Chapter 8 Ethan
Ethan
The evening light filters through the bakery windows, painting everything in soft, golden hues. It’s the kind of light that makes even day-old muffins look magazine-worthy. I’m wiping down the counters, lost in thought, when Alex’s voice cuts through my reverie.
“Hey, Ethan? Can I ask you something?”
I look up, my heart doing that annoying little skip it does whenever I see her.
She leans against the display case, notebook in hand, strands of hair fallen loose from her updo.
I have to resist the urge to brush them away.
There’s something elegant about her—something that makes her stand out against the laid-back, coastal vibes of everyone else here.
“Sure,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “What’s up?”
She takes a deep breath, like she’s steeling herself.
“I was wondering if I could work as an apprentice with you for the week. You know, to learn more about your baking techniques and take some pictures for the article. I’m really intrigued by the Whisk’s unique approach to baking.
There’s something special about your pastries, something I can’t put my finger on.
I’d love to get a behind-the-scenes look and really understand what makes this place distinct. ”
The rag slips from my hand, landing with a wet splat on the floor. “You want to... apprentice?”
A jolt rushes through me. On one hand, working closely together would be the perfect opportunity to show her the heart of The Whimsical Whisk, to prove we’re more than just flashy marketing.
On the other hand, keeping our secrets hidden while she’s watching our every move? That’s a recipe for disaster.
Alex nods, her eyes brightening. “It would be great for the story. Plus, I’d love to learn from you. Your baking is...” A faint blush colors her cheeks. “Well, it’s kind of magical.”
Magical. The word echoes in my head, setting off alarm bells. I can almost hear Dean’s gravelly voice warning me about exposure, about the risks of getting too close. Telling me I needed to get Alex to leave as quickly as possible.
“I... I don’t know,” I stammer. I bend down and grab the rag just to have something to do with my hands. “It’s a busy time with the season picking up, and I already have Jasper coming in the afternoons three times a week.”
“Oh.” The disappointment in her voice is like a punch to the gut. “I understand. I just thought...”
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I say quickly, hating the way her face falls. “It’s just... complicated. I’ll need to think through the logistics.”
She nods, but I can see the questions forming behind her eyes. Questions I can’t answer without putting everything at risk.
“Maybe we can revisit the idea tomorrow?” I offer, grasping at straws.
Alex’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sure, of course. Thanks anyway, Ethan.”
As she gathers her things to leave, I feel like I’m watching something precious slip through my fingers.
But what choice do I have?
The bakery feels emptier than usual after she’s gone. I go through the motions of closing up, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions.
Zoe finds me like this, staring blankly at the day’s receipts.
“Earth to Ethan,” she says, waving a hand in front of my face. “You planning on sleeping here or what?”
I blink, coming back to myself. “Sorry, just... lost in thought.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Uh-huh. And would those thoughts happen to involve a certain food writer? The one you can’t seem to keep your focus off even when you’re elbow-deep in bread dough?
I swear, Sugar, you’re gonna end up with a face full of flour if you keep swiveling your head every time she walks by. ”
I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “Am I that obvious?”
It’s more than just Alex’s polished beauty that draws me in—it’s the way she brightens when she talks about restaurants she’s visited, the chefs she’s interviewed, the cities she’s explored.
Every story is like a window into a world I can’t access, not while I’m bound to Magnolia Cove and Dean Markham’s watchful eye.
She speaks of pop-up stalls in Chelsea serving hand-pulled noodles with the same excitement she uses to describe the fresh-picked flowers placed daily on wobbly tables in a hidden café in Prague.
Alex represents everything I can’t have: a life lived beyond these shores and a love that doesn’t require hiding who—and what—I really am.
“Of all your skills, lying isn’t one of them. You’re about as subtle as one of your triple chocolate cakes. It’s part of your charm.” Zoe pats my shoulder. “Come on, I’ll walk you home. Looks like you could use some fresh air.”
The evening is crisp and salty as we step outside.
The streetlights cast a warm glow over the cobblestone, making Main Street gleam.
In the distance, waves lap against the shore, the sound echoing down to us.
A few lingering tourists stroll along the sidewalks, their laughter carrying on the breeze.
As we walk, I tell Zoe about Alex’s request, about my panic, about the weight of responsibility I feel.
“Am I crazy for regretting not accepting her proposition immediately? I mean, this could be our big break.” We turn onto the beach path, and a seagull scuttles off before flying into the darkening sky. “After what happened last time...”
“Last time was different,” Zoe says firmly.
An unusual darkness enters her eyes. She was one of the first people to befriend me in the Cove when I’d arrived—heartbroken, angry.
Afraid I’d lost everything I’d ever worked for.
She was the one who made me believe in starting the Whisk.
“You’ve learned and grown. And Alex isn’t Sarah. ”
I stuff my hands into my pockets. Sarah, the human girl I fell for years ago.
The one who discovered my secret, who reacted with terror, who almost exposed our whole community.
The memory of her wide, frightened eyes and the sound of her screams still haunt me—a stark reminder of why I need to be so careful.
Why I can’t let myself get too close to anyone else.
We reach the hill’s crest, and the full beauty of the island spreads out before us. The moon is rising, a perfect silver disc reflected in the calm waters of the bay. To our right, hidden from human eyes, is the shimmer of the barrier that protects our magical sanctuary.
“It’s nights like these that remind me how precious this place is,” I say softly. “How much we have to lose if I screw up again.”
Zoe stops walking, turning to face me. “Hey, Boss, whatever catastrophe you’re cooking up in that flour-filled brain of yours? It’s not as bad as you think.”
I raise an eyebrow. “No? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m risking everything our people have built here. Again. All because I... because I...”
“Because you like her,” Zoe finishes for me. “News flash, Ethan: liking someone isn’t a crime.”
“It is when you’re someone like me,” I mutter. “Even in our world, I’m... different. Dangerous. And she’s a human journalist who could expose everything. Maybe Dane has a point.”
Zoe rolls her eyes. “Oh please. You’re not the big bad wolf—you’re a teddy bear with imposter syndrome who happens to make the best damn pastries this side of the Pacific Ocean.
” She smirks before continuing, “And if you’re actually considering Dean’s opinion, I’m worried you’ve been huffing too much of that special vanilla extract you ordered. ”
Despite myself, a smile tugs at my lips. “That vanilla is too expensive to use for anything we don’t make a profit on. Besides, you’re biased.”
“Damn straight I am,” she says, grinning. “Look, I get why you’re scared. But you can’t live your whole life in fear of what might happen.”
We start walking again, the waves growing louder as our feet meet the shore. We’re both lucky to live in resident cottages overlooking the sea. The sickeningly sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine somehow feels right, tangling with the ocean breeze.
“I just... I have responsibilities,” I say. “To Jasper, to the town, to our people. I can’t risk all that for... what? A fleeting feeling?”
Zoe snorts. “A fleeting feeling? Please. I’ve seen the way you look at her, Ethan. It’s more than that, and you know it.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off. “And before you go all noble sacrifice on me, consider this: maybe letting her in, even just a little, is exactly what you both need.”
She shrugs. “I mean, okay, so maybe you can’t tell her everything.
But you can let her apprentice. Show her the non-magical side of baking.
Who knows? Maybe it’ll satisfy her curiosity enough that she stops digging.
And maybe she’ll write an honest piece about how damn amazing your creations are.
You might use magic to infuse good feelings into them, but the technique is all you, Boss. ”
We round the bend, where the cottage lights glow warmly in the distance. “You really think that could work?”
“I think it’s worth a shot. I can distract her. You have no idea just how much chaos I can cook up in a pinch.” Zoe bumps her shoulder against my arm, and I chuckle. “Besides, I believe in love and magic. It’s not just a line we feed the tourists, you know.”
As if on cue, Mia turns the corner, a book tucked under her arm. A grin spreads across Zoe’s face.
“Speaking of that,” she says, quickening her pace. She throws an arm around Mia’s neck and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Hey, babe. Ready to head home?”
Mia clasps the hand slung over her shoulder and smiles.
“Night, Ethan,” Zoe calls as they turn to leave. “Try not to overthink things, okay?”
I wave, watching as they walk away, heads bent close in quiet conversation. Something aches in my chest. I’m never going to have what they do—someone to come home to, someone who knows and accepts all of me, who loves me despite it.
The moon is high now, bathing everything in silver light.
I take a deep breath, letting the familiar scents and sounds of the island wash over me.
This place is magic, yes, but it’s also become home.
Maybe, if I’m careful, it might be the launching pad to help make some of my dreams come true—to be more than just a small-town baker, to make a mark on the culinary world.
I think about Alex’s hopeful face when she asked to apprentice, about the way she gestures with her hands as she discusses food. I think about Zoe’s words—about taking risks and believing in possibilities.
Maybe I can’t give Alex everything. Maybe I can’t answer the questions she really wants to ask or return anything more than smiles. But I can give her this—a week in my kitchen, a glimpse into my world. That’s what she loves to write about anyway.
Alex Sinclair isn’t looking for magic—not the kind we’re trying to hide. She’s looking for the passion behind food stories, the people who sacrifice and spend excruciating years perfecting their craft.
That, I can show her.
It wasn’t magic that made me a baker but years of studying. Leaving home and traveling to France. Having my knuckles cracked by the back of wooden spoons and spending every penny I made on T55 flour and fleur de sel so I could practice with my unreliable oven until I perfected a recipe.
As I turn toward home, I feel something settle in my chest. A decision, yes, but also a spark of something that feels dangerously like hope.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell Alex she can apprentice. I’ll keep my powers under wraps, stick to the non-magical side of baking. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll let myself enjoy having her around.
As long as I stick to that, nothing could go wrong. Possibly, she’ll even write an article that might open me up to new opportunities when I’ve finished paying off my time in Magnolia Cove. Maybe I’ll actually escape my past.
The thought carries me home, a smile on my face and the taste of possibility sweet on my tongue.