Chapter 7 Alex
Alex
Magnolia Cove is driving me crazy.
Tish responds instantly. Crazy good or crazy bad? Spill the tea! Is it the gorgeous baker you keep avoiding my questions about or the mysterious small-town thing? Or both! I need details!
I stare at the message for what feels like an hour before typing out, I’ll have to call you soon! About to leave and have no service.
Ughhhhh, is her dramatic but well-deserved response.
I don’t know why I feel defensive of Magnolia Cove.
My first night here, I called and complained about everything—grumbling into the B&B’s old landline, since my cell service was useless—the overly quaint inn with its floral wallpaper and creaky floors, the way everyone seemed to know I was coming before I even arrived.
Now, just a few days later, I find myself wanting to protect this quirky little town and its inhabitants. Especially Ethan. The thought of trying to explain my change of heart about him through text feels impossible.
You’d think I was losing my mind, but I’ll call you soon.
Honey, you’ve been losing your mind for years, is her response, followed by a kissing face emoji.
I tuck my cellphone into my bag, even knowing it won’t work, as I head out into town. I’ve been here for four days, and I swear this place is gaslighting me. Everything is just a little too perfect, a little too quaint. And don’t even get me started on the food.
On that note, I head over to The Hungry Gull.
Waiting in line ahead of me, a couple holds hands, and the woman has a book tucked under her arm—the same one I read last month. When she turns and offers a smile, I can’t help but comment.
“The Whispered Secret? I just finished that one.” I gesture to the book.
She flips the cover around. “Oh, you’ve read it too? I’m Rachel, by the way, and this is Grant.”
“Alex.”
“-andra Sinclair? The food writer everyone is talking about?” she teases, and Grant smiles indulgently at her.
“The very one.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed a famous journalist would read smutty thrillers.”
I shrug. “Sorry to break the illusion, but I’m just a regular person like everyone else.”
Her responding laughter is warm. “So, what did you think of the twist in the middle? I didn’t see it coming at all.”
“Me either, but the way the author wove in the clues was brilliant.”
“I know, right? I was up half the night! Our book club talked about it for over an hour.”
A woman walks up and announces that a table is available. “Well, nice to meet you, Alex! Enjoy your dinner!”
“You too.”
Once I get a seat in the bustling diner, I order the pie mentioned in the brochure. The owner sits me in a vinyl booth where the cracked red seat squeaks every time I shift. The linoleum floor has seen better days, and the jukebox in the corner looks like it’s been here since the ’50s.
But none of that matters when I find myself staring at a slice of cherry pie that looks like it belongs in a food stylist’s dream portfolio.
The crust is golden and flaky, the lattice top so beautiful it practically makes my inner perfectionist swoon. Steam rises from the filling, carrying the intoxicating scent of ripe cherries and warm spices. It’s the kind of pie that would have culinary school instructors wiping away tears of joy.
And that’s the problem.
I take a bite, and the flavors explode on my tongue.
The cherries burst with sweetness, their tart edge perfectly balancing the rich, buttery crust that melts in my mouth.
For a moment, I swear I can taste sunshine, laughter, and the pure bliss of a summer day.
Which, I know, is ridiculous. Those aren’t even flavors.
I set my fork down, a frown tugging at my lips.
How is a greasy spoon diner in the middle of nowhere serving pies that could rival those from the world’s finest bakeries?
Where are they getting these impossibly fresh ingredients?
And why isn’t there a line out the door for this culinary miracle?
The place is no busier than any other quiet night in a small town.
“Everything all right, honey?” Hazel asks, appearing at my elbow with a coffee pot. Her gray hair is piled high on her head, and grease splatters her apron.
“It’s delicious,” I say, because it is. “I just… how do you do it?”
Hazel winks, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling. “Family secret. Can’t go spilling that to a big-city reporter, now can I?”
As she walks away, I could swear I see a shimmer in the air around her, like a desert mirage. I rub my eyes, the world blurring for a moment before snapping back into focus.
The late nights must be getting to me.
What time I haven’t spent working on other articles, I’ve used the excruciatingly slow internet at the bed and breakfast to search for answers… about anything.
About Magnolia Cove. (Which barely exists outside of Ethan’s bakery.) About Ethan. (Who barely exists outside mentions of The Whimsical Whisk.) About everything on this island that doesn’t make sense.
It’s a wonder this place has even made it onto the ClipClop app, much less gone viral. People must take videos and post them when they’re back on the mainland, because there’s not enough internet in every shop combined to do that from Magnolia Cove.
I’ve even shot off an email to another journalist asking for help with research.
There’s just something about this place that doesn’t quite add up.
There’s something about Ethan that doesn’t make sense.
I’m probably staying up so late working because if I try to sleep, my mind goes to him.
To his gigantic smile and the way he bows his head if he’s praised.
To the teasing but clearly affectionate relationship between him and Zoe.
To him discussing how he gained his passion for baking at his grandmother’s side, then refined it by charming Parisian neighbors and working his way into their kitchens with his broken French and overly eager manners—both of which they scolded.
I’m smiling again, and someone sitting at the counter looks my way. I clear my throat and finish my pie, savoring every bite even as I don’t understand it.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of interviews and note-taking, each conversation leaving me with more questions than answers.
I chat with Tom Bryson, the owner of the bait and tackle shop, who swears the fish practically jump into your boat here.
He spends a solid five minutes trying to charm me into taking one of his fishing tours—dropping phrases like once-in-a-lifetime experience and you haven’t lived until you’ve reeled in a redfish at sunrise.
I politely decline, but he just grins and tells me I’ll change my mind before I leave town.
Then there’s the florist, who hides behind her desk, glaring at the sun streaming through the window but insists that her blooms last twice as long as others.
And the surly teenager working at the museum?
He just shrugs off my questions when the exhibits offer no more information than the books I bought.
By the time evening rolls around, my head is spinning, my notebook is full of useless notes, and my stomach is rumbling. My feet carry me to The Whimsical Whisk almost of their own accord, drawn by the promise of Ethan’s warm smile and the comforting scent of fresh-baked bread.
The Closed sign is up, but lights still gleam inside. For a moment, I hesitate. I shouldn’t bother them after hours. I’m about to turn away when Zoe appears at the door, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our favorite foodie,” she says, opening the door. Flour dusts her hair, fading her purple streaks to lilac. “Come to uncover more of our nefarious baking secrets?”
“I was just hoping for a quiet place to work, actually. But if you’re closed—”
“Nonsense.” Zoe waves a hand dismissively, nearly smacking me with the dish towel she’s holding. “Mi bakery es su bakery. Ethan’s in the back with the kid. I’m sure he won’t mind if you set up shop out here.”
Before I can protest, she ushers me inside. The bakery is quiet, the display cases empty save for a few lonely muffins. Lingering scents of the day’s baking hang thick in the air—cinnamon, vanilla, and something deeper, richer, that I can’t quite place.
“I’m heading out, but stay as long as you like,” Zoe says, grabbing her jacket from a hook. “Just don’t go snooping in the secret ingredient cabinet. That’s where we keep all the magic.” She winks at me, then calls out, “Ethan! Your girlfriend’s here!”
I splutter, heat rushing to my face. “Oh, that’s not why I’m here... we’re not—”
But Zoe’s already out the door, her laughter floating back on the evening breeze.
Ethan appears from the kitchen, a flour-dusted apron tied around his waist. It reminds me of the Foodie Frenzy photo where he’d posed in a perfectly starched apron—one I haven’t seen that clean since I got here.
His curls are more jumbled than usual, and when he smiles, dimples crease his cheeks.
My heart definitely doesn’t skip a beat at the sight. Nope. Not at all.
“Alex. Everything okay?”
“I’m so sorry.” I clutch my laptop bag like a lifeline. “Zoe let me in, but I can go if—”
“No, no,” he cuts me off with a wave that sends another dusting of flour into the air. “You’re welcome to stay. I’m just working with a friend on a new recipe. Set up out here if you want.”
Relief washes over me. My room hasn’t been great for working, and I feel peaceful at the Whisk. It’s a feeling that keeps drawing me back. “Thanks. I promise I won’t get under your feet like I did in our disastrous meeting.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I believe I ran into you with that tray of pastries, not the other way around.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that, Chief.”