Chapter 2 Ethan
Ethan
There’s no quiet like the silence of a bakery at three in the morning, and there’s no noise like the same space at seven-thirty when everyone stops in before rushing off to work.
I love them both.
The Whimsical Whisk buzzes with people this morning—the usuals, like Mrs. Delehay, who always brings her Pomeranian in her handbag, which I pretend not to notice.
Rachel and Grant, who still act like they’re newly in love on their morning muffin date.
Or Charlie Luck, who’s eight and has a bigger sweet tooth than allowance.
My assistant, Zoe, slips him freebies by the end of the week, and I pretend not to notice that too.
It’s the tourists that captivate me, though. People are surprising when it comes to baked goods.
A man in a button-down linen shirt—one step away from dressed for a business meeting—will walk in, give a what the hell, it’s vacation shrug, and order a cinnamon roll he’ll eat with his fingers.
Or a family of five will file in, select a slice of cake, and quietly eat it in micro-bites over the course of half an hour in the booth by the window.
Tourists always bring bits and bobs with them too—a magazine discarded on a table, discussion of a sugar brand I’ve never tried, candy that isn’t sold on the island.
As much as I love The Whimsical Whisk—and I love the hell out of it—I adore the plank ceilings, the hunter-green cabinets I painted myself, and the yeasty smell that has customers closing their eyes and taking a deep breath when they walk through the door, jangling the bell.
But despite that, the island it’s on isn’t just a home for me. It’s a prison.
A reality I’m reminded of by Dean Markham hanging around today, sipping on a free coffee and making small talk with a few of the locals.
He’s tall and lean but muscular, with serious dark eyes that flit around the place—their color matching his black tee and jeans.
I don’t know how many damn times I’ve told him he makes tourists uneasy. He’s ignored it just as often.
Sliding cookies out of the oven, my hands slip, and the tray crashes to the floor. I curse under my breath. Dean has a tendency to throw off my focus.
“I got it.” Zoe drops beside me, gathering up the fallen cookies with fingers used to heat, tossing them into the trash bin. She’s pulled her purple-streaked hair into twin braids today. “Why don’t you take over the register?”
“Thanks, Zo.” I grip her tattooed arm and trade places with her. I’ve been lucky to have her working with me for the last three years. There are few others in Magnolia Cove as interested in early hours and the peculiarities of baking as I am.
Slowly, the morning shuffle passes through. Zoe and I pull bread dough out of the fridge and prepare it for baking—loaves that locals will pick up this afternoon to eat with soup or scrambled eggs, and tourists will purchase for a picnic on the tiny stretch of sandy beach just outside of town.
Dean finishes his coffee, tosses the cup in the trash, and chews on a toothpick until everyone’s gone. With a sigh, I exchange a look with Zoe before removing my apron and walking around the counter.
“Something I can help you with?”
Dean rolls the toothpick back and forth like he’s attempting to grate on every single one of my nerves. He’s a smashing success, as always. “Dropping by for my monthly check-in.”
His voice is gritty. It’s a wonder people trust him any more than me. Though, he’s a warlock—one of the most important members of magical society, since they create the wards that keep humans from noticing magic in pocket towns like Magnolia Cove. And they have the magic to stop monsters. Like me.
“Here I am.”
“It’s the Lunar Occultation tonight. Shop’s open anyway, I notice.”
I struggle against grinding my teeth. “And everything is going normally, isn’t it?”
“Fine, fine.” He takes the toothpick out of his mouth, snaps it, and tosses it aside. Then he drags a rolled-up magazine from his back pocket. “Have you seen this?”
It hits the table with a slap, the garish colors glaring up at me. My neck heats as a copy of this month’s Foodie Frenzy unfurls, the rainbow-colored pastry clashing against the warm tones of my bakery.
Yes, I’d seen that embarrassing article. I knew the woman who wrote the piece would focus most on the magic-infused marketing. I didn’t realize she’d Photoshop the images until they looked like a circus spectacle.
We needed a gimmick to draw tourists to the island. The mile stretch of sandy beach wouldn’t do it when there were far better and more accessible shores on the mainland. Visitors funded the local economy, and smart marketing brought more of them to our town.
So why not lead with the truth? The baked goods were magic-infused—not to change their flavor or texture, but to leave the person eating them feeling satisfied, peaceful.
Most of the island’s foods were similarly touched with magic.
Dean had disapproved of the ploy when I started the bakery. But who would believe the magic was real? No one, especially thanks to the wards that kept any humans from seeing Magnolia Cove’s reality—kept them from remembering anything other than the good feelings when they left our shore.
I hadn’t realized I’d turned my baking—my one pride—into a joke.
I shove the magazine aside. “It’s an article. The council approved this.”
“I don’t like the word magic showing up next to Magnolia Cove so much.” Before I can reply, he continues, “The entire warlock and witches’ council doesn’t like it.”
I deeply regret already taking off my apron—I could have used the excuse of removing it to hide my reaction. “They approved my petition. Besides, the article is already out there.”
He steps closer to me, his black boots out of place in the bakery or on the island itself. But he’s Dean Markham—he gets away with whatever he wants.
“Should I remind you,” he whispers, “about the cost and time of having to do the repair work when our magic ends up out there?”
I could take this man in a fight. For all his muscles and sharp looks, he’s better with words and magic.
I’m no warlock—my body doesn’t possess magic I can infuse into spells, making me a demigod like Dean.
But it possesses an inhuman amount of brute strength and fighting intuition.
My fingers curl, but I force them to straighten.
I can’t risk everything I’ve built here over Dean.
And if I screw up, they won’t just kick me off the island—they’ll throw me into a real prison pocket community. A place with no way out, where rule-breaking magic users are locked away for life. Magnolia Cove might have its limits, but at least here, I can still breathe.
Dean’s right, anyway. I burned my shot in the human world. Fell in love. Had my heart broken. And in the aftermath, let too many people see too much of the magical world.
Witches and warlocks had to clean up behind me.
Now, all I have to do is survive twelve more months of good behavior, and I’ll finally be able to shake free of Dean as my parole officer. Maybe in another five years, they’ll even let me take a few short trips off the island.
A man can dream.
Until then, I have The Whimsical Whisk. And I won’t risk it for anything.
“I get it.” My voice is steady, but it takes effort. “This article is probably a good thing, anyway. It makes magic seem comical. Besides, Foodie Frenzy? No one takes it seriously.”
Dean grunts but doesn’t argue. Instead, he rolls the magazine up again, then pulls a folded envelope free that's been folded into thirds and shoves it at me.
“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 Eats isn’t just big—it’s the biggest food magazine in 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 at Gastronomy Eats wrote 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 Eats sent me a letter. They want to send someone here to interview us. They—” I swallow hard, barely believing the words as they leave my lips. “They want to write a feature on 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 an unsteady little flip. I’d already read the name. I’d already panicked—and celebrated—over it.
“Alexandra Sinclair.”
Gastronomy Eats isn’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 that oh-but-I-absolutely-will way.
“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.”