Writing a scathing exposĂ© on a small-town bakery was the only thing on my agenda when I arrived in Magnolia Cove. But when Ethan Hartâcharming baker, overpriced vanilla enthusiast, and the townâs golden boyâwhisked me into his world of flour and magic, everything changed.
This bakery isnât just a quaint shop; itâs the heart of the community, where gossip is served as generously as the frosting. And Ethanâs smile is as irresistible as his pastries. The longer I stay, the more I find myself falling for his cinnamon rollsâand the man behind them. (I know. Groan-worthy. Blame the pastries.)
I need this promotion. Writing this article is my chance at a major career boost and the paycheck to match. If I keep my distance, I can expose the truth and head home without a second thought. Easy as pie, right? But with every pastry lesson and stolen glance, every time I sense the magic in Magnolia Cove might be real, my resolve crumbles like a perfectly baked croissant.
This was supposed to be about the bakeryâbut as sparks fly in the kitchen, I canât seem to keep my heartâor headlineâintact.
Writing a scathing exposĂ© on a small-town bakery was the only thing on my agenda when I arrived in Magnolia Cove. But when Ethan Hartâcharming baker, overpriced vanilla enthusiast, and the townâs golden boyâwhisked me into his world of flour and magic, everything changed.
This bakery isnât just a quaint shop; itâs the heart of the community, where gossip is served as generously as the frosting. And Ethanâs smile is as irresistible as his pastries. The longer I stay, the more I find myself falling for his cinnamon rollsâand the man behind them. (I know. Groan-worthy. Blame the pastries.)
I need this promotion. Writing this article is my chance at a major career boost and the paycheck to match. If I keep my distance, I can expose the truth and head home without a second thought. Easy as pie, right? But with every pastry lesson and stolen glance, every time I sense the magic in Magnolia Cove might be real, my resolve crumbles like a perfectly baked croissant.
This was supposed to be about the bakeryâbut as sparks fly in the kitchen, I canât seem to keep my heartâor headlineâintact.
âSpellbinding Scones.â
My editor slaps a gaudily bright magazine onto the desk between us, then follows up her statement by reading the subtitle. âMagic-infused baked goods served up in an equally charming Southern oasis.â
It takes an entire twenty-three secondsâwhich I spend silently counting as I breathe deeply to lower my heart rateâbefore I pick up the publication as though lifting a damp newspaper from the gutter.
A sticky bun glimmers on the cheap, glossy cover. Rainbow frosting drips from the confection, like one of my childhood school folders exploded all over the monstrosity. Scones covered with gold and pink sprinkles rest on either sideâpresumably to prop up the sugar abomination.
My teeth hurt just looking at it.
âThis is disgusting.â I shift, my dress gliding against the black leather chair.
A fluorescent light flickers, highlighting Vivianâs frown as she gestures for me to hand the magazine back to her, which I do.
âPerhaps so, but this is also selling.â
A pigeon sits on the eave outside the window behind her, preening. It finishes the job, then flies awayâout into the maze of skyscrapers, honking cars, and chewing gum-splattered sidewalks. At least the bird is free, even as it breathes in the smell of exhaust and burnt hot dogs from street vendors.
Unlike meâsitting in a high-rise office, food magazine covers with my name printed large and hung in expensive frames on the wall, while my editor flicks through a publication that isnât even in the same stratosphere as ours.
Suddenly, Iâm annoyed. I put on a proper dress for this meeting. Packed my briefcase that can fit my laptop, cell phone, power bank, SLR camera and massive macro lens, cosmetic bag, non-toxic peppermint hand sanitizer, water bottle, and two tasteless protein bars in case the train breaks down like last time.
I dragged this hella heavy bag fifteen blocks for Vivian Ellison to hand me a copy of Foodie Frenzy.
âThe masses like garbage. Weâve never bothered with flash-in-the-pan articles before. We write for a higher-brow audience.â
My hands itch to reach for the folder perched on the desk. It contains the article I spent months researching. Spent another three nights combing through it for grammar errors like I was arranging flowers on a cake for a royal wedding. I even added a flourish, penning the title in calligraphy: The Revival of Ancient Culinary Techniques in Modern Gastronomy.
That was a piece of media worth consuming. It highlighted real bakeries producing food with actual heart and historyâlike Emanâs tiny three-table cafĂ©, where he crafts fragrant Aish Baladi flatbread served with honey hummus he hand-makes in a wooden mortar each morning. A shop that will have a line stretching around the block once this article goes to print.
âWell, our readership is down.â Vivian is serious now, her arms crossing and putting creases into her pressed blazer. âReally down, Alexandra. The board says we have to make a lane change.â
I stand, wobbling slightly on my low heels because I also stupidly bothered putting on real shoes for this meeting. âThat sounds like a marketing issue.â
âMarketing canât sell what people arenât interested in buying. Itâs time for us to update. Gastronomy Eats has been touting the same articles for fifty years.â
âTheyâre classic and will stand the test of time.â
The only reason I donât yank my bag up like a shield is that my shoulder still throbs from the walk. Instead, I run my thumb over the ring Mother gave me, tracing the worn metal like itâs some kind of lifeline. Usually, it steadies me, reminds me that Iâm capable. Not this time. This time, my hand shakes.
I clawed my way up to a salaried position at Gastronomy Eats. Busted my butt flying all over the world, turning in twice the articles than any other writer, making sure they were flawless, sacrificing five years of sleep. Iâve seen what happens when ambition takes a backseat to love, and I swore Iâd never make that mistake.
And now, Vivian, standing there in her nine-hundred-dollar heels, is telling me my workâmy careerâis outdated? That people would rather read about rainbow-colored sugar bombs and so-called magic than real food journalism?
My head spins and I have the urge to press my fingers against the desk, leaving my prints stained on its shining surface.
Vivian tilts her head, the light catching the streaks of silver in her chignon. Sheâs everything Iâm supposed to becomeâsuccessful, independent, in control of a prestigious publication. Because success means security. It means never wondering if the bills will get paid, never gambling stability on something as fickle as love. Never making my parentsâ mistakes.
âSo⊠what? We justââ I wave my hands at the trashy magazine again. âStart writing clickbait now? And thereâs no way in hell that photo isnât edited within an inch of its life.â
Vivian doesnât blink. Instead, she flips open the magazine, manicured fingers gliding over the glossy pages until she lands on one, her nail tracing a line of text.
The only thing sweeter at The Whimsical Whisk than the pastries is the owner, baker, and certified magician, Ethan Hart. If heâs not transforming butter and flour into the perfect pie crust or practicing a bit of scrumptious magic, heâs volunteering with his local Boys and Girls Club.
She spins the magazine toward me, and my stomach drops before my brain fully catches up.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
âThatâs a gimmick.â I jab a finger at the picture of Ethan Hart. As if thatâs a real name.
âOkay, this is clearly a gimmick. Thereâs no way in hell that man knows a damn thing about baking.â
The man staring back has an infuriating mix of charm and confidenceâgolden-brown hair curling against his forehead, eyes too bright, too blue, too full of warmth and mischief. And those armsâmuscular, tanned, peeking out from a perfectly fitted T-shirt and a pale-blue Hedley & Bennett apron.
I have the same apron in charcoal. And it has never looked that crisp.
âThat manââI jab at his photo again, as if heâs single-handedly responsible for all my lifeâs problemsââis a paid actor. I mean, he says he bakes with magic, for godâs sake. Plus, he looks like a firefighter from a calendar I once had.â
Vivian closes the magazine with a knowing smirk. âFive years Iâve known you, and I never would have pegged you as the type to own a sexy firefighter calendar.â
Heat crawls up my neck. I duck my head to hide the blush as I mutter, âWe all have our indulgences.â
Especially those of us with zero love life and no intention of getting one. Iâve spent my entire adult life building a careerâbecause stability, money, and control are what matter. Love is reckless, unreliable. I saw what it did to my parents, the way it left my sister and me in a precarious financial situation.
Love led my mother to cut her hours to part-time, my father to take less prestigious work that didnât pull him away from our family, and both of them to choose an expensive suburb so my sister and I could have the best.
Now Iâm stuck desperately tryingâand failingâto find the balance between making enough to survive, providing for my sister, and doing something that doesnât suck my soul away.
All thanks to love.
I had one serious relationship, and it ended exactly as I suspected it would. Anthony wanted me to focus less on my career, more on our relationship. But Iâd already seen how that played out for my parents. No amount of emotions could compel me to sacrifice security for a pair of sad puppy eyes, no matter how compelling they were. No matter how much it hurt to watch them fill with tears when I ended things.
Romance is like the rainbow-puke cinnamon rollâsuper sweet for a moment but guaranteed to leave you with a nasty stomach ache soon after.
So, Iâll keep my firefighter calendar and the side of judgment if I must.
âHeâs a fake. The actual owner of this bogus bakery probably hired him because he has a pretty face.â
âLikely,â Vivian says. âBut that pretty face is selling magazinesâand lots of them.â
âGastronomy Eats is going to cover a fake restaurant with the corniest gimmick ever?â
Vivian scoffs. âNo one said weâd be covering them. We want you to travel, spend a week or two in Magnolia Cove, and expose them. Then write a criticism that will take them off the map.â
I stand to my full height and pull in a deep breath. My father had been an art critic, and his one bit of advice to me was never to build a career on tearing others down.
Itâll leave you miserable, Alex.
Despite everythingâthe bills, my younger sister relying on me, the overwhelming responsibilityâIâve never compromised on that. Iâve poured my heart into finding new, promising eateries, then giving them press coverage that changed their lives.
âI donât know if I can do that.â
Vivian frowns. âWe have to turn the ship around and write pieces that will attract a new audience. If we donât, Iâm afraid weâll need to make cuts soon.â
My breath catches. Her implication is clear.
I canât lose this job. Itâs steady. Iâm doing something Iâm passionate aboutâfor real money. Few people are lucky enough to get that.
Most importantly, Missyâs senior year of college has brought enough expenses that I could have already started my own freaking restaurant. A little place of my ownâcozy, intimate, where every dish tells a story. A dream Iâve shoved to the back burner so many times, it might as well be cold by now. But I vowed not to let her graduate saddled with debt and regret. Only one of us should have to live with that.
I have to keep this job.
âIf I do it?â I ask.
âThen I imagine weâd strongly consider you for the next senior editor position.â
My palms grow so sweaty I long to wipe them on my dress. Everyone in the office knows I want that position. It comes with a significant raiseâenough to take some of the pressure off.
Still, I donât want my name on an article that trashes someoneâs restaurant, no matter how ridiculous it is. Being associated with something so banal is the last thing I need.
âIâll think about it.â
âDo. Iâll need an answer by tomorrow.â
âTomorrow.â
I grab my bag with slick hands, sling it over my aching shoulder, and walk out into the buzzing office space.
* * *
âBut you hate editing.â
The train rattles, and I save my phone from sliding off the seat where itâs propped to charge before responding to Tish.
âEveryone hates editing.â
âHmm.â Dishes clatter in the background, and I picture her gathering up mugs in her tea shop, a rag in her other hand swiping away the crumbs from her zodiac cookies.
âIâm pretty sure some editors enjoy their job.â
âOr maybe they all lie.â
A man walks past, an umbrella looped over his arm, banging against every seat as he moves. I shift closer to the window to avoid impact, watching greens blur together outside.
I know Tish is right. Plenty of people love editing. But itâs not for me. Itâs tedious, heavy with responsibility, and leaves little room for creativity. Managing a team when I can barely manage myself most days feels like a prison sentence. I want to run screaming in the other direction, but I need the money.
My breath fogs the window.
âOr maybe,ââshe stretches the word outââyou should see this for what it is. A wake-up call. Smell the organic chai, girl. The tone of your voice says everything.â
âMy voice says Iâm tired.â
Sheâs probably standing beneath the twinkle lights and fake moss strung above the counter, giving me side-eye.
âNo, it says itâs time to actually follow your heart for once. How long have you wanted to go freelance?â
My eyes shudder closed. Forever. Thatâs how long. But hustling as an influencer for money only works if you donât have a mountain of bills and someone else relying on you. I shut the door on the idea of my dessert blog, Tell Me Something Sweet, long agoâthough I still stupidly pay for the URL year after year.
Tishâs teasing voice pulls me from my mental spiral. âDrop by the shop. Iâll give you a reading. The leaves know everything.â
I smirk, shaking my head, saying nothing, but her rich laughter tells me she already knows my answer.
Even if I donât believe in lucky stars, I thank them all for leading me to write a feature on Tishâs cafe, Celestial Sips, four years ago. We disagree on basically everything, but somehow, it works.
The train stops, and I rise, grab my bag, and exit with the crowd.
âThat reminds meâhave you heard of Ethan Hart?â
Her squeal has me jerking my head back, as if I can escape my headphones.
Shuffling past the dozen others exiting onto the platform, I follow the crowd toward the stairs. My steps are careful on the too-steep concrete, my impractical shoes proving an even worse choice with every step. By the time I reach the sidewalk and head toward my apartment building, I regret them for the thirtieth time today.
âYou mean the hot-as-hell baker with the magical bakery? Heâs all over the ClipClop app.â
I kick a piece of gravel, watching it hit the crack in the stationâs brick wall. The train pulls away, and the murmurs of the dispersing crowd fade.
âItâs a gimmick,â I say. âIt has to be.â
âOr maybe the Universe is asking you to give faith a chance.â
Reaching my building, I jog up the steps, the concrete clacking beneath my low heels. I pull out my keycard and swipe it at the scratched-up reader, waiting for the familiar buzz before pushing through the heavy glass door. The small foyer smells faintly of coffee and rain-dampened concrete, the fluorescent light flickering in protest as I pass through.
The building is close to the station, which means itâs loud all hours of the night, but itâs also affordable and convenient. At some point, the blare of a train whistle announcing its arrival just became part of the background noise.
âWell, the Universe is definitely giving me a shove.â I grunt as I drop my bag to the ground, fish out my keys, and let myself into the apartment. âGastronomy wants me to spend a few weeks in Magnolia Cove.â
âOh my god, you lucky bitch.â
Laughter spills out of me as I drag my bags inside, barely making it past the doorway before shoving them into the corner. I can worry about unpacking it later. Thatâs officially future-meâs problem.
âAlex!â
Missy closes the fridge and whirls around.
I point at my headphones and speak to Tish. âMy sisterâs here. Iâll have to let you go.â
âTell her I said hi. Oh, and give the Universe a chance for once. This might be your lucky break.â
Sure, it might. Writing a trash piece about a tourism gimmick is exactly how Iâll achieve all my hopes and dreams.
âIâll do that,â I answer, to her laughter, before digging out my phone and hitting the end call button.
Missy leans against the counter, a can of carbonated water in hand. Her thick, blonde hair is braided over her shoulder, and she has all the curves the Universe never blessed me with. Despite that, I still have a hard time seeing her as older than twelve. An eight-year age difference can do that to siblings, I guess.
âYouâre home early.â
She grins, her fingers denting the can. Her nails are pink, nearly matching her dress. Keeping them short is a necessity for a cellist. Despite her talent, it still shocked me when she got accepted into Juilliard. Or maybe that was just the sticker shock.
I vowed she wouldnât walk out of school with six figures of debt, but it feels like itâs slowly sinking me.
One more year and sheâll graduate.
Something about her energy is vibrating, and I canât tell if itâs excitement or nerves. I walk past her, open the fridge to grab a carbonated water for myself, then turn to face her.
âSpill. Whatever it is, just tell me.â
Inhaling sharply, as if itâs her final breath, she sets the can down on the cluttered counter. Books are stacked in haphazard piles, sheet music is tucked between photo props, and a candy thermometer rests in a mason jar next to metal skewers. Youâd think we cook more than we do, given the amount of kitchen paraphernalia we own. Itâs my guilty pleasure.
âFirst of all, I want to say I plan to pay for it.â Missy looks me in the eye as she says this, and I force myself to breathe, to count, to keep my expression from wavering. She practically shimmies. âIâve been invited to spend my last semester at Schola Cantorum!â
My mind shuffles through the names of music institutes. That one doesnât ring a bell, but it definitely doesnât sound like itâs on this continent. âIs that in Europe?â
Missyâs smile breaks across her faceâthe before-Mom-got-sick smile. âYes, in Paris! Isnât that thrilling?â
More breathing. More counting. âAbsolutely. And how much is the tuition?â
She drops her arms against the counter, takes a sip of her strawberry water, and moves the can so the condensation ring sparkles in the light. âIâm going to take out a loan.â
âAbsolutely not.â
âAlex.â Her voice turns whiny, and suddenly, sheâs seventeen again. Our mom is gone, and in one painful swoop of fate, Iâve become her legal guardian. Dad had passed barely a year before, and with no other family to lean on, it was just the two of us. âI really want to do this.â
âOkay, then youâll do it.â
This is her dream. Sheâs worked her butt off for three years, kept her grades up, and excelled at music. Sheâs going to be somebody one day, and itâs stupid that money should hold her back. Iâm sure this study-abroad program will come with another five-figure expense, but Iâll find a way to manage it.
Never mind that Iâm barely keeping up with our regular expenses, that we live in a crappy apartment an hour outside the city because itâs all we can afford, and that medical bills sucked up what little our parents left behind.
None of that matters. Missy shouldnât have to carry that weight. If thereâs one good thing fate freely gave me, itâs my sister. Iâll do anything to protect her.
Besides, Iâll make it work.
I shrug, like I actually believe the BS Iâm feeding myself. âI spoke with my editor today, and it looks like Iâm up for a promotion. Itâll probably be just enough of a raise to make this work.â
âWait, seriously?â She runs around the counter and wraps me in a massive hug, her vanilla-scented shampoo filling my breath. Pulling her tight, I tangle my fingers into her hair.
My anxieties wash away. This is what really matters.
âOh my god, congratulations! Youâve been overdue for itâno one works as hard as you, Alex.â Missy pulls back. âTonight we celebrate! I wonât take no for an answer.â
She twirls away like a ballerina, laughter trailing behind her as she disappears into her bedroom. I can only hope that by celebrate, she means splitting a bottle of wine over the restaurant leftovers I shoved in the fridge.
My heart fluttersâan irritating little skipâbefore my stomach does a full, unwelcome dip. I shove the feeling aside and picture Missy in Paris, learning from the best musicians in the world, drinking in the city like it was made just for her.
Why should she give that up? Why should she drown in debt just so I can avoid torching some con artistâs bakery?
People say thereâs no such thing as bad press. If anything, a scathing article in Gastronomy Eats might actually boost the shady little operation in Magnolia Cove.
I roll my eyes at the thought. Iâm pretty sure all the names are completely made up.
With a sigh, I grab my bag, digging out the copy of Foodie Frenzy I picked up at the train station. The pages are already bent from my grip, but I flip straight to the one that started this mess.
Ethan Hart stares up at me, that damn twinkle in his eyes. Heâs clearly a talented actor, and I hate to risk ruining his current schtickâbut we all have bills to pay.
Running my thumb over the cheap, glossy paper, I notice a detail Iâd overlooked.
Ethan Hart has dimples.
My heart and stomach do that weird thing again, but I practice my favorite hobbyâlying to myselfâand chalk it up to lingering anxiety.
Narrowing my eyes, I jab a finger at the overly perfect manâs photo. And then, in my best food-critic voice, I say to him, âWell, Mr. Hart, Iâll be seeing you soon.â
Whisked Away follows a dual point of view, with main characters Alex Sinclair, a renowned journalist heading to the cozy town of Magnolia Cove to uncover the secrets of their magic-like bakery, and Ethan Hart, the baker of the Whimsical Whisk and the gentlest, sweetest man with selflessness ingrained in his bones.
The sense of home and love poured into this novel is so sweet. Itâs the type of book you read to feel that warm feeling settle in your chest and leave you smiling your ears off.
Alex and Ethan were such lovable characters, and utilizing the dual point of view was perfect for this plot. It made it well-rounded and gave the readers a chance to experience both of their characters' arcs to the fullest. The imagery for both place settings and the more baker-themed descriptions was lovely to read; you can truly envision Magnolia Cove and the desserts that Ethan was baking, almost as though you can taste them. The plot sucks you in because of the potential disaster of it, but what makes you stay are the sweet characters that are supported by great secondary characters that fill out of the world. The writing has a magical quality to it that fits in with the novelâs premise, too.
There are moments within the inner thoughts of the characters where points were repetitive (being told multiple times what their inner conflict was), instead of experiencing them doing things. The timeline was a little hard to follow because the book is more fast-paced, and if we spent more time with these characters in situations we are told about but donât experience, their romance would feel a little more believable. Nonetheless, the chemistry and banter are still all there and nice to read.
I recommend this book to people who want an easy, magical romance that tugs at their heartstrings. I left the novel very interested in what the author will do with the future of the series, so I am excited to read more!