Chapter 6 Ethan
Ethan
The early morning quiet of the bakery is my favorite time of day.
It’s just me, the soft whir of the mixers, and the yeasty scent of dough rising in the proofing drawer.
No customers, no Dean Markham, no Alex Sinclair making me question every decision I’ve ever made—or say more foolish things.
No reminders of the life I lost, the one I should have had if I hadn’t let my heart—and my magic—get the best of me.
Magnolia Cove was a second chance, but it wasn’t freedom.
It was a leash, long enough to make me forget it was there until moments like these reminded me I wasn’t really my own man. Not yet.
I’m elbow-deep in a batch of brioche when Zoe bursts through the back door, her black leather jacket flapping out like wings with the motion.
“Morning, Boss!” she chirps, far too cheerful for the ungodly hour. “Ready for another day of culinary deception?”
I grunt, focusing on the dough beneath my hands. Zoe, undeterred by my lack of enthusiasm, whips out her polishing cloth and heads to the display case.
“So,” she says, her tone deceptively casual, “what’s the plan for our favorite foodie today? More evasive non-answers? Or are we going for the full smoke and mirrors routine?”
I sigh and finally look up at her. “I don’t know, Zo. I’m not... I’m not good at this. All I want is to make amazing baked goods and for more than just the five thousand people that live on this island to eat them. Maybe that’s asking too much.”
She slings her jacket off and hangs it on a peg before grabbing an apron. “Hey, no one’s asking you to be James Bond here. Just be yourself. You know, minus the whole secret you can’t tell anyone about that got you imprisoned here.”
“Right,” I mutter. “Just be myself. The non-magical, totally normal baker version of myself.”
Zoe rolls her eyes. “You know, for a big teddy bear, you sure do overthink things. Look, why don’t you just make her one of your special tarts? The raspberry ones always seem to put people in a good mood.”
I freeze, my hands stilling in the dough.
The Hopeful Raspberry Tart. It’s one of my most potent creations, infused with just enough magic to lift spirits and soothe worries.
Raspberries are back in season. Dad just brought me a dozen cartons from his hobby farm he had started since moving here.
But using magic on Alex feels... wrong somehow.
I spent the entire night regretting infusing the pastries I’d given her the day before.
I say I want my baked goods to stand on their own, yet the minute they face real criticism, I don’t trust them.
“I don’t know, Zo. Isn’t that kind of... manipulative?”
She snorts. “More manipulative than lying to her face? Come on, Ethan. It’s not like you’re brainwashing her.
You’re just... helping her see the best in things.
Including you. And so what if it influences her review a bit?
Would it be bad if a few more people visited and tried your cinnamon rolls?
And before you interject, the answer to that would be no.
The world is missing out. Plus, the boost in tourism to Magnolia Cove has been good for everyone. It’s all under control.”
I’m saved from responding by the front door swinging open. Alex walks in, her hair windswept and her cheeks flushed from the morning chill. My heart does a stupid little stutter that I would deny until my death.
“Morning,” she says, her eyes landing on me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but her gaze seems to linger longer than necessary. “Hope I haven’t arrived too early.”
“Good morning,” I manage, suddenly very aware of the flour on my arms and the dough stuck to my hands. “You’re welcome anytime we’re here. We’re always up before the moon sets.”
“Me too, but for less romantic reasons. Journalism and regularly traveling in different time zones does bad things for sleep schedules.”
Before I can respond, Zoe swoops in. “Well, you’ve come to the right place! Ethan here was just about to make his famous Hopeful Raspberry Tarts. You simply must try it.”
I shoot Zoe a look, but she just winks at me before disappearing into the back.
Alex takes another step in. Her slacks have a crisp tailored line and not a single wrinkle; the sleeveless sweater she wears seems as exotic as Magnolia Cove must appear to her. No one wears designer clothes around here. “Hopeful, huh?” she says. “That’s an interesting name for a tart.”
I wipe my hands on my apron. “It’s, uh, an old family recipe. Nan said it could lift even the gloomiest spirits.”
“Is that so?” She lowers her laptop to the same table she sat at before. Soon, I’m going to think of it as Alex Sinclair’s booth. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to test that claim. For journalistic integrity, of course.”
“Of course,” I echo, my mouth suddenly dry. “Coming right up.”
As I retreat to the kitchen, I can feel Alex’s eyes on me. It’s unnerving, like she seems to see right through me. Or maybe that’s just the paranoia talking.
I lose myself in the familiar motions of baking, letting muscle memory take over as my mind races.
The tart crust comes together under my hands, delicate and buttery.
As I spoon in the raspberry filling, I hesitate for just a moment before letting a tendril of magic flow from my fingertips into the fruit.
I infuse it with warmth, comfort, a sense of home and belonging.
It’s not mind control or anything nefarious—just a gentle reminder of good things.
As the tart bakes, filling the kitchen with the sweet scent of berries, I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt.
Am I crossing a line here? But then I remember the suspicion in Alex’s eyes, the way she seems determined to uncover secrets that could destroy everything I’ve built here. Everything this town has built.
I’ve already caused enough damage for our community. I don’t want to cause them issues again. All I’d like is to have a chance to pursue my passion.
The timer dings, jolting me out of my thoughts. The tart that emerges is picture-perfect, the raspberries glistening like rubies. I plate it carefully, add a dollop of freshly whipped cream, and take a deep breath before heading back out front.
Alex chews her lip as she stares pensively at her laptop. It’s distracting—too distracting. She looks up as I approach, and my breath catches. She’s beautiful. Any fool would recognize that. And I certainly qualify for that category.
“Here you go.” I set the plate in front of her. “One Hopeful Raspberry Tart. For journalistic integrity.”
She grins, as if the joke wasn’t the corniest thing I’ve ever uttered in my life. “It looks good. Let’s see if it lives up to the hype.”
My heart pounds as she takes a bite. The minutes seem to tick by.
Soon, the bakery will officially open, and the usual bustle will begin.
Tarts and muffins, and dozens of cups of coffee, will be exiting with the customers.
Alex chews the first bite thoughtfully. Her eyes close, and she freezes for a moment before swallowing.
“This is... wow,” she finally says, taking another bite. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.” She licks a stray crumb off her lip, and I force myself to look away.
“Good wow or bad wow?” I try to keep my voice casual.
“Definitely good. I feel... I don’t know how to describe it. I haven’t figured out how to describe your baked goods yet, Mr. Hart. It’s a strange thing— a writer at a loss for words.”
The guilt I felt earlier evaporates at the warmth in her tone. Maybe Zoe was right. Maybe this isn’t manipulation, but just... helping her see the magic here. Helping her see that it’s not a gimmick, even if she can’t know the full truth.
“If you insist on me calling you Alex, then you must call me Ethan. We’re not very formal around here.”
Alex smiles and takes another small bite of the tart. She closes her eyes again as she chews, and the quietest moan escapes from her. I realize I’m staring at her lips when she opens her eyes once more. “I met Zoe’s wife yesterday.”
I need to return to the kitchen and not leave the entire breakfast rush to Zoe again, to stop indulging whatever draw Alex has for me, but her words pull me up short. “Mia is lovely.”
“She seems so. She told me you’re not from around here.”
I fight a sigh. Mia is the sweetest person—vanilla whipped cream to Zoe’s tart lime pie—but she’s also quick to share anything.
It’s not because she’s a gossip; the opposite, actually.
She doesn’t understand the purpose of lying.
Zoe finds that as charming as a cookie’s crumb, as she once said, but it presents a problem.
Now I need to figure out exactly what Mia told Alex.
“That’s true. I was born in a mountain town north of here. Always loved the ocean, though.”
“Is that why a guy like you moved here, then?”
There’s no half-truth to give her on that. I snag onto something else instead. “A guy like me? What does that mean?”
A pretty rose color spreads across her nose. “You know, all... capable-looking?”
“Capable-looking?” She’s asked it like a question, but I don’t know what she means. It doesn’t sound like embarrassment or fraud, though, so I’ll take it.
“I don’t know... like a firefighter. Or a model.
A firefighter model?” Alexandra Sinclair, renowned food writer, is sitting in my little bakery and blushing until she’s pink in the cheeks.
She covers her eyes with her hands. “Oh god, forget I said that. Something about this place makes me put my guard down.”