Page 10 of Frosted Fakes

"That last one was an accident."

"So you say."

Julia smiled despite herself. Elliott didn't smile back, but she didn't glare either, which felt like a win.

"I should…" Julia gestured toward her suitcase. "Unpack. A little. If that's okay."

"Fine." Elliott turned toward the kitchen, then paused. "There's a spare blanket in the cupboard by the bathroom. It gets cold at night."

It wasn't exactly warmth. But it wasn't hostility either.

Julia watched her go, then looked around the flat that was somehow both hers and not hers at all. Tomorrow she'd have to figure out the bakery. Tonight, she just had to survive sharing a space with a woman who clearly wished she wasn’t here.

She opened her suitcase, trying not to think about how Elliott's damp hair had curled slightly at the ends, or how her voice had softened just a fraction when she mentioned the blanket.

Definitely not thinking about any of that.

✽✽✽

Lying in bed in the darkness, Elliott stared at the ceiling and listened to Julia settle onto the couch in the next room.

This was a disaster. An absolute, complete disaster.

There was a stranger in her flat. A stranger who was also, technically, her landlord. A stranger who couldn't bake, had somehow set fire to ice, and had offered to sleep on her own couch so Elliott could keep her bed.

Who did that? What kind of person just… gave up their bed to someone they'd met an hour ago?

A pushover, Elliott decided. A people-pleaser with more money than sense and absolutely no backbone.

It was irritating. Deeply, profoundly irritating.

Also irritating: the way Julia had looked when she admitted she was terrible at baking.

Not cute, Elliott told herself firmly. Annoying. Childish. Completely ridiculous.

She turned over, punching her pillow into a more comfortable shape. In the other room, she heard Julia shift on the couch. Then the soft blue glow of a phone screen appeared under the door, Julia was probably watching something on her phone.

Tomorrow, she needed to come up with a plan. A way to make this situation work in her favor, or she'd have to find somewhere else to stay. She'd have to avoid Julia, focus on her cookbook, and pretend none of this had ever happened.

She was very good at pretending things hadn't happened. Years of practice.

Ridiculous.

It was all absolutely, completely ridiculous.

A baker who couldn’t bake. The woman was insane. Elliott wondered if she should lock her door.

Chapter Five

Julia had always been an optimist. A foolish optimist, according to her mother. A delusional optimist, according to her sister. Her brother Wolfgang thought she was a charming optimist. But still, an optimist.

That optimism lasted approximately fourteen minutes into her first day running the bakery.

The smoke alarm went off at 6:47 a.m.

She'd been attempting buns. Buns. The most forgiving of pastries, according to the YouTube video she'd watched at 3 a.m. while lying on the couch and trying not to think about the grumpy woman sleeping in the next room.

The video had made it look so simple. Butter, flour, a bit of kneading. "Anyone can make buns," the cheerful presenter had promised. "Even complete beginners!"