Chapter 3 Alex
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 kind that 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 boxes overflow 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.
It’s like I’ve stepped onto a corny holiday movie set. I’m waiting for the cameras to appear as I approach the cheery teal awning that flutters in the ocean breeze.
The smell hits me before I even reach the door.
It’s intoxicating—warm, sweet, with hints of cinnamon and vanilla.
For a moment, I forget why I’m here. It reminds me of my first time in Cancale.
Everyone always wants to write about the Paris baking scene.
Few acknowledge the little coastal towns filled with dozens of family-owned bakeries, each with their own unique specialties—like the crispy butter cookies, Galettes Bretonnes, that made me rethink the entire concept of what a cookie was.
Or a prune tart I had at another shop, called a Far Breton, that made me reconsider the idea of using prunes altogether.
My stomach growls, reminding me that airplane pretzels do not a meal make.
I shake my head, clearing it. I’m not here to be charmed by some mass-produced, pre-frozen dough. The Whimsical Whisk is no boulangerie. I’m here to do a job—to show the world that there’s more to food than social media-worthy swirls of food coloring.
As I reach for the door handle, it swings open from the inside. A wall of muscle and flour collides with me, and I stumble backward, my laptop bag slipping off my shoulder.
Strong hands grip my arms, steadying me. Firm fingers grasp my bag’s strap, keeping it from colliding with the ground. I look up, ready to unleash a biting comment, but the words die in my throat.
Blue eyes. The bluest I’ve ever seen, framed by laugh lines and a dusting of faint freckles across a strong nose. The man attached to those eyes is unfairly handsome, with tousled curls that look like they belong in a shampoo commercial and biceps straining against his flour-dusted T-shirt.
It’s Ethan Hart. The cover model turned fake baker.
He’s even more attractive in person, which only serves to irritate me more.
Of course they’d hire someone who looks like him to front their operation.
It’s all about appearance over substance.
I’m mostly annoyed that he actually works in the shop and I didn’t catch them without their act in place.
“I’m so sorry!” he says, still holding my arms. His voice is deep, with a hint of a Southern drawl I refuse to find charming. “Are you all right?”
I open my mouth to respond when I notice the tray on the ground between us. Pastries have scattered across the cobblestones, some still intact, others smashed beyond recognition.
“Oh no,” Ethan mutters, releasing me to crouch down. “I’m such a klutz. These were for Mrs. Delehay’s bridge club.”
“Well,” I say, finding my voice at last, “it would seem Mrs. Delehay doesn’t prefer the rainbow extravaganza that’s been gracing magazines lately.”
His face snaps up, those crystal-blue eyes widening slightly. A flush spreads over his cheeks so deeply that his freckles stand out like a constellation. Before he can respond, a laugh erupts from inside the bakery.
“Smooth move, Teddy Bear!” A woman with vibrant tattoos running down her arms leans against the doorframe, grinning. “Is this how you greet all the pretty tourists? By assaulting them with pastries?”
Ethan’s cheeks darken even more, and he stands, brushing his hands off on his apron. “Zoe, this isn’t—I mean, I didn’t—”
“Relax, Boss.” Zoe continues to grin. She turns to me, extending a hand. “I’m Zoe, by the way. Welcome to The Whimsical Whisk, where the service is a little clumsy, but the pastries are to die for. Usually not literally, though.”
I shake her hand, surprised by her firm grip. “Alex,” I say, hoping they haven’t recognized me and that I might have a chance to explore the bakery without them realizing who I am. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Ethan’s eyes widen. “Wait, Alex... as in Alexandra Sinclair? From Gastronomy Eats?”
I clench my teeth to hold in a groan. Tish would say I’m losing my touch. You need more rest. A good cup of tea, a reading of the leaves, and listening to the Universe for once in your life, her voice echoes in my mind.
I force a smile to mask my grimace, smoothing down my blouse—now thoroughly rumpled from the impact. “That’s me. The culinary world’s most notorious pastry assassin.”
With a dramatic sigh, I gesture toward the fallen treats, their once-delicate forms now nothing more than crumbled remains strewn across the sidewalk. Overhead, a few birds perch in the tree, their beady eyes locked onto their next meal, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in. “Exhibit A.”
Zoe’s grin is instant, her hazel eyes dancing with amusement. “The murderer has revealed herself. It’s the world-renowned food critic with the laptop bag on the sidewalk. I’ll let Col. Mustard know he’s off the hook.”
Despite myself, I can’t help but laugh. Zoe is several inches taller than me, wearing a cutoff tank beneath her apron.
Her purple-highlighted black waves are twisted into a messy bun atop her head, and splatters cover her smock—though none of them are rainbow-colored.
In fact, despite the Whisk’s magical reputation, there’s not a hint of neon or glitter in sight so far.
Ethan runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair. “I... we weren’t expecting you so soon. I mean, we knew you were coming, but...”
“I prefer to feel out a place on my own at first. It’s nice for my initial impression to be the same as any other customer’s.”
Ethan looks as if I’ve just informed him that his car needs a loan-worthy repair one day out of warranty. His mouth falls open, and his brow knits into furrows, pushing away his perfect, magazine-model expression. It almost makes me want to reach out and pat his arm.
Maybe he does actually care about this hokey bakery.
Surely he can’t believe Gastronomy Eats is going to write a genuine article about this circus act and his to-die-for cinnamon rolls, which are probably covered in enough neon frosting to summon a troll.
Ethan nods and gathers up the broken pastries. “Of course. Well, um, would you like to come in? I can show you around, maybe offer you some samples?”
I straighten my laptop bag and sling it back over my shoulder. Then, I readjust the strap, making sure nothing got damaged. My initial plan was to observe from afar, but now that they know my identity, perhaps a direct approach is better.
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 what Gastronomy Eats wants 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.