Chapter 10 Ethan
Ethan
Running a bakery while hiding magic from a particularly observant food writer is a lot like trying to frost a wedding cake in an earthquake. Technically possible, but likely to end in disaster.
I should have said no when Alex asked to apprentice for the week.
Dean would have wanted me to. But the memory of her lips nearly brushing mine, of her body heat radiating against my skin, of vanilla perfume mingling with rising dough—it haunts me.
The wanting sits deep in my bones, an ache I can’t shake.
Alex Sinclair looks at me like I’m something special, like I’m more than just magic and secrets and shame. Like I’m someone worth knowing.
And that’s exactly why I should have turned her away. Because the more time she spends here, watching me with those keen eyes that miss nothing, the harder it becomes to remember all the reasons I can’t have this. Can’t have her.
“Quick, distract her!” I hiss at Zoe as Alex’s footsteps echo down the hallway. My hands hum with magic as I infuse comfort into a batch of chocolate chip cookies. We can’t let Alex see the shimmer.
Zoe springs into action, practically throwing herself into Alex’s path.
“Oh my god, did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally dyed one of our sourdough starters blue?” It’s completely made up—we’d never risk the precious starters—but Alex doesn’t know that.
She pauses in the doorway, notebook in hand.
I make use of the time, infusing as much magic as I can.
“And that’s why we had to rename Sir Rise-a-Lot to Blues Clues for an entire month,” Zoe finishes with a dramatic flourish.
Alex laughs, the sound warming me more than any magic could.
She’s been here for days now, watching us work, taking notes, asking questions.
Her presence is intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
Every time she walks into a room, my magic hums beneath my skin, eager to show off. To show her everything.
But I can’t. Even if the Council hadn’t strictly forbidden it, the memory of Sarah’s screams still haunts me. The way her eyes had widened in horror, how she’d backed away…
“Earth to Ethan!” Zoe’s voice snaps me back to the present. “The cookies?”
I blink down at them. Right. The magic is settled now, infused into the cookies, impossible to distinguish from any other batch. I scoop them onto a cooling rack just as Alex steps fully into the kitchen, flipping to a fresh page in her notebook.
“Smells incredible,” she says, eyes bright. “What’s next?”
I barely get my mouth open before Zoe, flour-dusted and absolutely up to something, claps her hands together. “Ethan’s about to teach you the recipe.”
I pause. “What?”
Alex raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”
Zoe grins. “You know, the recipe. The one every customer begs for. The one that makes people emotional. The one that, if he ever revealed it, would surely get him burned at the stake for crimes against baked goods.” She leans in conspiratorially.
“The Whimsical Whisk’s world-famous, to-die-for cinnamon rolls. ”
Alex’s lips part slightly. “You’d really show me that one?”
Before I can interject, Zoe gasps. “Only if you swear—cross your heart, hope to die—that you’ll keep the magic a secret.”
The words land heavier than they should. It’s a joke, obviously. She isn’t actually asking Alex to keep real magic secret. But the way my heart kicks up, the way Alex tilts her head just slightly, like she’s weighing something bigger than a simple playful promise—I feel it.
She presses a hand to her chest, eyes locked on mine. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I wish that were true.
I swallow hard, nodding once, and move to grab the flour, needing something—anything—to keep my hands busy. Zoe, of course, senses the shift immediately.
She slaps her palms down on the counter. “And I will be making sure Ethan doesn’t get too in his feelings about it.”
Alex laughs. “Is he one to get sentimental over cinnamon rolls?”
“Sweetheart, of course he is.” Zoe tosses me a wicked grin. “It’s the man’s love language.”
I shake my head, willing my pulse to slow. “Are we baking or talking?”
Zoe rolls her eyes. “Both, obviously. Multitasking is what separates us from the animals, Boss.”
Alex ties on an apron. “Well, let’s get to it then. I’m ready for your life-changing secrets.”
“You might find yourself disappointed,” I say.
Because the truth is, I have more than one secret. And Alex is dangerously close to unraveling them all.
I’ve shared this recipe only once before—with Zoe—and that was only because she needed it to help run the bakery.
But there’s something about Alex that makes me want to open up, to reveal parts of myself I’ve kept buried deep.
Somehow, Zoe knew that before I even realized it.
She’s always had this uncanny ability to see through me, to nudge me toward things I’m too damn stubborn to admit I even want.
“The secret,” I say, measuring flour with practiced motions, “is brown butter and a touch of orange zest. The butter adds depth, makes the cinnamon sing, and the zest gives just enough brightness to make people crave another bite without knowing why.”
Alex nods, already jotting notes. “Brown butter for depth, orange zest for brightness—it balances the richness.” Her eyes meet mine. “Smart.”
“That’s our Ethan,” Zoe pipes up from where she’s pretending to organize supplies. “A regular ol’ Einstein—but, you know, with more butter and emotional repression.”
I shoot her a look but continue. “The other key is the proofing time. Everyone rushes it, but—”
“The flavor develops in the wait,” Alex finishes. Her fingers brush mine as she reaches for the yeast, and warmth spreads up my arm at the contact. “Like a good sourdough.”
“Exactly.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. She understands food the way I do—like it’s a language all its own.
We move in tandem, instinctive, effortless—like we’ve done this for years instead of days. She reaches for the brown sugar at the same time I do, our hands meeting in the soft granules.
Neither of us pulls away.
Her fingers brush mine, warm and steady, lingering just a second too long.
The air shifts, thickens. My pulse kicks up, my breath catching in my throat.
Static hums between us—or maybe it’s not static at all.
Maybe it’s my magic, slipping through the cracks, reaching for her despite my best efforts to contain it.
I should step back. Say something. Do anything but stand here, caught in this moment that feels too fragile, too dangerous.
But I don’t.
And neither does she.
“The muscovado sugar is from the Philippines,” I say, desperate to focus on something other than how her skin feels against mine.
“Mmm.” She leans in, inhaling the rich molasses scent. “Is it worth the import costs?”
“Always.” I’m not looking at the sugar anymore. I’m watching the way her hair falls forward, catching the kitchen’s golden light.
Alex hums in appreciation, her fingers trailing through the sugar, testing its texture—all the while continuing to graze my hand. “You can tell just by looking at it—it’s finer, richer. Holds more depth.”
“Exactly.” My voice is steady, but inside, I am anything but.
She glances up at me then, and I’m pretty sure we aren’t talking about sugar anymore.
Her gaze flickers to my mouth—quick, almost imperceptible—but I feel it.
My grip tightens on the edge of the counter. This is dangerous. She’s close enough that I could lean in, just a fraction, and taste to see if cinnamon has dusted her lips. I want to.
The air between us stretches, thick with something unspoken.
Then—
“Wow,” Zoe drawls, sauntering past the counter. “Didn’t realize we were crafting these rolls by hand-milling every grain of flour. You do make these daily, right, Ethan?” She taps the counter, glancing between us, her smirk as subtle as her tie-dye bandana.
I blink, stepping back. Alex laughs, shaking her head, but her cheeks are flushed with something softer, something unspoken.
Zoe waggles her eyebrows at me as she grabs a mixing bowl, her smirk pure mischief.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to move, to focus, to keep my hands busy with the dough.
It should be easy—baking’s second nature, a rhythm I don’t even have to think about.
But with Alex here, watching, laughing, filling up the space like she belongs here, nothing feels simple.
Because it’s not all banter and close calls. There are moments—quiet ones, usually in the early morning or late evening—when Alex watches me work with such intensity that I forget to breathe. When she asks questions that hit me in the chest, making me wonder if she can see straight through me.
“Why did you choose baking?” she asks one evening as I’m cleaning up. The last of the teenage hires have gone home, and Zoe’s off on a date with Mia. It’s just us, the soft hum of the ovens, and the lingering scent of sugar and spice that wraps the room like a warm blanket.
I focus on wiping down the counter, stalling for time. “I told you about my grandmother—”
“No,” she interrupts gently. “I mean, why did you stick with it? What makes you pour your heart into every single thing you create?”
The truth rises in my throat, sharp and heavy: Because it’s the one thing that’s entirely mine. Because even with magic, it takes skill, patience, and love. Because when people taste something I’ve made, they’re tasting my soul—not fearing my power.
Instead, I shrug. “I just like making people happy.”
She steps closer, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small. “You’re good at it. One of the best I’ve seen, actually.” Her hand lands on my arm, and my skin burns where we connect. “You know that, right?”
I meet her eyes, drowning in their warmth. She’s so close I can see the flecks of gold in her irises, count each individual eyelash. My magic surges, wanting to show her exactly what I can do, wanting to lay myself bare before her.