Page 3 of Frosted Fakes

"Fine," she said, and her voice only shook a little. "I'll do it."

Gabby's smile widened, genuine warmth breaking through for just a moment. "That's my girl. You're going to prove everyone wrong, including yourself." She pulled Julia into a brief, perfumed hug. "Now, I've arranged for the keys to be ready on Friday. The flat above the bakery is included, so you won't need to find housing. I've thought of everything."

Of course she had. Gabby Richardson always thought of everything.

Julia walked back to her desk in a daze, her final day as her mother's assistant ticking away around her. Her phone buzzed again, another notification from the nursing channel. She stared at it for a long moment, then opened the folder her mother had given her instead, flipping through pages of lease agreements and inventory lists and photographs of professional baking equipment she had absolutely no idea how to use.

Twelve months to succeed. Or lose everything.

Her mother was right about one thing, Julia thought as she stared at a photo of an industrial mixer that looked capable of causing serious bodily harm. This was tough love.

Heavy on the tough. Light on the love.

Chapter Two

Elliott Sinclair had a complicated relationship with perfection. She demanded it from her pastries, but absolutely refused to accept it was possible from other people, who inevitably disappointed her.

The raspberry tart in front of her, however, was coming dangerously close to earning her approval.

She adjusted the angle of the plate for the fourteenth time, checked the light streaming through the window of her small kitchen, and raised her camera. The glazed raspberries caught the afternoon sun like tiny jewels. The pastry cream beneath them was the exact shade of pale gold she wanted. The crust had achieved that elusive balance between rustic and refined that food bloggers lost their minds over.

"Fine," she muttered, which for Elliott was practically a standing ovation.

She took seventeen shots from different angles, checked each one with a critical eye, and finally allowed herself a small nod of satisfaction. The cookbook was coming together. Her cookbook. The one she'd been dreaming about since Milly had first put a whisk in her hand and told her she had the touch.

The bell above the bakery door chimed, and Elliott heard familiar footsteps on the stairs. Slower than they used to be, but still carrying that particular rhythm she'd know anywhere. She set down her camera and wiped her hands on her apron, already composing her face into something that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't a scowl either. It was the closest she got to warm.

"There's my girl." Milly Gordon appeared in the flat doorway, eighty-three years old and still managing to look like she could out-bake anyone who challenged her. Her white hair was pulled back in its usual practical bun, and her eyes crinkled at the corners when she saw Elliott. "Still torturing that poor tart, I see."

"It deserved it." Elliott moved to pull out a chair. "Tea?"

"Please." Milly settled into the seat with a soft sigh. "Though I'm afraid I'm not just here for a social call."

Something shifted in Elliott's chest. She busied herself with the kettle, keeping her back turned. "Oh?"

"I won’t beat around the bush. I've sold the bakery."

The kettle slipped slightly in her hand. "Sorry. You've what?"

"Sold it." Milly's voice was gentle but firm. "To some woman in London. A mother buying it for her daughter, apparently, from what the estate agent said." She paused. "Rich people are peculiar."

Elliott set the kettle on the stove with more care than strictly necessary. She was trying very, very hard not to let any feelings in. "When?"

"The sale completes this week. She'll be arriving soon after, I imagine."

This week. Elliott gripped the edge of the counter. The bakery downstairs. Where she'd learned to cream butter and sugar until it was fluffy, where she'd discovered that baking was the one thing in her miserable life she was actually good at, where she'd built something like a home. Gone. Sold to some rich girl from London.

"Right." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. Good. She'd had a lot of practice at that.

"I know you’re not happy. We′ve talked about this." Milly reached out and caught Elliott's hand. "But I’m an old woman, Elliott. And I’ve been thinking. The money from the bakery is more than I need, really. I want you to have some of it."

"I don't need your money." The words came out sharper than she intended. They always did.

"I know you don't need it." Milly's grip tightened. "But I want you to have it. For your cookbook. So you can focus on making it everything it should be, without worrying about rent or bills or any of that nonsense." Her eyes, still sharp despite her age, met Elliott's. "Let me do this for you. Please."

Elliott wanted to argue. She wanted to insist she'd be fine, that she didn't need help, that she'd managed perfectly well on her own since she was seventeen and could keep managing, thank you very much. But Milly had a look in her eye, the look that said she wasn′t going to take no for an answer, and that she knew Elliott didn′t want to say no, not really.

"Fine," she said, and if her voice cracked slightly on the word, neither of them mentioned it.