Whisked Away (Magnolia Cove Magic #1)

Chapter 1 Alex

Alex

“Spellbinding Scones.”

My editor slaps a gaudily bright magazine onto the desk between us, then follows up her statement by reading the subtitle. “Magic-infused baked goods served up in an equally charming Southern oasis.”

It takes an entire twenty-three seconds—which I spend silently counting as I breathe deeply to lower my heart rate—before I pick up the publication as though lifting a damp newspaper from the gutter.

A sticky bun glimmers on the cheap, glossy cover. Rainbow frosting drips from the confection, like one of my childhood school folders exploded all over the monstrosity. Scones covered with gold and pink sprinkles rest on either side—presumably to prop up the sugar abomination.

My teeth hurt just looking at it.

“This is disgusting.” I shift, my dress gliding against the black leather chair.

A fluorescent light flickers, highlighting Vivian’s frown as she gestures for me to hand the magazine back to her, which I do.

“Perhaps so, but this is also selling.”

A pigeon sits on the eave outside the window behind her, preening.

It finishes the job, then flies away—out into the maze of skyscrapers, honking cars, and chewing gum-splattered sidewalks.

At least the bird is free, even as it breathes in the smell of exhaust and burnt hot dogs from street vendors.

Unlike me—sitting in a high-rise office, food magazine covers with my name printed large and hung in expensive frames on the wall, while my editor flicks through a publication that isn’t even in the same stratosphere as ours.

Suddenly, I’m annoyed. I put on a proper dress for this meeting.

Packed my briefcase that can fit my laptop, cell phone, power bank, SLR camera and massive macro lens, cosmetic bag, non-toxic peppermint hand sanitizer, water bottle, and two tasteless protein bars in case the train breaks down like last time.

I dragged this hella heavy bag fifteen blocks for Vivian Ellison to hand me a copy of Foodie Frenzy.

“The masses like garbage. We’ve never bothered with flash-in-the-pan articles before. We write for a higher-brow audience.”

My hands itch to reach for the folder perched on the desk.

It contains the article I spent months researching.

Spent another three nights combing through it for grammar errors like I was arranging flowers on a cake for a royal wedding.

I even added a flourish, penning the title in calligraphy: The Revival of Ancient Culinary Techniques in Modern Gastronomy.

That was a piece of media worth consuming.

It highlighted real bakeries producing food with actual heart and history—like Eman’s tiny three-table café, where he crafts fragrant Aish Baladi flatbread served with honey hummus he hand-makes in a wooden mortar each morning.

A shop that will have a line stretching around the block once this article goes to print.

“Well, our readership is down.” Vivian is serious now, her arms crossing and putting creases into her pressed blazer. “Really down, Alexandra. The board says we have to make a lane change.”

I stand, wobbling slightly on my low heels because I also stupidly bothered putting on real shoes for this meeting. “That sounds like a marketing issue.”

“Marketing can’t sell what people aren’t interested in buying. It’s time for us to update. Gastronomy Eats has been touting the same articles for fifty years.”

“They’re classic and will stand the test of time.”

The only reason I don’t yank my bag up like a shield is that my shoulder still throbs from the walk.

Instead, I run my thumb over the ring Mother gave me, tracing the worn metal like it’s some kind of lifeline.

Usually, it steadies me, reminds me that I’m capable.

Not this time. This time, my hand shakes.

I clawed my way up to a salaried position at Gastronomy Eats.

Busted my butt flying all over the world, turning in twice the articles than any other writer, making sure they were flawless, sacrificing five years of sleep.

I’ve seen what happens when ambition takes a backseat to love, and I swore I’d never make that mistake.

And now, Vivian, standing there in her nine-hundred-dollar heels, is telling me my work—my career—is outdated? That people would rather read about rainbow-colored sugar bombs and so-called magic than real food journalism?

My head spins and I have the urge to press my fingers against the desk, leaving my prints stained on its shining surface.

Vivian tilts her head, the light catching the streaks of silver in her chignon.

She’s everything I’m supposed to become—successful, independent, in control of a prestigious publication.

Because success means security. It means never wondering if the bills will get paid, never gambling stability on something as fickle as love. Never making my parents’ mistakes.

“So… what? We just—” I wave my hands at the trashy magazine again. “Start writing clickbait now? And there’s no way in hell that photo isn’t edited within an inch of its life.”

Vivian doesn’t blink. Instead, she flips open the magazine, manicured fingers gliding over the glossy pages until she lands on one, her nail tracing a line of text.

The only thing sweeter at The Whimsical Whisk than the pastries is the owner, baker, and certified magician, Ethan Hart. If he’s not transforming butter and flour into the perfect pie crust or practicing a bit of scrumptious magic, he’s volunteering with his local Boys and Girls Club.

She spins the magazine toward me, and my stomach drops before my brain fully catches up.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

“That’s a gimmick.” I jab a finger at the picture of Ethan Hart. As if that’s a real name.

“Okay, this is clearly a gimmick. There’s no way in hell that man knows a damn thing about baking.”

The man staring back has an infuriating mix of charm and confidence—golden-brown hair curling against his forehead, eyes too bright, too blue, too full of warmth and mischief. And those arms—muscular, tanned, peeking out from a perfectly fitted T-shirt and a pale-blue Hedley & Bennett apron.

I have the same apron in charcoal. And it has never looked that crisp.

“That man”—I jab at his photo again, as if he’s single-handedly responsible for all my life’s problems—“is a paid actor. I mean, he says he bakes with magic, for god’s sake. Plus, he looks like a firefighter from a calendar I once had.”

Vivian closes the magazine with a knowing smirk. “Five years I’ve known you, and I never would have pegged you as the type to own a sexy firefighter calendar.”

Heat crawls up my neck. I duck my head to hide the blush as I mutter, “We all have our indulgences.”

Especially those of us with zero love life and no intention of getting one.

I’ve spent my entire adult life building a career—because stability, money, and control are what matter.

Love is reckless, unreliable. I saw what it did to my parents, the way it left my sister and me in a precarious financial situation.

Love led my mother to cut her hours to part-time, my father to take less prestigious work that didn’t pull him away from our family, and both of them to choose an expensive suburb so my sister and I could have the best.

Now I’m stuck desperately trying—and failing—to find the balance between making enough to survive, providing for my sister, and doing something that doesn’t suck my soul away.

All thanks to love.

I had one serious relationship, and it ended exactly as I suspected it would.

Anthony wanted me to focus less on my career, more on our relationship.

But I’d already seen how that played out for my parents.

No amount of emotions could compel me to sacrifice security for a pair of sad puppy eyes, no matter how compelling they were.

No matter how much it hurt to watch them fill with tears when I ended things.

Romance is like the rainbow-puke cinnamon roll—super sweet for a moment but guaranteed to leave you with a nasty stomach ache soon after.

So, I’ll keep my firefighter calendar and the side of judgment if I must.

“He’s a fake. The actual owner of this bogus bakery probably hired him because he has a pretty face.”

“Likely,” Vivian says. “But that pretty face is selling magazines—and lots of them.”

“Gastronomy Eats is going to cover a fake restaurant with the corniest gimmick ever?”

Vivian scoffs. “No one said we’d be covering them. We want you to travel, spend a week or two in Magnolia Cove, and expose them. Then write a criticism that will take them off the map.”

I stand to my full height and pull in a deep breath. My father had been an art critic, and his one bit of advice to me was never to build a career on tearing others down.

It’ll leave you miserable, Alex.

Despite everything—the bills, my younger sister relying on me, the overwhelming responsibility—I’ve never compromised on that. I’ve poured my heart into finding new, promising eateries, then giving them press coverage that changed their lives.

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

Vivian frowns. “We have to turn the ship around and write pieces that will attract a new audience. If we don’t, I’m afraid we’ll need to make cuts soon.”

My breath catches. Her implication is clear.

I can’t lose this job. It’s steady. I’m doing something I’m passionate about—for real money. Few people are lucky enough to get that.

Most importantly, Missy’s senior year of college has brought enough expenses that I could have already started my own freaking restaurant.

A little place of my own—cozy, intimate, where every dish tells a story.

A dream I’ve shoved to the back burner so many times, it might as well be cold by now.

But I vowed not to let her graduate saddled with debt and regret.

Only one of us should have to live with that.

I have to keep this job.

“If I do it?” I ask.

“Then I imagine we’d strongly consider you for the next senior editor position.”