Alex
“Spellbinding Scones.”
My editor slaps a gaudily bright magazine onto the desk between us, then follows up her statement by reading the subtitle. “Magic-infused baked goods served up in an equally charming Southern oasis.”
It takes an entire twenty-three seconds—which I spend silently counting as I breathe deeply to lower my heart rate—before 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 side—presumably to prop up the sugar abomination.
My teeth hurt just looking at it.
“This is disgusting.” I shift, my dress gliding against the black leather chair.
A fluorescent light flickers, highlighting Vivian’s frown as she gestures for me to hand the magazine back to her, which I do.
“Perhaps so, but this is also selling.”
A pigeon sits on the eave outside the window behind her, preening. It finishes the job, then flies away—out 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 me—sitting 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 isn’t even in the same stratosphere as ours.
Suddenly, I’m 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.
“The masses like garbage. We’ve never bothered with flash-in-the-pan articles before. We write for a higher-brow audience.”
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 history—like Eman’s tiny three-table café, 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.
“Well, our readership is down.” Vivian is serious now, her arms crossing and putting creases into her pressed blazer. “Really down, Alexandra. The board says we have to make a lane change.”
I stand, wobbling slightly on my low heels because I also stupidly bothered putting on real shoes for this meeting. “That sounds like a marketing issue.”
“Marketing can’t sell what people aren’t interested in buying. It’s time for us to update. Gastronomy Eats has been touting the same articles for fifty years.”
“They’re classic and will stand the test of time.”
The only reason I don’t 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 it’s some kind of lifeline. Usually, it steadies me, reminds me that I’m 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. I’ve seen what happens when ambition takes a backseat to love, and I swore I’d never make that mistake.
And now, Vivian, standing there in her nine-hundred-dollar heels, is telling me my work—my career—is 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. She’s everything I’m supposed to become—successful, 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 parents’ mistakes.
“So… what? We just—” I wave my hands at the trashy magazine again. “Start writing clickbait now? And there’s no way in hell that photo isn’t edited within an inch of its life.”
Vivian doesn’t 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 he’s not transforming butter and flour into the perfect pie crust or practicing a bit of scrumptious magic, he’s 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.
“That’s a gimmick.” I jab a finger at the picture of Ethan Hart. As if that’s a real name.
“Okay, this is clearly a gimmick. There’s no way in hell that man knows a damn thing about baking.”
The man staring back has an infuriating mix of charm and confidence—golden-brown hair curling against his forehead, eyes too bright, too blue, too full of warmth and mischief. And those arms—muscular, 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.
“That man”—I jab at his photo again, as if he’s single-handedly responsible for all my life’s problems—“is a paid actor. I mean, he says he bakes with magic, for god’s sake. Plus, he looks like a firefighter from a calendar I once had.”
Vivian closes the magazine with a knowing smirk. “Five years I’ve known you, and I never would have pegged you as the type to own a sexy firefighter calendar.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I duck my head to hide the blush as I mutter, “We all have our indulgences.”
Especially those of us with zero love life and no intention of getting one. I’ve spent my entire adult life building a career—because 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 didn’t 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 I’m stuck desperately trying—and failing—to find the balance between making enough to survive, providing for my sister, and doing something that doesn’t 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 I’d 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 roll—super sweet for a moment but guaranteed to leave you with a nasty stomach ache soon after.
So, I’ll keep my firefighter calendar and the side of judgment if I must.
“He’s a fake. The actual owner of this bogus bakery probably hired him because he has a pretty face.”
“Likely,” Vivian says. “But that pretty face is selling magazines—and lots of them.”
“Gastronomy Eats is going to cover a fake restaurant with the corniest gimmick ever?”
Vivian scoffs. “No one said we’d 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.”
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.
It’ll leave you miserable, Alex.
Despite everything—the bills, my younger sister relying on me, the overwhelming responsibility—I’ve never compromised on that. I’ve poured my heart into finding new, promising eateries, then giving them press coverage that changed their lives.
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
Vivian frowns. “We have to turn the ship around and write pieces that will attract a new audience. If we don’t, I’m afraid we’ll need to make cuts soon.”
My breath catches. Her implication is clear.
I can’t lose this job. It’s steady. I’m doing something I’m passionate about—for real money. Few people are lucky enough to get that.
Most importantly, Missy’s senior year of college has brought enough expenses that I could have already started my own freaking restaurant. A little place of my own—cozy, intimate, where every dish tells a story. A dream I’ve 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.
“If I do it?” I ask.
“Then I imagine we’d strongly consider you for the next senior editor position.”
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 raise—enough to take some of the pressure off.
Still, I don’t want my name on an article that trashes someone’s restaurant, no matter how ridiculous it is. Being associated with something so banal is the last thing I need.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do. I’ll need an answer by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
I grab my bag with slick hands, sling it over my aching shoulder, and walk out into the buzzing office space.
* * *
“But you hate editing.”
The train rattles, and I save my phone from sliding off the seat where it’s propped to charge before responding to Tish.
“Everyone hates editing.”
“Hmm.” 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.
“I’m pretty sure some editors enjoy their job.”
“Or maybe they all lie.”
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 it’s not for me. It’s 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.
“Or maybe,”—she stretches the word out—“you should see this for what it is. A wake-up call. Smell the organic chai, girl. The tone of your voice says everything.”
“My voice says I’m tired.”
She’s probably standing beneath the twinkle lights and fake moss strung above the counter, giving me side-eye.
“No, it says it’s time to actually follow your heart for once. How long have you wanted to go freelance?”
My eyes shudder closed. Forever. That’s how long. But hustling as an influencer for money only works if you don’t 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 ago—though I still stupidly pay for the URL year after year.
Tish’s teasing voice pulls me from my mental spiral. “Drop by the shop. I’ll give you a reading. The leaves know everything.”
I smirk, shaking my head, saying nothing, but her rich laughter tells me she already knows my answer.
Even if I don’t believe in lucky stars, I thank them all for leading me to write a feature on Tish’s 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.
“That reminds me—have you heard of Ethan Hart?”
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.
“You mean the hot-as-hell baker with the magical bakery? He’s all over the ClipClop app.”
I kick a piece of gravel, watching it hit the crack in the station’s brick wall. The train pulls away, and the murmurs of the dispersing crowd fade.
“It’s a gimmick,” I say. “It has to be.”
“Or maybe the Universe is asking you to give faith a chance.”
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 it’s loud all hours of the night, but it’s also affordable and convenient. At some point, the blare of a train whistle announcing its arrival just became part of the background noise.
“Well, the Universe is definitely giving me a shove.” I grunt as I drop my bag to the ground, fish out my keys, and let myself into the apartment. “Gastronomy wants me to spend a few weeks in Magnolia Cove.”
“Oh my god, you lucky bitch.”
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. That’s officially future-me’s problem.
“Alex!”
Missy closes the fridge and whirls around.
I point at my headphones and speak to Tish. “My sister’s here. I’ll have to let you go.”
“Tell her I said hi. Oh, and give the Universe a chance for once. This might be your lucky break.”
Sure, it might. Writing a trash piece about a tourism gimmick is exactly how I’ll achieve all my hopes and dreams.
“I’ll do that,” 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.
“You’re home early.”
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 wouldn’t walk out of school with six figures of debt, but it feels like it’s slowly sinking me.
One more year and she’ll graduate.
Something about her energy is vibrating, and I can’t tell if it’s excitement or nerves. I walk past her, open the fridge to grab a carbonated water for myself, then turn to face her.
“Spill. Whatever it is, just tell me.”
Inhaling sharply, as if it’s 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. You’d think we cook more than we do, given the amount of kitchen paraphernalia we own. It’s my guilty pleasure.
“First of all, I want to say I plan to pay for it.” 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. “I’ve been invited to spend my last semester at Schola Cantorum!”
My mind shuffles through the names of music institutes. That one doesn’t ring a bell, but it definitely doesn’t sound like it’s on this continent. “Is that in Europe?”
Missy’s smile breaks across her face—the before-Mom-got-sick smile. “Yes, in Paris! Isn’t that thrilling?”
More breathing. More counting. “Absolutely. And how much is the tuition?”
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. “I’m going to take out a loan.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Alex.” Her voice turns whiny, and suddenly, she’s seventeen again. Our mom is gone, and in one painful swoop of fate, I’ve 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. “I really want to do this.”
“Okay, then you’ll do it.”
This is her dream. She’s worked her butt off for three years, kept her grades up, and excelled at music. She’s going to be somebody one day, and it’s stupid that money should hold her back. I’m sure this study-abroad program will come with another five-figure expense, but I’ll find a way to manage it.
Never mind that I’m barely keeping up with our regular expenses, that we live in a crappy apartment an hour outside the city because it’s all we can afford, and that medical bills sucked up what little our parents left behind.
None of that matters. Missy shouldn’t have to carry that weight. If there’s one good thing fate freely gave me, it’s my sister. I’ll do anything to protect her.
Besides, I’ll make it work.
I shrug, like I actually believe the BS I’m feeding myself. “I spoke with my editor today, and it looks like I’m up for a promotion. It’ll probably be just enough of a raise to make this work.”
“Wait, seriously?” 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.
“Oh my god, congratulations! You’ve been overdue for it—no one works as hard as you, Alex.” Missy pulls back. “Tonight we celebrate! I won’t take no for an answer.”
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 flutters—an irritating little skip—before 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 artist’s bakery?
People say there’s 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. I’m 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. He’s clearly a talented actor, and I hate to risk ruining his current schtick—but we all have bills to pay.
Running my thumb over the cheap, glossy paper, I notice a detail I’d overlooked.
Ethan Hart has dimples.
My heart and stomach do that weird thing again, but I practice my favorite hobby—lying to myself—and chalk it up to lingering anxiety.
Narrowing my eyes, I jab a finger at the overly perfect man’s photo. And then, in my best food-critic voice, I say to him, “Well, Mr. Hart, I’ll be seeing you soon.”
