Chapter 17 Alex
Alex
Papers are scattered everywhere on my desk.
Golden sunlight streams past the floral-embroidered curtains in my B&B room.
I’m trying to focus on my articles that are due and not think about the message from Vivian, who wants us to have a call.
I’m sure my editor is going to rail into me about extending my stay so long despite not yet missing a deadline.
According to her message, I had skipped a crucial meeting.
I cringe, but the feeling flits away. Because my mind is stuck on Ethan Hart.
Ethan patiently working with Jas on a new project.
Ethan running around the farm, his t-shirt showing every muscle.
Ethan bare and wrapped around me as the ocean roared in the distance, asking me to stay just a little longer.
Missy’s voice over the phone’s speaker pulls me out of my reverie. Her sing-song tone echoes around the room. “In Music History this week, we’re discussing the evolution of the cello’s role in orchestras. I can’t believe it was once considered a bit player.”
I chuckle—I know what it feels like to realize something you love was once undervalued.
Sourdough bread was once the food of peasants while the upper class dined on refined white loaves.
Now the tables have turned, and epicureans consider the hearty, flavorful sourdough haute cuisine.
I’m wanting to ask Missy if she’s fed our starter, but I suspect I already know the disappointing answer to that.
“And how’s practice going for the recital? ”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” She groans, and I can imagine her flinging herself into the oversized bean bag in her room. “I’m practically dreaming in Dvo?ák at this point. You’ll be back in time for that, right?”
“Of course,” I say, because of course I will. Even if a part of me wilts at the idea of returning to city life and its demands.
As Missy launches into a detailed description of the second movement of the song she’s working on, I open mail I’ve had directed here.
It takes forever to get to Magnolia Cove through the ferry.
One in particular has my attention. The label is from my old journalism mentor, Jack.
He doesn’t write about food, but he has a nose for a good story.
Which is exactly why I reached out to him shortly after arriving in Magnolia Cove to see if he could find information I couldn’t.
I rip open the manila envelope. A collection of newspaper clippings spills onto my desk.
“Hang on a sec, Missy.”
“Everything okay?” My fingers freeze on an article with a familiar face staring back at me—Ethan’s face.
“Yeah, I’m fine, just work stuff buzzing in, and I need to take care of it. Try to eat something with some fiber in it today, for my sake, please?”
She laughs. “No promises. Love you, sis.”
“Love you too.”
The phone line clicks, but I don’t move. I’m staring at the article, at clear blue eyes turned gray in newsprint, haunted and wild in a way I’ve never seen before.
With trembling hands, I lift the clipped article and read:
“Late last night, several eyewitnesses reported unusual disturbances in the downtown area, including smashed vehicle windshields and damaged storefronts. Local resident Ethan Hart was seen in the vicinity shortly before the incident, appearing disoriented and agitated. He fled the scene but was later apprehended by police. Officials urge the public to remain calm, stating there is no ongoing threat to the community.”
The article describes a scene of destruction: damaged vehicles, knife-slashed building awnings, shattered windows, and terrified onlookers. It paints a picture of Ethan that’s completely at odds with the gentle baker I know.
My mind races, stretching, attempting to find any evidence that this article could be true.
Ethan handing out free treats to local kids.
His passionate stories about his grandmotherly neighbor in France.
The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs at my terrible puns.
The warmth of his arms around me just last night…
No, this doesn’t make sense. It can’t be the same Ethan. But the picture—it’s Ethan, down to the thick jawline and messy curls. Younger, with shadowed eyes and thin lips I’ve never seen on him before. But definitely him.
Air blows from the vent, sending a gust down the back of my silk top and making me shiver. Other vacationers in the inn walk in, shutting the front door with a thud. Birds whistle outside my cracked window. Sunlight undulates over the papers. I remain frozen, my gaze fixed on Ethan’s vacant stare.
I force myself to flip through the other documents Jack sent.
Most are innocuous—recent articles about The Whimsical Whisk and the odd recipe Ethan had submitted to publications.
But there’s another clipping that has me catching my breath.
The headline reads: ‘Local Woman Speaks Out: The Ethan Hart I Knew.’
My hands tremble as I read.
In an exclusive interview, Sarah Callahan, ex-girlfriend of Ethan Hart, shares her experience with the man at the center of last month’s bizarre incident.
“Ethan was… intense,” Callahan stated. “He could be the sweetest person one moment, then become someone else entirely the next. I want to say these charges surprise me, but unfortunately, they don’t. ”
The pit in my stomach grows. There’s something here—a story that I need to know about. I should have already known about it. I probably should have figured it out before I wandered around Ethan’s cottage this morning wearing one of his button-downs and drinking coffee from one of his Nan’s mugs.
I need answers. Now.
Grabbing my linen jacket, I rush out of the B&B and head toward The Whimsical Whisk.
I’d planned to keep my distance, catch up on work, and try to ensure Vivian doesn’t fire me.
But if I’m honest, it wasn’t just about deadlines.
Distance feels safer—less dangerous. Because the closer I get to Ethan, the harder it is to pretend I can leave without looking back.
Magnolia Cove is just as picturesque as it seemed on the first day—squirrels jump between the massive trees on Main Street, and the windows gleam just as brightly.
Mrs. Delehay waves at me from across the street, beaming, no doubt still thinking about the croquembouche Ethan made her—flawless, golden, and stacked as effortlessly as if he were showing off.
I grin at Mia, who stacks books for a new display in the bookstore window.
Everything feels normal, but internally my world has tilted.
Ethan has been hiding something. I’ve felt it from the beginning, but I never would have guessed it was a criminal past.
The Whisk’s teal awning comes into view, and I slow down, taking a few breaths. I need to give Ethan the benefit of the doubt. For all I know, the article could be a case of false allegations. I’ve seen nothing in his actions that remotely resemble the newspaper article.
I take another step, then stop. Voices are coming from the alley—gruff and terse.
I take a peek around the corner, then jump back so quickly that I land flat against the brick wall.
I recognize Ethan immediately. His tall frame and broad shoulders are unmistakable even in the shadows.
Dean stands across from him, his chin raised, hands fisted.
Sliding up to the edge of the corner, I press myself against the wall, straining to hear their conversation. My heart pounds so loudly I’m afraid they’ll hear it.
“…can’t keep doing this, Ethan.” Dean’s voice is low and intense. “You’re skating on thin ice as it is.”
“I know. I’m willing to concede that you’re right for once. But Alex is different. She’s not like—”
“Not like the last one?” Dean cuts in sharply. “I’m sure that’s what you thought with the other girl as well, and look at how that turned out. The Council had to work overtime to clean up that mess.”
A chill runs down my spine. Council? Clean up? What the hell have I stumbled into? Suddenly, I’m struggling to remember the warmth of Ethan’s arms around me.
Dean’s voice softens slightly. “Look, I get it. But you need to think with your head for once. We can’t afford another incident, and you know what the consequences are for you if something happens.”
When Ethan finally speaks again, his voice is full of defeat. It makes me want to throw all my suspicions aside and jump forward to defend him. “I know. I understand. I just… I wish things could be different. I wish I could tell her everything.”
“You can’t,” Dean says firmly, all gentleness gone. “Not unless you want to risk everything—for all of us. Remember what’s at stake here. It’s not just about you.”
I lean around the corner to see Ethan. He’s slumped, defeated, his face lowered. It makes me want to run to him. Though now, I’m not sure I even know him. A twig snaps under my foot, and I freeze.
Ethan’s head jerks up. For a moment, I could swear his eyes glow in the dim light, like a cat’s catching a streetlamp’s reflection. But that’s impossible. My heart hammers against my ribs, so hard it’s painful.
“We should go inside,” Dean mutters, and the two men disappear through the bakery’s back door.
I lean against the wall as though it might hold me up, my mind whirling.
The Ethan in that article, the one Dean was warning about—it doesn’t match the man I thought I knew.
Or does it? Those gentle hands that caressed me so tenderly last night—are they the same ones that caused destruction and harm?
I don’t know who Ethan Hart is, really. Or what secrets Magnolia Cove is harboring.
With more questions than answers, I walk back up the path toward the B&B. The warmth and joy I felt with Ethan—the thing that made me want to run away from my life and start over with him here—has been replaced by a cold, gnawing doubt.
I’m missing something crucial. Something that would help this all make sense. But one thing is clear—there’s more to Ethan Hart than meets the eye.