Chapter 4 Ethan #2
To my surprise, Alex actually cracks another smile at that. Maybe I should stop attempting to interact with her and let Zoe take over.
“I’m only here for a couple of weeks,” she answers. “Not much time for fungal growth.”
“A couple of weeks?” Zoe echoes, shooting me a meaningful look. “You’ll miss the best part of Magnolia Cove’s summers if you leave then.”
I clear my throat. “Well, I’m sure Ms. Sinclair has other assignments to get to—”
“Alex,” she corrects. And there’s that look again—I’d almost call it vulnerable if I didn’t know better. It makes me want to ask her questions, discover if she has secrets of her own.
“Right, Alex,” I say, the name feeling strangely intimate. “We’re just grateful that you came across the Whisk and decided to visit.”
Zoe gives a wink and sashays back towards the cash register as a cluster of people walk in, bedecked in beach cover-ups and streaks of sunscreen. She’s busy convincing them of the merits of cake on hot days in a way that only Zoe could pull off.
Alex flicks her eyes back to me. “Now, about the magic that the internet can’t stop talking about…”
“Right,” I say, frantically trying to come up with a plausible explanation that isn’t an outright lie. “Well, you know what they say—a good baker never reveals all his secrets.”
It’s a weak deflection. Alex frowns slightly, and her fingers curl tighter against her keyboard.
But before she can press further, the front door dings again.
It’s usually a cheerful sound, part of the Whisk’s charm, but Dean Markham strides in and his dark eyes scan the room until they land on our table.
My stomach drops.
“I’m sorry,” I say, standing up. “I need to take care of something. Zoe can answer any other questions you have.”
Alex looks like she might stand as well. She readjusts and takes a delicate pinch of the cinnamon roll. And because of our glaring visitor, I don’t even get the chance to see her reaction as she takes a bite.
As I hurry toward Dean, Zoe strides over to Alex and launches into one of her signature stories—this time, about the time she accidentally set off the bakery’s fire alarm.
Not with fire, but with a disastrously smoky batch of burnt caramel.
“Ethan told me to watch it closely, so I did,” she says, deadpan.
“For a full five minutes after it had already turned black.”
I half-listen, a smirk tugging at my lips. Zoe has this uncanny ability to turn her worst moments into her best stories. It should keep Alex entertained for a few minutes.
“What is she doing here?” Dean hisses as soon as I’m within earshot.
“Her job,” I answer, keeping my voice low. “She’s a food writer, Dean. This is what she does.”
“We agreed to a puff piece for a tourist magazine,” he snaps. “Not some in-depth exposé by a top publication.”
I run a hand through my hair. “What do you want me to do? Turn her away? That’ll only make her more suspicious.”
Dean’s jaw clenches, his frustration mounting. “I want her trip cut short. Let her sample the food, write her article, then tell her to leave.”
“I can’t just—”
“You can, and you will,” he cuts me off. “Unless you want to risk more magical exposure. Risk everyone else in this community by following your heart again.”
His words hit harder than I’d like to admit. The truth is, he’s right. I wanted more than the magical community could ever offer, and that desire had caused enough legal chaos to fill an entire file cabinet at the Witches and Warlocks Council.
“I’ll figure something out,” I mutter.
With that, Dean turns sharply and storms out of the bakery, leaving me standing there—pulled in three directions: my duty to the town, my professional ambitions, and the lingering shame of my past mistakes.
With a heavy heart, I head back to the table.
Alex looks up as I approach, her smile lighting up her face in a way that makes my heart skip a beat.
I push the feeling aside, reminding myself of the risks, but there’s no denying the flicker of hope that ignites within me.
This could be my shot—my chance to show the world what the Whisk is really about.
Others won’t find out about the magic. I’m more in control now. Dean just loves worrying about something. And I just happen to make a good punching bag.
“Everything okay?” Alex asks, concern creeping into her voice.
I force a relaxed smile. “Just an island tourism issue. Nothing to worry about.” The half-truth feels off, but it’s the best I can offer.
“Great,” she says, turning back to her laptop. “I was going to say, ‘Where were we?’ but we never made it past the first question. The magic that makes up the Whisk.”
Her eyes glisten with the warmth of sunlight—but it’s more than just that. It’s curiosity. The kind that could get us both into trouble. It’s probably what makes her such a damn good journalist—her ability to unearth the tiny details that make readers feel like they’re right there with her.
I can’t lie to her anymore. I won’t. But I can’t tell her everything either. So, I’ll do the only thing I can: give her just enough to satisfy her curiosity, and pray it’s enough to keep her from digging deeper.
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “You know, my Nan always said it’s about the love you bake into something.” The words come out sounding more cliché than I intended, and Alex’s fingers stop clacking against the keys.
“Love, huh?” she says, her tone dry. “That’s your secret ingredient?”
The trite answer has disappointed her. But maybe that’s for the best. The less intrigued she is, the safer we all are. Still, I can’t help but feel a pang of regret as the sparkle in her eyes dims.
“Well, that and a few family recipes I’d be skinned alive for sharing, plus a dozen years of experimenting.” I gesture to the plate of nibbled-on pastries. “Some things have to remain a mystery, you know?”
Alex leans back in her chair, studying me with those sharp eyes. “Mr. Hart, I think you’ll find I’m very good at solving mysteries.”
There’s a challenge in her voice that makes my pulse quicken. Part of me wants to rise to it, to show her everything the Whisk—everything I—can do. But Dean’s warning echoes in my mind, and I feel the familiar prickle under my skin that warns me to stay in control.
“I don’t doubt that,” I say, keeping my tone light. “But some secrets are worth keeping, don’t you think? Leaves a little magic in the world.”
Her lips thin, but she doesn’t press further. Instead, she closes her laptop with a snap. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to do some more... thorough investigation during my stay.”
The way she says it makes it hard for me to force a smile. I don’t know how to convince this woman to leave early, to ask her not to go nosing around in things. “I spent a year in Paris and learned quite a few of my tricks there.”
This gathers her attention again. A few local kids come in and walk over to the cookie case.
They press their hands and noses against it, and Zoe sighs, but says nothing.
That glass remaining smudge-free is a splinter under her nail, always bothering her, but she loves the kids too much to say anything about it.
“Who did you train with?” Alex asks.
I suddenly wish I had a cup of coffee and could wrap my hands around it, fidgeting with the handle.
I’ve made a mistake. She won’t find my experience there impressive.
“No one you’d know. A few of my neighbors were natural-born bakers.
Or maybe it was generations of family secrets.
I charmed them into sharing a few with me. ”
She takes another bite of the cinnamon roll and chews it thoughtfully before answering. “My sister is about to study in France.”
Probably with a real institution, not ‘I baked galettes with a few French grandmothers, and that’s the magic behind the bakery featured on Foodie Frenzy.’ God, this has to be the least impressive assignment she’s ever had. I regret—not for the first time—coming out of the kitchen for the day.
“Where at?”
“Schola Cantorum. She’s a cellist. Talented too.”
She brightens when discussing her sister, but my stomach twists.
Of course, her sister is going to some prestigious-sounding institute.
I didn’t know where Alex studied, but she likely had an impressive background.
Where I saw Magnolia Cove as laid-back and charming, she likely saw an unremarkable coastal tourist town.
And the baker she was sent to write about?
Someone who thought baking frequently made him an actual professional.
“That’s amazing,” I say, because it is. “I hope she enjoys her time there.”
I had. Paris was magic—but dark magic. Purse cutters waiting in shadowy corners were as common as the scent of freshly baked baguettes wafting over the Seine. It had an edge to it that Magnolia Cove lacked. The kind of edge someone like Alexandra Sinclair probably appreciated.
The only thing we have to set us apart is magic.
But she can’t find out about that.
As Alex gathers her things to leave, promising to return tomorrow for more ‘research,’ I catch Zoe’s eye across the room. She gives me a thumbs up and a wink, clearly thinking I’ve charmed our visitor. If only she knew the turmoil churning inside me.
Alex walks out the door on heels, her styled hair bouncing against her shoulders, the bell chiming cheerfully behind her. I’m considering removing the thing. Alex writes beautiful, sharp pieces filled with unique angles and a story that sucks you in.
She won’t find that in Magnolia Cove—not if I throw her off like I must. She’ll end up seeing us—me—as unappetizing as the nearly full plate of sweets remaining at her table.