Chapter 6 Ethan #2
I’m grinning stupidly, though. She’d described the island as charming, but I’m finding her even more so.
“I’m willing to take it as a compliment.
Just don’t say it in front of Zo.” I nod to where she’s retreated, finishing the brioche.
“She’s dubbed me with enough nicknames. We don’t need to add Chief to her list or have her explain the story to every single customer who comes in here. ”
Alex laughs, her eyes sparkling. Her computer has gone dark, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ll keep it as our secret.”
A pang grips my chest. I want to believe her.
I wish I could trust her and know that secrets could stay between us.
But I’d trusted a human woman before, and I’m still paying for it.
Paying for it in years, in lost opportunities, in the weight of a promise I was foolish enough to believe.
I slide a chair out and sit, feeling less bumbling.
“The story of how I started baking isn’t interesting enough for Gastronomy Eats.
I’ve read your articles—you’re always finding the most fascinating angles.
Like that story last winter about the Maple Syrup Farm in Vermont. ”
“Sugarbrook Farms.” She clasps her hands together. “I loved writing that story.”
She’s watching me intensely, but now the words are flowing for me.
Discussing the world of pastries and flaky crusts, the bakers out there pouring their heart and souls into their work is easy.
“I loved how you discussed their use of traditional wood-fire evaporators and how it adds a smoky taste to their syrup. I ordered some after reading the article.” She smiles at that, and it’s like the expression is its own fire, warming me.
“They have an interesting background. A family history of working with maple trees and unique techniques. Mine’s boring. ”
“Try me.” She takes another bite of the tart—a nibble, really. She eats things in the smallest tastes and chews each one thoroughly, as though she wants to give all her sensory attention to the flavor.
“I didn’t grow up on a fourth-generation farm.
The closest thing I have is I helped my grandmother in the kitchen.
She had this oven that was ancient—I swear that thing was around before a mortar and pestle.
” Alex snorts, but she leans forward as well, drawing closer.
“The smell of bread baking at her house was... well, like magic.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“It was,” I say, surprised by the wistfulness in my voice.
Surprised that I’m not ashamed to share this story with this polished, well-educated woman who has a sister about to spend a semester abroad.
My story isn’t anything special—I mean, except for the magical bits—but with this aspect, I can give her the entire truth.
“She taught me that baking isn’t about following recipes.
It’s about pouring your heart into what you create.
About making something that might bring a little joy to others. ”
“Is that why she named it the ‘Hopeful’ Raspberry Tart?” She lifts a forkful of the pastry in question.
Not exactly, but it’s also close to the truth. I shrug. “Food has the power to change how people feel. It can comfort, inspire, bring back memories—”
“Or create new ones.” Alex sets the fork down, and it clinks in the silence between us. I’m not willing to break her gaze to see if Zoe is watching us, but I’d bet my secret banana bread recipe she is, and I’m going to hear about it later.
We’ve grown so close that with every breath, I catch the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the bakery’s sweet aromas.
At some point, without thinking, we both leaned in—just slightly—close enough that the space between us feels charged, like the moment before a first bite of something decadent.
I clear my throat. “So, how does a gal like you end up in our little corner of the world? And before you have to ask, I mean a successful, big-city food writer?”
She’s quiet for a moment. Outside, the sky has woken, pink blooming its way over the trees.
When she speaks again, her voice has lost its brightness.
“I’ve grown tired of writing about pretentious restaurants where the portion sizes are too small, but no one will declare that the Emperor has no clothes.
I’ve spent the last few years trying to find food and stories with heart. Something real.”
“And then an embarrassingly corny article in Foodie Frenzy brought you here?”
My words come out a bit too forced. She’s looking for something real, and she probably assumed we were the definition of fake.
Heat creeps up my neck, shame and regret washing over me as I think about that garish article.
What must she think of us? Of me? I want to explain, to tell her that that’s not who we are, that I got caught up in the potential benefits and didn’t see the cost. But the words stick in my throat.
I want her to see that The Whimsical Whisk is more than rainbow-colored gimmicks and flashy headlines.
That there’s real passion here. Real magic.
And not just the kind that comes from our abilities.
With Foodie Frenzy’s article as her first impression, I’m not sure I’ll achieve that.
She taps the computer, and the light glows, making her skin pale and ethereal. “A fair point. I don’t know, Ethan.” The way my name sounds in her mouth is the same feeling I had the first time I mastered flaky layers in a croissant. “Sometimes people end up surprising you.”
Hope bubbles in me like batter rising. That should capture my full attention. Instead, I’m fixed on the graceful way Alex lifts a fork, the gleam of her hair, the purse of her lips. She’s certainly surprised me.
“Tell me more about your childhood with baking?”
I dash a quick glance to Zoe to make sure she doesn’t need help.
She makes a shooing motion, but her smirk says we are definitely going to discuss this later.
Tucking that away for now, I return to Alex and let stories I haven’t thought about in years unfurl from me.
My initial disastrous attempt at croissants, the time I accidentally put my grandmother’s favorite embroidered hand towel in the garbage disposal, the first contest I entered but didn’t realize all the cookie bottoms were burnt until the judges spat them out.
Alex laughs, and the expression transforms her, brightening her face and easing her posture.
I ask her questions, and she shares her own tales—of weird food trends she’s had to review, of different people trying to make it in big cities with nothing but a few family recipes and a dream, and of misadventures with her sister.
Time slips away, and it’s not until Zoe clears her throat loudly that I realize the morning crowd has arrived without me noticing.
“Duty calls,” I say.
Alex types away at her computer but stops to meet my gaze. “You must go when called upon, Chief.”
I laugh as I rise from the chair and say hello to a few locals. Mrs. Delehay tuts about the weather as she passes, clutching a piece of brioche against her heart.
“Ethan?” I turn back to Alex. She’s golden and glowing, and she’s eaten her entire tart. She lifts the empty plate. “Thanks for a bit of hope.”
I only nod, but I want to tell her thank you for the same.
Maybe everything will turn out fine.