, right?”
“Sure. You leaving?”
“I’ve got to go tell Mia, duh.” She drags her apron over her head and tosses it at me. “Oh, and your dad and Tom and Rhianna. If I tell Rhianna, the entire town will know by closing time.”
“Zoe, wait, maybe we should?—”
But she’s already out the door, waving and grinning before skipping down the sidewalk.
Dean, still chatting with someone outside the window, turns and shoots me a glare. Gaining extra attention from him when he’s already in a pissy mood and it’s one of the most dangerous days of the year for me isn’t a great idea.
Oh well. It’s worth it.
I lost my freedom acting stupidly with a human woman.
Now, another human woman might give me the chance to gain something even more important.
Freedom.
I run my fingers over the name.Alexandra Sinclair.
“See you soon, Ms. Sinclair.”
Alex
Magnolia Cove is a postcard town.
No, scratch that. It’s worse. It’s the kind of place that exists solely in Hallmark movies, where everyone knows everyone else’s business and the biggest drama is whether the annual pie contest will have a surprise winner this year.
As I step off the ferry, my low heels clack against the weathered wooden dock, and I’m hit with a wall of saccharine sweetness. The air is thick with the scent of honeysuckle and sea salt, mingling with what I swear is the aroma of fresh-baked bread.
It’s nauseating.
I adjust the strap of my laptop bag, grateful I had the foresight to ship most of my luggage ahead. The last thing I need is to be dragging a suitcase through this Norman Rockwell nightmare.
Fourteen days of my life I’ll never get back, all to write about some gimmicky tourist trap masquerading as a quaint bakery. I think longingly of the article I should be writing—some hole-in-the-wall shop I could discover instead, the kindthat serves fourth-generation recipes made with heart and talent a person can’t learn in a single lifetime.
“Welcome to Magnolia Cove!” a cheery voice cries. I turn toward the woman who could be the poster child for small-town tourism. She’s got a clipboard in one hand and a smile that belongs in a toothpaste commercial. “Are you here for a day trip or staying a while?”
I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Two weeks, actually. I’m here on business.”
Her eyes light up like I’ve just told her I’m giving away free puppies. “Oh, how wonderful! You must be the writer everyone’s been talking about. From that big food magazine, right?”
Everyone’s been talking about me? Great. Just great. So much for keeping a low profile and getting an honest look at this place. As soon as I step into the shop, Ethan Hart is going to know who I am. That’s if he even actually works there. They’ll probably have to notify the actor and have him arrive. Maybe I can get ahead of the gossip if I see the bakery first thing.
“That’s me.” Beyond the woman, old oaks line the street, blocking most of the town’s view. But bits of white buildings peek through, and a clock tower soars above their branches. “Now, if you could point me towards?—”
“The Whimsical Whisk? Of course! It’s just down Main Street, you can’t miss it. It’s the cute little shop with the teal awning and the most delicious smell coming from it. Ethan’s cinnamon rolls are to die for!”
“Thanks,” I offer, readjusting the bag on my shoulder. My heels click as I transition from the boardwalk to the cobblestone street, and I already regret my footwear choice. I thought them inconspicuous, modest even, but compared to everyone else walking around in loafers and cork sandals, I’m definitely overdressed.
Everything is so quaint it hurts. Flower boxesoverflow with bright blooms, and every shop has a clever name that probably took the owner weeks to come up with. I pass A Novel Idea bookstore and The Mane Attraction salon.
Tish would love it here. She’d drag me into every single shop and insist the entire place was adorable. She wouldn’t be wrong. But something about it feels too perfect. There’s not a scrap of peeling paint or a crack in a single brick. No dirt sullies the colorful doorways, and the gutters are completely leaf-free.
