Chapter 13 Alex
Alex
“What do you think is appropriate clothing to milk a cow in?”
I’m digging through the limited wardrobe I’ve packed for Magnolia Cove. Despite not knowing the answer, I’m pretty sure silk and cashmere are definitely not it. I shift the phone and wedge it between my ear and shoulder.
“Wait,” Tish says, her voice muffled over the phone line, “do you plan to milk a cow?”
“It’s apparently part of the competition. Everyone has to gather their ingredients fresh around the farm while under a time limit.”
There’s a beat of silence, filled only with static over the line, before Tish bursts into laughter, the sound blending with the clatter of her tea plates. “Girl, you’ve got it bad.”
I stand in front of the mirror, holding up the only pair of jeans I’ve packed.
I never once imagined wearing them on an actual farm.
Some food writers scale mountains and trek into the wild to discover where their ingredients come from.
I’ve always been more comfortable in Michelin-starred dining rooms.
I look at myself in the mirror—really look. My skin’s picked up some color from Magnolia Cove’s sunshine, I’ve embraced the beachy waves, and there’s something in my posture—like I’ve finally let go, finally relaxed.
“Oh god,” I whisper, “what if I do?”
Tish squeals through the phone. “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing. When was the last time you felt this way about someone, honey?”
I sink onto the bed, still clutching the jeans, a million thoughts tumbling through my head. “I… I don’t know. This is crazy. I’m here to write an article, not fall for some small-town baker with impossibly blue eyes.”
“Girl, you’re doing us all a favor. Do you know how many people are in love with him on ClipClop?”
“No one,” I say, defensively. Then, softer, “I just mean, no one really knows the real him. He’s not just gorgeous, he’s kind.
And patient. You should see him with Jas, this kid he mentors.
It’s like… he sees the best in everyone, and helps bring it out.
And Ethan as a baker? He’s amazing. He really gets it. ”
There’s a pause, but not because the line cut out. In the background, I hear the usual hum of Celestial Sips’ morning crowd.
“Oh god, I do have it bad, don’t I?” I groan, my voice full of disbelief. “What am I doing? This isn’t me. I don’t fall for guys I write about. I don’t take part in farm baking contests. I don’t…”
“Live a little?” Tish finishes, her voice gentle. “Alex, honey, when was the last time you did something because it made you happy? Not for work, not for your sister—just for you?”
I flop back onto the bed, the quilt and embroidered pillows catching me. “I… I don’t know.”
“Exactly,” Tish says, soft but firm. “Maybe this ridiculous farm baking contest is exactly what you need. And maybe Ethan-the-baking-hunk is, too. You don’t have to marry him, you know. Just… enjoy the moment.”
I sit up, catching my reflection in the mirror again. The woman looking back at me seems different—lighter, more open. “Maybe you’re right. But that doesn’t solve my immediate problem. What am I going to wear to milk a cow in?”
Tish bursts into laughter on the other end of the line. “It’s too much to ask for video evidence of this event, isn’t it?”
I scowl, but she laughs even harder, and despite my annoyance, I can’t help but smile. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Find the local general store. Buy yourself some sturdy boots, a pair of overalls, and the most ridiculous flannel shirt you can find.”
“Overalls?” Okay, calling Vivian to ask for yet another extension—and hearing her opinion of me sink with every word—might no longer be the most horrifying part of this decision.
Tish is cracking up, though. At least one of us is having a good day. “The morning rush is picking up. I’ve got to go. If you love me, you’ll send me pictures later.”
As I hang up, a smile tugs at my lips. Maybe Tish is right. About everything except the flannel. There are lines I won’t cross.
I look back at the mirror, the woman reflected in it holding my gaze with a certainty I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. I can’t explain it, but Magnolia Cove feels like home, even though I’ve only been here a few weeks. There’s something different here. Something… magical.
I release a breath and straighten up. Regardless of how enchanting this trip feels, I still have to write the article about the Whisk.
Vivian won’t accept the sugary, charming spin I’m tempted to take.
It’s just a little too cotton-candy sweet for Gastronomy Eats.
Maybe that’s been the problem all along.
Maybe I’m tired of gnawing at bitter roots because they’re ‘avant-garde.’ Maybe I want something that actually feeds the soul.
Something warm, indulgent, and undeniably real.
I think of Ethan’s rough finger scraping honey candy from my cheek, the way his eyes had darkened.
There’s nothing fake or manufactured about the Whisk or its owner.
Nothing to critique about how Ethan kneads every loaf of bread by hand, or orders random, expensive ingredients to experiment with, always exploring.
And there’s no flaw in how Zoe knows exactly when to surprise a regular with a box of treats ‘just because.’
But ‘small-town bakery’? That’s not palatable enough for the Manhattan brunch crowd to scroll through between sips of mimosa. It’s too kitschy. Not pretentious enough. It lacks that sense of intrigue for people who can eat their way around the world in a single block.
My journal lays open on the side table. The first line I’ve written for the article glares at me. The Whimsical Whisk relies heavily on small-town charm to mask its…
It’s what Vivian wants me to write, but I haven’t even been able to finish the first sentence. Whatever I write after this will be a lie. But this is who I am. This is what I’ve worked so hard to become.
Isn’t it?
I slam the journal shut and shove it into the table’s drawer. I’ll think about that later. For now, I need to purchase a pair of overalls.
That’s how I find myself dressed in a pair of overalls and a t-shirt that says Magnolia Cove: Small Town, Big Wonders, along with a pair of surprisingly comfortable emerald boots when Ethan drives up to the B&B.
He’s behind the wheel of an old blue pickup truck—the kind you see in butter commercials and holiday rom-coms. The truck rumbles when he cuts the ignition. As Ethan jumps out, my breath catches.
He’s wearing a simple white t-shirt that clings to his muscular arms and chest, along with a pair of well-worn jeans.
He drags his fingers back through his hair, and if I hadn’t gotten to know how humble and self-effacing he was, I’d think he was doing it just to show off those perfectly sculpted abs.
People shouldn’t be able to consume so much sugar and still look like that. It’s a crime.
“Well, well,” he says, his voice warm. “Look who’s gone native.”
I shove my hands into the overall pockets and pull them wide, stretching the material out. They’re surprisingly comfortable. “When in Rome, right?” I shrug. “Or should I say, when in Magnolia Cove? Besides, someone suggested I should leave any clothing I appreciated at the inn.”
His gaze runs up me slowly, assessing. It feels like he’s touching me—fingers tracing along my thighs, over my arms, his breath warm against my neck. When he speaks, his voice goes gravelly. “It suits you.”
The way he says the words, I think he means more than just the clothes. Like maybe Magnolia Cove itself fits me. Like I belong here. If only that could be true.
He walks around to the passenger door and opens it. “I’d hate to be late bringing the celebrity to the big Bonanza.”
I laugh, but it’s mostly out of relief that he broke the tension.
When I walk up to the truck, he offers his hand, and I accept.
His fingers gripping mine cause me to shiver, and I don’t jump into the truck.
Instead, I turn toward Ethan, and he’s already leaning down towards me, his mouth impossibly close to mine.
I keep thinking about that kiss—how it felt like a whispered secret, how I wish I could ask more questions with the rest of my body until I understood it.
“We’ll be late,” Ethan whispers, his breath brushing my cheek.
“Right. Of course.” I hop into the truck.
He shudders, then shuts the door, like that was a struggle for him too.
I take a deep breath and try to center myself.
The truck is rich with scents—cloves, leather, and grass.
Ethan jumps into the driver’s seat and cranks the engine with another rumbling purr that vibrates through the bench seat.
“I wouldn’t have guessed you drove a truck.”
He grins, and my heart is doing stupid somersaults. Tish was right. I’m head-over-heels, doodle-his-name-in-the-margins, melt-like-a-puddle crushing on this man. It should be embarrassing. Instead, I slide closer and find the middle seat belt.
“I don’t,” Ethan says. “This truck is my dad’s. The road out to the farm is pretty rough.”
I click the seatbelt into place. Ethan seems to consider where I’ve chosen to sit, then slides his arm behind the seatrest. My stomach swoops as his skin grazes the back of my neck. “So, what do you drive, then… a vintage Vespa?”
Ethan releases a rumbling laugh that matches the truck as he pulls out of the driveway.
He seems so at ease with the windows cracked and a breeze playing with his curls.
“I rode one in Paris once, actually. Vowed to never do that again. But no, I actually have a ‘67 Beetle. It was my grandfather’s.”
“Oh… that’s… unexpectedly cool.”
“Unexpectedly?” He looks out of the corner of his eyes at me, then fixes his gaze back on the road that’s taking us out of town. “I think a firefighter magazine model could drive a vintage car, and it would be expectedly cool.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t let that comment go to your head, Chief.”
He laughs. “I’ll have to come up with another way to impress you, then. Any suggestions?”
“Hmm… Maybe you could juggle some eggs today? I interviewed a sous chef who could do that.”
“Juggle eggs?” He slows as we ease onto another road that’s bumpier. Every jostle rattles through the truck. “Please tell me someone didn’t actually do that during an interview?”
“Oh, he absolutely did. Dropped a few too.”
Ethan cringes, the secondhand embarrassment adorable on him. “Well, I’m glad I’m not the most incompetent person you’ve ever interviewed, at least.”
The view changes as we drive on. Charming buildings give way to dark swathes of woods on one side and stretching, golden farmland on the other.
“You’re not incompetent, Ethan. Far from it.”
So far from that, it’s making the job I came here to do very difficult.
Thinking about betraying this man as I sit next to him in his dad’s truck, fresh air whipping my ponytail back, his warmth sinking into my side, makes me want to ask him to pull over and let me out.
Let me walk back into town with my head hanging in shame.
His cheeks flush, which only makes me feel worse.
I wish I could tell him he’s too good for Gastronomy Eats—that we’re becoming a watered-down imitation of authenticity—all dramatic photos and hollow buzzwords.
Ethan shrugs. “Maybe I can’t juggle eggs, but I can gather them for today’s event, at least.”
“Gather them?” I echo, suddenly remembering the Bonanza. I sink down against the worn leather seat. “Oh god, that’s right. We’re going to have to do actual farm stuff today, aren’t we?”
Ethan cocks an eyebrow. “Never been on a farm before? Renowned food writer, Alexandra Sinclair? What about all the farm-to-table, know-your-sourcing, sustainable-root dining trends?”
“I respect those trends.” My back straightens as I shoot up and inadvertently draw closer to Ethan and his vanilla-rich scent. “I’m all about supporting farmers. I just don’t want to actually… do the… farm stuff.”
“Farm stuff.” Ethan snorts. “Today is going to be really interesting. Come on, though. You’ve had to have visited a farm at some point in your life?”
Now it’s my turn to blush. “I went to school in Greenwich. We took field trips to places like the New York Philharmonic or the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Not exactly places with, you know, cows or cornfields.”
Ethan blows out a breath. “What made you decide to do the Bonanza, then?” He grins that easy smile that wrinkles his eyes. “I don’t believe Grammie Rae is that convincing, despite what she thinks.”
I chuckle, but the real reason for staying—the reason I’m still here—sits right next to me, driving his dad’s old pickup truck, wind tousling his curls.
I can’t say that, though. Ethan looks over at me again, and it’s like he can hear my thoughts, like the truth of them fills the limited space between us.
I’m almost certain I can hear his heart pounding.
The sun hits him, and he gleams like a statue of a Greek god, all sharp muscles and youthful beauty.
“I actually don’t know how to milk a cow,” I blurt out, needing to say anything to break the moment. “I’m going to have to make something dairy-free because I’m hopeless.”
“I’ll show you how.”
“I thought we were celebrity rivals?”
His smile widens until his dimples show, and god, I hope we’re getting out of this truck soon. If I have to spend another minute this close to him, I’m going to say or do something stupid. Something that definitely doesn’t align with Alexandra Sinclair, renowned food writer who needs a raise.
“What can I say?” Ethan’s still grinning. “I’m a sucker for a damsel in dairy distress.”
“Dairy distress,” I mutter. “If this is some scheme to improve your coolness factor, I’m pretty sure it ranks right up there with egg juggling.”
“Ouch.” He hooks his thumb around the wheel and turns it in a smooth motion that leaves me wondering what else his fingers can do. The truck pulls into a driveway, over a hill, then toward a farm—red barn and all. “I think you’ll find cow-milking skills to be significantly more useful.”
“We’ll see,” I grumble.
Ethan only laughs, but his hand drifts down toward my shoulder, and I lean into his touch. If this is what milking cows gets me, then I guess I’ll take it.