Chapter 9 Alex
Alex
The Whisk has a lone light gleaming from somewhere in the back, but it otherwise appears as sleepy and closed up as the shops surrounding it. I clutch the handle and hesitate. When it pulls open without resistance, the bell tinkling into the early morning quiet, I startle.
Typical small-town attitude—not worrying about locking up.
I’m starting to wonder if Zoe was right about her fungal growth comment, because every day I spend in Magnolia Cove, I want to spend another.
Every moment I’m parked behind my computer screen, the salty breeze, people’s laughter, and savory restaurant smells beckon me.
“Hello?” I call into the dark of the Whisk’s dining room.
Even in the shadows, there’s something homey about the space.
It reminds me of waking up on Christmas morning, clambering down to the living room before the lights are on, but knowing soon all will glow and smell of good things and sound like laughter. “Ethan?”
It surprised me when, after thinking things through, he said I could apprentice for the week.
There’s something he’s hiding, but I can’t figure out what it is.
His recipes are top-notch, his connection with the community seems as golden as Food Frenzy magazine made it sound.
Yet his eyes dart away at innocuous questions, and there’s a trace of unease in our interactions that feels out of place.
“Back here!” Ethan pops his head out of the kitchen and smiles. It reminds me of my conversation with Missy the day before.
So, is the baker as cute as he seems on ClipClop?
I’d rolled my eyes and shot back that she was trying to distract me from asking about her finals.
But I’d swirled that question around in my mind all night.
Now, as he takes a step forward, his T-shirt cuffs tight around his biceps, his sandy curls tumbling across his brow, I realize I was the one deflecting.
Because, yes, Ethan Hart is every bit as gorgeous as he appeared in the fifteen-second videos or in the glossy magazine spread.
“I brought coffee.” I lift the to-go cups as I step with him into the kitchen.
He accepts a cup but sniffs it, his lips thinning like he’s fighting a grimace.
“Not a fan of coffee?”
“Um… I like coffee.”
I walk behind the counter with him, past the kitchen island where they prepare things during customer hours, and toward the glowing light of the back room. “Something wrong with this coffee, Chief?”
He looks back at me, offering a lopsided grin that makes my heart tumble, though I’d deny it to Missy and Tish forever.
“You picked that up at Hazel’s, didn’t you?”
The cups’ warmth has seeped into my hands, and suddenly, I feel a bizarre need to defend Hazel and her little run-down diner. “She makes excellent pie.”
“She does.” He nods and crosses his arms, stretching his shirt over his muscled chest, which makes it very difficult to focus on my completely illogical desire to defend a woman I’ve met precisely three times in my life. Then Ethan smirks. “But the magic ends there. Her coffee is terrible.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he shakes his head. “Try a taste, then tell me what you think.”
I lift the cup and breathe it in—then freeze, struggling not to cough.
Ethan’s grin only widens, making me want to slap the cups down until they slosh over his spotless countertops.
Jutting up my chin, I take the smallest sip.
The burnt, bitter flavor floods my mouth, and I fight every muscle in my face to keep my expression neutral.
The twinkle in Ethan’s eye says I’ve failed miserably.
“It’s all right,” he says. “I keep a pot of the good stuff back here.”
He sweeps his arm toward the kitchen, then offers to take the horrible coffee. I gladly hand it off. I’d rather go through the day in a caffeine-free haze than take another sip of Hazel’s coffee.
“Here we are,” Ethan says. “The heart of the Whisk.”
A breath rushes past my lips as I take in the kitchen. If I had any lingering doubts that Ethan was the real deal, this wood-countertop-laden, well-lit kitchen would dispel them.
An entire wall of shelves lines one side near the fridge.
Jars with handwritten labels fill them. There are a dozen flours—whole wheat, almond, spelt, rye, and more.
Below that shelf sit half a dozen jars of sugar, including demerara and pearl sugar, followed by mix-ins like cranberries and cocoa nibs.
In another corner, a large metal planter sits below a heat lamp, herbs growing happily under the golden light. A shelf to the right holds cookbooks crammed together like a game of Tetris, their pages decorated with bookmarks, tabs, and food splatters.
There are enough baking pans and spatulas back here to keep a full team busy through the busiest holiday rush, yet the only employees I’ve seen at the Whisk so far are Ethan, Zoe, and a handful of local teenagers who run the cash register in the afternoons.
It’s eclectic and cozy and smells like creamed butter and sugar. It reminds me—I realize with a start—of my apartment’s kitchen back home. The stacks of books, the trio of overstuffed spoon holders. The variety of ingredients, a testament to someone who truly loves the craft.
For a moment, I’m somewhere else entirely.
Back in my tiny kitchen, late at night, exhaustion settled deep in my bones, but Missy insisting we make cookies anyway.
Mom never measured, she’d said, dumping a reckless amount of vanilla into the batter.
She just knew. We’d ended up with a tray of the sweetest, messiest cookies imaginable, eating them straight from the parchment paper, burnt edges and all.
A lump forms in my throat, unexpected and unwelcome. This space, this feeling—it’s home. And I don’t know what to do with that.
Ethan watches me take in the space, his forehead furrowed. He’s worried that I might find his bakery wanting, that I’ll decide he falls short. That I’ll print it publicly for the world to read. Erase any credibility he might ever hope to gain.
Which is exactly what I’m here to do.
To my right, a dozen glass jars of sourdough starters are pushed against the back wall, each labeled in Sharpie with various clever names. Doughy Parton sits next to Sir Rise-a-Lot, and at the very end, a particularly bubbly batch bears the label Bread Sheeran.
“Cute names,” I say as Ethan hands me a mug of coffee. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, savoring the aroma. Now this is excellent coffee—warm, bold, and with just the right hint of something nutty.
He hides his face behind his own mug. “Zoe named them.”
“What are we working on today?”
He takes another sip, then sets his mug down. “Lavender cake to start—a special order for Mrs. Delehay’s bridge club. In an hour, when Zoe comes in, we’ll get the morning pastries going and start prep for the lunch crowd.”
He offers me an apron, and I loop it over my head and tie it on. The motion is comforting—familiar. Being awake before the rest of the world, the whir of ovens warming, the quiet hum of the kitchen—this is a rhythm I know.
Ethan pulls down a mixing bowl, setting it on the counter with a soft thump. He gathers ingredients, including a jar of dried lavender buds.
“Lavender cake is a very specific order,” I say.
Ethan’s grin reminds me of the picture of him in Food Frenzy.
Except I realize what I mistook for artificial was actually discomfort.
Now, his smile is broad, wrinkling his eyes, accompanied by a soft sigh.
“Mrs. Delehay keeps thinking she’ll trip me up one of these days.
Every week, she orders something different—and always at the last minute.
The postmaster told me she started subscribing to food magazines just to keep me on my toes. ”
He walks over to the fridge and comes back with a glass bottle of milk, setting it on the counter. Unscrewing the cap, he reaches for a measuring cup and pours, his movements precise. I step a little closer, curious despite myself, watching as he transfers the measured milk into a saucepan.
My arms cross. “The postmaster told you about a resident’s private mail?”
He huffs a laugh. “Small towns.”
“You’ve lived in several bigger cities if I’m right? You’ve mentioned that Parisian baking influenced your approach?”
He turns away to open a jar of dried lavender. I lean in slightly, watching as he shakes some into the pan. The soft floral scent curls into the air between us as he stirs slowly, then gives a one-word answer.
“Yes.”
Okay, then. My journalist brain is burning, my hand itching for a pen, but there’s something delicate in Ethan’s eyes when he meets my gaze—something that makes my breath catch.
He turns the pot down to a simmer and moves to the mixer. I take another step, drawn to the rhythmic motion of sugar and butter whipping together.
“What inspired you to move to a small town, then? The beach? The opportunity to bring big-city flavor to a niche audience?”
“Yeah.” His voice is raspy, and he won’t meet my eyes. More lies. But they feel like gentle half-truths, like telling a kid that Santa Claus is real.
I lift my chin, realizing too late just how close we’ve gotten. Too close. The heat of him radiates against my skin, and for a ridiculous second, I think about how easily he could drop his head and brush a kiss against my nose.
My heart leaps by the time he speaks again. “I suppose you’ve never felt trapped by your circumstances before?”
A laugh—bitter-edged—spills out of me. “Only every single day.”
He turns the mixer off and frowns at me.
His eyes trace over my face like he’s seeking answers himself.
I’ve never been on this side of an interview.
I always hide behind my laptop, behind my professional merit.
Alexandra Sinclair is a name splashed across matte-covered magazines—but never accompanied by a picture. Never anything personal.
It feels like too much. Too close.
“What has you trapped, then?”